The Meat???

As many of you know, the Eid el Kabir was this past Saturday. All of the talk leading up to this feast has focused around Lhem (the meat). Everybody talks about how much meat you will eat, how much meat you will see. So much meat. Everywhere meat meat. It basically sounds like a vegetarians hell. I am not a vegetarian and consequently was rather excited about the meat. Moroccans do not eat a lot of meat in the first place so this is a treat. However, as it has been three days since the Eid I have realized that Lhem has a rather loose relationship to what we in America refer to as meat.

The Eid begins with the slaughtering of the sheep. We need to get the meat from somewhere! And on this holiday everyone gets to see, first hand, where the deliciousness originates. However, one is not immediately confronted with meat. In fact, the first couple hours are filled with blood more than anything else. Blood. It was in the meat.... but not anymore. It sprays from the neck of the sheep like an overused windshield fluid dispenser. Strong at times... then it stops. Then an occasional burst about 10 minutes after the neck has been cut. After the blood drains, the animal must be skinned and dismantled. At this point you can see lhem, but you can also see the stomach, the heart, the head, and any other body part you would like to imagine.

The dismantling takes a while. Its usually done by the oldest male in the household. In my case it was my badass grandpa with a huge knife. When the majority of the animal was taken apart and all of the entrails were in different buckets for storage, the fire is started. Yes!!! Time for the meat! Now, everybody is talking again about lhem. Lhem. Lhem. It rolls off the tongue like a nice steak! However as I am watching my family prepare the kebabs, I am positive we will not be eating meat for lunch. We have, over our modest fire, kabobs of heart, liver, and pancreas wrapped in a white fatty part of the sheep that was taken from somewhere around the stomach. As I am still the guest of the house I was offered the first, best, and most quote meaty end quote kebab. (Note: I still have not figured out where the actual quotations marks are on a french keyboard. Any help would be grand). I chowed down. And it was delicious. It tasted like meat, but the texture was a bit off. I think the meat taste was due to the fatty substance that engulfed the small pieces of liver and heart.

Since then, we have eaten the head. Its basically fat and skin with a little meat in the cheeks... oh yes and the eye. Also not meat. We have eaten the testicles. Also not meat but kind of chewy. So where is all this meat that everyone keeps talking about. I have recently found out the meat is in a large bowl in the refrigerator. Every lunch we each get 2 small kebabs of meat. Delicious. Marinated in onions and parsley. However, it never ends at the kebabs. Something else always follows; some other part of the animal that mosty certainly cannot be disregarded. Perhaps tonight we will eat the feet. (Not joking, I saw them in the kitchen today.)

Anyway, the point is this: in Morocco the word for meat, Lhem, has a much broader meaning than one would find in the states. Quite simply it refers to any part of the animal. I would say any edible part, but it seems that everything is edible. So, if you ever find yourself traveling around Morocco and are offered meat, you might find yourself in a surprising situation.

On a bit of a lighter note it is December first. It rained here yesterday, but I noticed as I was walking around this morning that the mountains surrounding my town have snow. Below is a picture of the mountain range. I found this on the internet but it is exactly what it looks like right now. The mountain in the background is Bou Iblane. The foreground is the large plain between my town and the mountains. Hope everyone is having a good December!

-Kitlas

The Fact of the Matter

As we near the end of Pre Service Training, it is obviously the natural time to look back and reflect upon this experience. So according to the rules and regulations of proper reflection I have had the past couple of days to look back on my time in PST. Upon reminiscing I have discovered an interesting paradigm that has been created in my Community Based Training group. Because we have a small group, all three of us are very good friends now. This friendship is even stronger as we are all very different people. We have varying interests, act very differently, and thus attract different types of people. This last characteristic is exactly where the paradigm that I want to discuss has developed. Naturally, different groups of the local population have attached themselves to us, the volunteers, during our time in Morocco. Essentially, we have attracted three distinct groups of community members. Jason, nicknamed Jamal (beautiful) by the locals, can almost always be seen surrounded by a huge crowd of teenage girls when appropriate. I suppose this is not surprising as his nickname says it all. Donniell, on the other hand, can always be spotted surrounded by a group of twenty-year old guys speaking perfect english. This again is quite obvious as she is the only blonde in our town and the most intellectual of us... she has her Masters for Gods sake! So what group is left to surround me? Lets think. Its not the teenage girls or the boys. That leaves the prepubescent boys. Yep, thats right. I am usually surrounded by a large group of 5 - 12 year old boys.

