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.