Sometimes reflection time can be difficult. When one realizes a paradigm such as this they ten to ask: “What is the meaning?” Thus I have spent countless, sleepless hours pondering over what this says about me. Does it indicate anything about my personality? Why small boys? Why not girls? Why not the intellectuals? In an effort not to be self-deprecating I have tried to make the best of these circumstances. I mean, who really wants to be surrounded by a group of pubescent teenage girls in a locale where deodorant is not common and there is no conception of personal space? Maybe once in a while, but not everyday. That could get tiring; however, somehow Jason has persevered. And a group of twenty year old dudes who speak english perfectly. This could be fun, but I want to speak darija now. I was just in college. I lived in a frat. I was surrounded by enough english speaking dudes there. I want a change. What could be better than prepubescent boys?

The paradigm displayed itself in full force last weekend. Jason, Donniel, and I ventured to a local soccer game on Saturday. As girls do not venture out of the house often, you might be asking how Jason is always surrounded by groups of them. When he teaches english at the dar chebab his class is composed of 98% giggling, teenage girls. However, outside of this environment there are not groups of girls. Donniell is usually the only female out and about: at soccer games and at cafes. However, even at the soccer game, which was void of any female, save Donniel, Jason was being attacked by girls. During the game Jason was receiving love letters from various females around town while simultaneously trying to decide if he should accept an invitation to dinner. This invitation was given to him by a girl that had just professed her love for him. Though life slugger! Donniell was watching the soccer game with the boys, speaking english, and continually answering questions about grammar, vocabulary, and syntax. And there I stood, surrounded by a pack of 25, twelve year olds spit-firing darija at me. Laughing, playing, making huge hand gestures, and having fun. When we left the game the pack followed us. It literally looked like an army. In fact it was kind of scary. I would have wet myself if I didn’t know that I had complete control over those little rascals. Can someone say Peter the Great, eh?

So, back to the question. What does this say about my personality? Hadi asaada d lhqeeqa! (This is the hour of truth!) I guess as a youth developer attracting kids is not a bad quality to have. Additionally, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m still a bit of a kid. I like playing, running around, making loud noises, and creating havoc. These are all things I knew about myself before I came to Morocco. I guess those qualities have become more clear in this country. In the end, I’m very happy. This quality should make it easy to attract kids to the dar chebab in my new town. Not having to worry about that is awesome. However, I came to Morocco to grow up a bit. Being surrounded constantly by a pack of 12 year-olds does not facilitate that very well. I suppose some things never change!

Wxxa. Now a few photos...

A cute little Moroccan!

Donniell's family and Jason. All the girls are obsessed with him.

Our host families... that is my host family plus a smattering from Jason and Donniell's.

My younger brother Youssef and I.

PICTURES

Wxxa! Finally I have some pictures for you all. I hope you enjoy. Also, as a bit of a side note, I have only used a fork three times so far in this country. Ok. Lets Bust.

Me, my host brother and a friend at the McDonalds in Fez... Yes it was a McDonalds, but I compromised my integrity because it was the only place with ice cream.

The tanneries in Fez. Sex Panther, the musk Paul Rudd wears in the movie Anchorman comes to mind here...

My host brother and I in front of the king's palace in Fez. Super zween!

Jason, my host brother, a friend, and I at the rear end of the lion in Fez. Everybody was taking pictures of the head. We wanted to be different.

Donniel, Jason, my host brother, a friend, and I in front of a fountain in Fez.

Jason and I with the bride and groom at a wedding. Don't worry, they are having fun. It is customary for the married couple not to smile during this part of the ceremony.

Donniel and David dancing with the kids at a pre wedding bash.

My dancing buddies at Wedding number 1.

"Stah" ing at the first wedding. I totally brought the fist pump to Africa.

Host brothers, Jason, and community friends at the first wedding.

Kif Kif.

Jackie Chan movie poster... Bust!

My family in Fez. I got to wear some traditional Moroccan garb.

At a mosque in Fez. Here in Morocco only Muslims are allowed to enter.

A view from my roof.

The mosque next door that is under construction. It is by far this biggest one in town.

My tiger... or host cat: Nikko.

The gorge in my town. Apparently it was once filled with water.

The souk. Six days out of the week it looks like this, but on Wednesdays it is crowded with all kinds of vendors selling chickens, fruits, vegetables, clothes, and tools.

The main street in my town. Umm. Yea.

My room. I sleep on the couch in the distance. The room next to me houses a bunch of bunnies which I recently found out are used fairly consistently for our dinner. When I found out I attempted my first joke in complete darija. I said: "Tonight the bunnies. Next week me?" I got all stares for a good 10 awkward seconds. Finally, the mom started cracking up and everybody at the table followed. Better luck next time I suppose.

Salaam!

Part 2: Another Wedding

Since its been a while I have a lot more to write. I have basically become a wedding crasher in this country. People are getting married left and right... and I am dancing all over the place. This story goes to show that one can crash a wedding in this country even when they are not even looking for one. Before I start, a culinary tidbit. Beet juice, with enough sugar, is actually failry tasty. Ma, you would be proud!

(For lack of a better transition...) I woke up and met some other PCTs in Sefrou. The plan for the day was a leisurely hike up a mountain to visit a small Amazigh (Berber) village. I wore sandals and carried my lunch (bread, cheese, and water) in a purple plastic bag. Sunglasses on and ready to go, about 15 PCTs followed one of the local Sefrouians up the mountain. Apparently we were literally hiking in his backyard as his grandfather owned the farm land. After about an hour and a half of hiking in beautiful scenery (rolling, green hills and clear sky) we stumbled upon a small group of people who our Moroccan friend knew. They we all holding small round fruit looking things which turned out to be figs. We were offered these delicious fruits and devoured them. We were then invited up to the house. I must remind you here that we were hiking in the countryside. This was the first house we stumbled upon and there was not another in site. Basically, we were pretty isolated. Because of this, I was not expecting to find much of anything. However, as we approached this house it became evident that something was happening.

When we walked behind the house we saw a large rectangular tent with a flat blue tarp as a roof. The walls we constructed of colorful blankets with sequins all over them. Under the tent sat a large group of people on top of psychedelic carpets. Apparently, Jimi Hendrix has still not left the country. As is usually, the men were sitting on one side of the tent and the girls on the opposite side. We were invited into the tent and then quickly discovered that it was a wedding. The bride sat on the opposite side of the tent in full regalia and, as is customary in Moroccan weddings, was not smiling at all. Needless to say the wedding attendees were just as surprised to find 15 Americans as we were to be sitting in a tent that I can only describe as “Disneyland-esque”. Then the drumming and singing began. The singing was all in Amazigh. However, you can dance in any language. All of the PCTs got up, began clapping, and danced. It was great. We learned some new techniques. A little line dancing, some shoulder shrugs, and complex hand-holding! The night clubs in New York are not going to see this one coming. But in 25 months when I return... LOOK OUT.

After some group dancing, they asked for two volunteers. Two of my fellow PCTs were dressed in classic Amazigh garb sat down and, for lack of a better term, married. We sang and danced around them and all had a bit of Henna placed on the palm of our right hand which apparently indicates you are engaged or will be married some day. I’m not sure of the exact definition... I should probably check that out since I use that hand to wave everyday and the Henna is not disappearing anytime soon. I don’t want to give any Moroccan the wrong idea. After the “fake” marriage we were offered tea. We drank a bit of tea and then politely excused ourselves as we needed to continue our hike.

We ventured a bit further down the trail to a very small Amazigh village. There we dinned on our bread, cheese, and water. We rode a horse around the town for a bit and then decided to begin our hike back. When we passed the house that was holding the wedding, our friends invited us back to dine with them. In Morocco its really really really hard to refuse an invitation, especially for food. Thus, we graciously accepted. When we reached the grand tent again everybody had left. It was empty, save a few older men. We all entered the tent and tables were brought in. Then a large couscous dish with a sweet raisin, chickpea sauce, a turkey and lamb tagine, and a huge bowl of grapes were brought out to the tables. We feasted for about a half an hour on the delicious, very authentic (the lamb and turkey were raised on their property) cuisine of Morocco. Anthony Bourdain would be jealous.

Forget the freshmen 15, Im putting on the Moroccan 40. The consumption of food in this country seems to be continuous and never ending. On a side note, its still about 80 degrees here everyday which is AWESOME, except for the fact that Im in a classroom from 830 a.m. until 6 p.m.

Hope all is well in the states!

al-mSafr dyal hamar al-magrib f - merika

... Or the Travels of a Moroccan Donkey in America. I recently spent some time in a town in the middle of the Atlas Mountains with beautiful foliage, an enormous souk, and snow (in the winter). While there I stopped by my friends house and was able to converse with his host family. I must preface this by stating that I have an odd fascination with donkeys. They can be found all over the place here... its ridiculously awesome. I love it and you might say that I can’t get enough of it. When I found out that one can purchase a donkey for between 500 and 800 dirhams (approximately 80 - 100 dollars) I got even more obsessed. In language class, when we need to create sentences with new verbs, I always figure out a way to fit the hamar (donkey) in my sentence. Even if I go so far as say “The hamar travelled to America for vacation.” Suffice it to say, that if I get placed in a rural enough site you can bet your sweet cookies that I will have a hamar and I will ride it through town, and I will feed it barley. If you come visit I might even let you ride it!

Anyway, I figured I was the only person with such an odd obsession. Some of the other trainees have fascinations, but no one, save me, has hit the obsessive stage yet. Since this was true I figured no native Moroccan would have an obsession such as mine. However, I could not have been more wrong. The host dad of the friend that I was visiting in Immouzar seemed to have the same sort of love for this most prestigious animal. The conversation started with the fact that Obama won the nobel Peace Prize. We then progressed to the ever antagonizing question of why the democratic party chose the donkey as its symbol. I have since read literature on this... a link for your enjoyment.... Anyway, the donkey is supposedly chosen last by all of the other animals. Why? It is a very smart animal. There seems no real plausible explanation other than the cunning nature of the donkey. Yes. Donkeys are cunning. Basically we talked for a while about how donkeys are not given enough credit. They are great animals and, according to my friend’s host dad, the second animal to roam the earth; finishing only behind good ol’ Adam and Eve.

Then my friend’s host dad decided to take the conversation in a rather interesting direction. Imagine a small, dark-skinned, older Moroccan man. He turns his head toward you and says (in Darija) “There should be a movie about a Moroccan donkey’s travels in America. We can dress him in all different costumes. We can put funny large glasses on him. We can die parts of his hair different colors. Its going to be incredible. I will write the story. We can go around taking pictures of him in all of the big cities.” Me, being an avid admirer of this grand creature, saw this opportunity and ran. My friend and I proceeded to sort out the details of this fantastic story with this older Moroccan gentleman. We have the donkey staying primarily on the east coast: D.C, New York, Boston. However, we also planned a short excursion to the west. Most notably the trip to Los Angeles where our beloved equine will don long blonde hair and round John Lennon sun glasses. Mark your calenders as the movie should be going into production in late 2011.

A "BROment"

I visited the Hammam yesterday with my host brother. I have been to a hammam once before in my life. I went when I was in Turkey on my Foreign Study Program in college. Everybody wore red towels around there lower parts and had a private changing room. When you went into the hot room it was a large area with soap flowing all over the ground like fog rolling on the lochs of scotland. Steam rose from the ground around a beautiful, marble circular platform. Surrounding this platform stood large Turkish men who pointed to you, tossed you on your side, and then kneaded your back like the muffin man kneads bread... no wait, muffins. I expected something kind of similar here in my small Moroccan hamlet. I knew however, that the hammam would not be as large as the one in Istanbul nor as high class (they made fresh orange juice for you when you were all clean). So I was not expecting the orange juice, but I thought the set up would be similar: large Moroccan dudes who scrubbed and massaged you for a small fee.

Needless to say, I was in for a bit of a surprise as the hammam in rural Morocco was nothing like the one in Turkey. Despite the element of surprise, it was a most amazing time and an extremely close bonding experience for my host brother and I. You can say we became better acquainted at the hammam. Here’s a run down.

You pay eight dirhams when you enter which equates to about one american dollar. Then you walk up a bunch of steps and enter a changing room. Everybody baths in their underwear. I was quite happy about this as it avoided the whole awkward nudity thing. However, this is where my one cultural faux pas of the night occurred. I was unknowingly wearing my bright pick underwear with running beer cans and “Case Race” plastered all over them. Needless to say, this is definitely “haram” in a muslim country. Everybody in the hammam saw me wearing them. Hopefully they didn’t understand what it meant as they couldn’t read it. However, I still feel a bit guilty and was conscious of the debauchery my underwear stood for throughout the entire time I was bathing.

Anyway, after I stripped down to my underwear I followed my host brother into the other room. Basically, it was a medium sized tile room that was really steamy. There were guys scrubbing themselves. And yes. The floor was extremely slippery. I almost fell about four times throughout the entire experience. Each time was followed by a bit of laughter from all of the other men in the hammam. Anyway, the process goes like this. You fill up four or five buckets with with hot water, adding a bit of cold water so that you don’t burn yourself. Then you bring your buckets to an area in the room. Sit down on the floor and use a cup to pour water over your head. In between the cups of water you wash yourself with soap, do pushups (OH YEA), and shampoo your hair.

Then it started getting interesting. My host brother told me to lie face down on the ground... so I did. Then he started walking on my back. He’s probably 6 foot 5 inches tall and well-built. I had all of that weight on my back, crushing my lungs, my rib cage, and my dignity. I tried to clench my abs to make sure he didn’t crush me, but I’m pretty sure that I was ineffective as I have some purple marks on my stomach today. After he ravaged my back he sat me up, had me spread my legs as wide as I could, and then pushed my head down towards the floor as far as he could. This was a huge spine stretch. I figured this was normal, and it was... kind of. But then he mounted me. Yes. I believe mount is the right word. I was still spread eagle with my back bent and head towards the floor. I looked like some sort of naked rag doll. He straddled my back, with his legs between mine and then lubed me down with oil. After I was greased up, he started to scrub. It was an interesting combination of pain and pleasure.... and dead skin. First he did my back, then my arms, and finally my stomach. For my stomach he stretched me into an almost yoga-esque back bend position and then went to town.

After he finished I thanked him and, I must admit, with a bit of reluctance I offered to scrub him. I think I did a fairly good job at scrubbing; however, I ran into a major difficulty along the way. There was a bit of an obvious height issue. My legs are short. His torso is long. Consequently, when he was sitting spread eagle and I was straddling him from above my precious objects may or may not have grazed his head on multiple occasions. In fact, I am positive this happened. My host brother either decided to ignore this inevitably awkward situation or he is accustomed to being this close to his compadres. I want to believe the former is the case; however, it is quite possible that the latter holds the truth. Despite these moments he continually offered me words of encouragement, releasing the usual “muzyan... muzyan” (GOOD GOOD). When I finished he told me I was a first class scrubber!

When the scrubbing had ceased we did some more stretching and then soaped up. We rinsed off and then went to the outer room which, at this point, felt like an ice box. Here we changed and then went back home. Walking home my host brother put his arm around me and called me brother. That was a truly a heart-warming experience. I feel like we are really bonding... both on the obvious physical level and also on the emotional level as well. They are a great family and I am blessed to live with them for these two months. If you come visit me you will certainly meet them. On the same note, when I left to go to Azrou both of my host brothers said they were going to miss me. Then they proceeded to give me hugs: alternating hugs for about three minutes... another humorous moment.

Good times. Salaam.

P.S. My new Moroccan name is Bilal. There's a history to this, but that must wait for another time.

Wedding Crashers!!!!!!

I have so much to say. Its been quite a while since my last post and so much has happened. I apologize for the lack of images; however, it is difficult to upload them from the public cyber cafes in my tiny town. Hopefully my word are sufficient enough for your entertainment. If not I suggest moving on to another web page, such as Stumbleupon. There you may experience the joys of images, videos, and interesting anecdotes.

However, they will not tell you about a Moroccan wedding... at least I do not think they will. And that my friends will be the topic of this post. A mere four nights ago I was invited to a wedding and my life in my town has not been the same since. I really had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to attend this wedding. I really enjoy weddings though. They are always fun. People are happy; people are a little buzzed; people lose inhibitions; people dance; people retire at around 1 a.m. Thos have been my experiences at American weddings. My brother and I usually carry the party. We start the dancing, lead the the congo line, and serve as the best unpaid entertainment you could ask for.

I knew that there would be no alcohol at this wedding... thats about all I knew. I was ready to go at six p.m. Thats a reasonable time for an evening wedding to start, eh? Well I was much mistaken and ended up sitting on the couch for about three and a half hours. We did not leave until 9:30 p.m. When we arrived at the site of the wedding we entered an enclosed field. In the field were two tents. It was explained to me that one tent was for the men and the other was for the women. However, I saw only men around. There were no women to be seen. I felt a little unhappy as I was expecting to meet some Moroccan women at the wedding... Again, it was explained to me that the women were currently eating dinner. I sat around in the tent for a while and then was told to get up. THE WOMEN WERE RETURNING. THE WOMEN WERE RETURNING. I stood up and left the tent as the women were entering. Apparently, since the women were finished eating it was now time for the men to eat.

I sat around a small table with 8 people I did not know. However, this was alright since nobody talked. Even the people who knew each other did not speak a word. The purpose of this meal was clear: EAT; as FAST as you can; and as MUCH as you can. Our table finished two chickens and half of a lamb in about ten minutes. Immediately when the food was gone everbody stood up and proceeded back to the tents.

I walked to the mens tent and sat down. I was handed a cup of coffee and practically forced to drink it. They said I would need it. At this point it was just about midnight. No sign of the bride or groom yet. However, there are a ton of Moroccan women sitting in their tent. All of the men were in our tent. I could feel that something was going to happen soon. Then the music starts blasting... something was happening. Everybody rushed outside the tents. The bride was being paraded in a throne that rested on the shoulders of four men in maroon suits and fez hats. Once the bride and groom entered the tent the dancing started. However, the bride and groom did not dance. Nay! They sat on a large couch and watched everybody else dance.

My friend Jason and I decided we should start dancing. At Moroccan weddings; however, the dancing is separated by the sexes. Men dance in one area and women in another. There is really no mixing. So, needless to say I danced with dudes for about five hours stright. Yep. Jason, me, and a bunch of Moroccan dudes we met danced from midnight until five a.m... It was a ton of fun, but took a while to get accustomed to. When I was breaking it down the father of the bride came over and started dancing with me. The big Marriage Camera followed him. We danced for about ten minutes... and I am positive that I am on their marriage video.

It was a fun night. And now everytime I see the father of the bride around town he does a little dance as a form if hello. Heres to making friends with the locals!

Salaam

THE CBT

CBT stand for Community Based Training... and that is what Im engulfed in currently. This consists of 5 hours of language in the morning and then community activities in the afternoon. For only having 3 language lessons we have already covered a lot of ground. Past, present, and future verbs. Infinitives and imperatives as well. Our noun database is growing exponentially with each day. We also have a good grasp of personal pronouns and adjectives. Its great though because the language classes in the morning are always comlemented by talking to the host family in the afternoon and at night. Despite the long dinner conversations, television is also big here. During dinner we will watch candid camera, soccer, sitcoms, or the quran.... there are whole channels devoted solely to the reading of the quran.

In the afternoons we have visited the gendarmes, got lost in the town, and gone to the cyber cafe. Im in a small village near fez and am having an amazing experience. The people here are so welcoming and accomodating. For example, as you may know it is ramadan. During this holiday muslims fast during the day and eat at night. I myself have been fasting the past couple days and it is pretty difficult. However, when we first arrived in the town it was impossible to fast. Everyone was offering us food at all hours of the day. In fact my first host family practically forced me to eat before they broke the fast. While I was eating they sat around and watched repeating the word kul, kul, which means EAT. This was one of the first words I learned here as it is probably the most used. After having experienced fasting, I do not think I would have the will power to watch somebody else eat. I suppose they were just very excited to have a new face in there house.

We are not quite sure what we will actually be doing here. The dar chebab in this town, according to the gendarme, is closed. So our first task might be to open it and draw people to it with a series of events: sport, theater, english classes, etc. We are meeting with the person who runs the dar chebab on Monday so I think we will have a better idea what kind of work we will be doing after that meeting. However, it appears that some members of the community are aware or our presence. On my walk to the language session this morning I met a local who is probably around my age. His english was excellent. He apparently knew what I was doing. He told me, out of the blue, that he was excited I would be teaching english at the dar chebab. He works as a mason in town and his favorite language is english. He looks like he could be a great asset to the dar chebab and someone who could teach english in the future, in shaallah. And so it appears we have at least one task ahead of us.

Currently, Im most excited for the end of Ramadan. Not because the fasting will end, although this will be a huge perk, but because Im going into the old medinat in Fez for the Eid el Fitr on either Sunday or Monday. Since we not yet sure when Ramadan will end, as it is based on the phases of the moon, the eid could fall on either day. My host family is taking me along with them for the huge feast and to meet the rest of the extended family. If their family is anything like mine this is bound to be an interesting, exciting, facinating, and wild experience. Anyway, I will try to update my blog after that with some pictures and hopefully funny, but most likely embarrasing, anecdotes.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

In that case I won't bore you with long paragraphs. Essentially, there is not even much to write about or elaborate on. We have been sitting inside for most of the day listening to people speak about safety, commitment, and evaluations, etc. etc. etc. The most interesting part of today was talking to some active volunteers about our Community Based Training which begins on Tuesday. The Youth Development folks are going to a region in the High Atlas mountains. There we will be divided into groups of five. We will each live with our host family and undergo hours of language, cultural, and technical training throughout the day.

This afternoon we went back to the beach for a swim and some exercise. We have a very active group (which I expected from a Peace Corps crowd) so the free time is always filled with heart-pumping, exhilarating activity. I wouldn't be surprised if someone suggests skydiving soon...

I must note, as I'm sure my mom would be pleased to hear, that the protection enlisted to make sure we are safe at our hotel is incredible. There are officers stationed at both ends of the street that the hotel is on. I believe there are guards stationed at posts all day and night; a very comforting thought. And considering it is Ramadan, this feat is even more unbelievable. The hospitality we have received here is exceptional. Everybody is very welcoming. I guess I did not do a very good shop at keeping this post short on words... but anyway, without further adieu, here are the photographs.

Sarah, Ryan, and I in the hotel post afternoon beach adventure.

An attempt at an artistic self portrait. This is what most of the buildings we've encountered so far look like. This was taken at about 8 a.m. The shadows in the bottom right corner are Ben and I.

A sunny picture of the beach.

Emily, Cara, and I at an airport Martini bar before our flight. If you ever stumble into JFK and have a chance, they make a good drink.

A break. I'm drinking the famous Moroccan mint tea. It is extremely delicious and loaded with sugar. Consequently, it provides a great energy boost late in the afternoon.

Ants in Pants

Just in case anyone is actually following my blog I felt like I couldn't let you down on my promise to discover the origin of the phrase "I have ants in my pants". As I have a bit of free time before dinner this seems like the perfect opportunity to let you, my loyal followers, in on the little secret.

I guess its not very secret and positively straight forward. Wiki answers actually makes me appear sort of foolish looking it up. It derives from the constant movement one makes when ants are crawling in one's pants. Of course. On a side note, when I was searching for this answer I ran across an urban dictionary entry for the word "Nabilesque" which is an adjective that relates to a strong leader, with an open mind, willing to get the job done. Apparently, this word has an arabic origin meaning "noble" and "of or relating to Nabil".

See you learn something new everyday!

There is really nothing too exciting to take pictures of at this moment considering we've been listening to lectures all day. I did get to swim in the Atlantic this afternoon which was refreshing. The water was perfect!

Pictures

The view from my room. Notice the sweet Atlantic waves. The water seems a bit cleaner here than the New Jersey Atlantic.
Air Maroc in Casablanca. PCT's walking down the steps.

Marhaban from Mehdia!

First day in Morocco. We flew into Casablanca arriving at 7:30 this morning. Gathered our luggage and hopped on a bus up to a coastal town called Mehdia. Its just a bit north of Rabat and has beautiful views of the coast.

We had our first round of lectures and were presented with a large medical kit, a mosquito net for sleeping, and a huge folder with a notebook, schedule, and extra papers. I have no idea where this stuff is going to go as I have no room in my bags at the moment.

After the lectures a bunch of us hit the coast and went for a jog on the beach. Its really beautiful: the water looks great and the sand is awesome; however there is an enormous amount of trash all over the beach. Its quite a shame too because we are in Africa which is so much more legit than New Jersey. The jog was cool and we stumbled upon a huge jelly fish that was probably two feet in diameter. What a beast. Apparently everything is a bit bigger in Africa.

Schedule for tomorrow includes shots, a long talk about diarrhea, and medical interviews. It should be a blast. Pictures to follow.

a salaam wa aleikum!

BODYGUARDS!!!!

The most interesting piece of information that I found out at training last night, is that every Peace Corps volunteer is paired with their own personal gendarme. Essentially, the King of Morocco wants to make sure that all of the volunteers are safe and nothing happens to them. So, he has enlisted these gendarmes specifically to watch over the volunteers.

The format of the relationship we will have with these gendarmes has not been thoroughly discussed. We might meet them, or they might be that shady character we see around our village following us... who knows. For comedic value I think the latter would be hilarious. To be honest though, I have no idea how this is going to work.

Its good to know that the King of Morocco is thinking about our safety and has a special force to make sure we remain safe.

SHUKS! (A shortened form of "shukran" (thank you) that my arabic professor used. He is actually a berber from Morocco.)

Time to GO!

Its finally time to leave. I head down to Philadelphia for staging tomorrow and then get back on a bus and head up to JFK for our flight to Casablanca on the 9th. This requires a bit of back-tracking for me... driving down to Philadelphia only to drive right back up to New York a day later. I can't really bring myself to complain, though. I'm extremely excited to leave; one might say I have "ants in my pants". You know, the ones that make you squirm around because they are crawling everywhere and you can't seem to get them out. (As a side, I've never actually had ants in my pants. This could be a new experience I have in the Peace Corps. Who knows? I can't imagine it to be too comfortable though, which makes me wonder how that expression originated. AHA! I've found a topic for my next post!)

Regardless, I haven't sat still once yet today. I just returned from a trip up to Vermont. I did some hiking with the family and visited the Magic Hat Brewery. Above is a picture of my mom, brother, me, and family friends Jane (Janiel) and Dan on top of Mt. Mansfield.

I've also included my address below. This will work for the first 9 weeks when I am a trainee. The Peace Corps asks that no packages be sent to this address... letters are fine though.

Peter Kitlas

s/c Corps de la Paix

2, Rue Abou Marouane Essaadi, Agdal

Rabat 10100, Morocco

As you can see the French influence is still abundantly present in Morocco. More to come on that I'm sure.

Thanks to everyone who helped get me to this point. I'm forever indebted to you guys. But now I'm on my own, a new adventure on the horizon.

Peace

Almost ready

I've never had a blog before... never thought that other people might have the slightest interest in the daily activities of my life. Consequently, I'll try to keep the writing to a minimum, only relaying the truly outstanding stories from my experience complemented by a plethora of photographs.

I officially leave on September 9th for those who were wondering. I can't say I'll post anything else between now and then, but hopefully I'll have far too much material to know what to do with after that date.

مع السلامة