Life in the city.

The Earth Cafe, Marrakech -- hands down the best restaurant I've yet visited in Morocco.

I’m back home in my dusty little village, after a weeklong in-service training in Marrakech. Training was … training. Actually, many of the sessions were both useful and inspiring, as they were led by fellow volunteers who have actually used the tips they were sharing. And it was great to see everyone again … though with so many workshops, so many people and such hot weather, the week was maybe a day or two too long.

But we briefly reaped the benefits of life in the big city. Our bungalow was not the zwinest, but it did sport this crazy new invention called air conditioning, and that more than made up for the fly-ridden, cold-water shower. And I got to bust out some outfits I would never wear in my conservative site -- good gracious, my calves were showing! And my upper arms! Hshuma 3liya -- shame on me!

I spent too many dirhams, but it was totally worth it for the amazing food I was able to sample. I’m not knocking tagines or couscous, or even my own rotation of salad concoctions, but it’s nice to branch out into some other fare once in awhile. Seafood swimming in red coconut curry one evening, authentic Italian another. My favorite meal by far, though, was my second visit to the Earth Café, a wonderfully hip vegetarian eatery just off the Djemma El Fna, Marrakech’s central square of food, souks and free entertainment. Goat cheese baked in phyllo pastry, atop a bed of balsamic-roasted veggies ... I can still taste it melting on my tongue.

And then there was cocktail hour … glorious cocktail hour. Mmm, cocktails … In a country where alcohol is forbidden for Muslims and hard to find for travelers, it’s hard not to turn into a high-schooler, continually cruising for the possibility of scoring a bottle or two. We found a bottle or two. ’Twas lovely.

Danice and me in color-coordinated garb.

A not-so-strange not-turn of events.

Here’s a shocking surprise, upon my return home: My dar chebab is still closed! (cue sarcasm). Couldn’t even find the director for a few days, though I finally tracked him down this evening. The new library/informatique building is finished, actually, and looks lovely, with a tiled floor and peach and lavender walls. Soon’s they clean up a bit and move all the computers and books into the new room (and out of my classroom, which currently looks like a storage locker), we’ll be back open for business. So, I’m guessing, maybe another month or so. (Sorry, can’t seem to turn off that sarcasm feature.)

My women’s class is too busy to meet, and will be on vacation soon. The young women I was tutoring for their final exam have taken the test and disappeared on me. Even my dar chebab regulars are nowhere to be found. I have one last class at the women’s center tomorrow before it closes for the summer.

I feel utterly useless at times. I know this is normal for this time of year, this slowness. But I’ve already felt idle for a couple of months now. Hard to ward off that American mindset of work = success = reason for being. The one thing that calms me is afternoon tea with my host “mom” (again. two years younger than me). It’s not your fault the dar chebab’s closed, she reminds me. Everyone’s taking tests anyway, she reminds me. And then they’ll just hang around the house all summer. It’s too hot to do anything else. It’s OK, she says. Relax. Breathe.

So I try.

Plenty else going on, though.

* Both of my host sisters have new jobs that, I hope, will help them each feel more successful. Though it means I likely will see far less of each of them.

* Their sister has been visiting from Germany, where she moved about a year ago after marrying a professor she met in Agadir. The grandmother’s here, too, from her home out in the country. It’s been lovely to see the family dynamics evolve into a constant house party atmosphere. There is nothing lovelier than the idle, comfortable laughter of a houseful of female relatives.

* I bought a bed today, my first big purchase made solo, with no one to interpret or bargain for me. I’m pretty happy with it and look forward to feeling more at home once I have an actual bed to sleep in at night, to spread out my books and journal and music. (For months now I’ve been camping out in my living area, on a mattress considerably narrower than a twin bed and lumpier than Pamela Anderson, which is not a plus in my book.) Pictures to come once it’s built and delivered.

* Still making friends everywhere I go. Yesterday I spent time talking with a trio of women, two of whom spent most of the time trying (in vain) to convince the third that I was speaking Arabic to her, not French or some other exotic language. (I know what she means, though. It’s all Greek to me, too, honey.) Today it was a lovely older woman who held both my hands the entire time, saving when she had to use her own to waggle her substantial breasts at me while indicating the number of kids she’s raised. I can only be thankful she didn’t waggle mine while trying to comprehend why I haven’t had any.

Proud to be a citizen of the world.

I’m still a little bit out of the loop, newswise (my amazing new internet connection seems to be more predisposed to ridiculous and random Facebook quizzes than to information about the serious news of our day), but I did manage to catch Newt Gingrich’s speech in which he proudly declared, “I am not a citizen of the world. I think the entire concept is intellectual nonsense and stunningly dangerous!” Much has been made of the statement, especially how it contrasts with GOP hero Ronald Reagan’s quote a mere generation ago that he was a citizen of both the U.S. and the world.

The brouhaha seems to be over semantics. Newties are afraid the word “citizen” puts them in league with the dictators and commies of the world. For the more open-minded, less literal among us, it’s just a term of solidarity – with people, not governments. Being American does not make us superior – only very fortunate.

Huma huma, as we say here – People are people, the same everywhere. We all try to roll over for a few more hours of sleep in the morning, then get up, get the kids dressed and fed, do our daily work whether it’s at home or elsewhere, make another meal, crash in front of the telefaza, laugh a bit, fight a bit, fall asleep and do it all over again the next day,

That, more than anything, is what I’ve gotten out of my Peace Corps service so far.

And it seems to be a meme of sorts, at least in the news bytes and podcasts that have been coming my way this week.

Here on Earth has a recent episode on “Travel as a Political Act” – the idea that exploring other worlds brings home to us the reality that we’re all more similar than we are different. And that we’re all motivated essentially by two things: Fear and love. Fear of change, and love of our families.

We’re like spiders in that respect … the “other” (society, religion, etc) is just as afraid of us as we are of them. A very good reason to get to know our world neighbors better … and let them know us, the us defined by everyday life, not by our show of force.

Other good resources on the topic:

* On Point had a discussion this week on global education for high-school and university students – not only for the lower cost, but to make them more comfortable in / understanding of the larger world.

* Rita Golden Gelman, author of the greatly inspiring book “Tales of a Female Nomad” is trying to drum up support for a formal “gap year” program, a concept Michelle Obama has already embraced.

Quotes of the day:

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrowmindedness.” – Mark Twain

“Not to know is bad. Not to want to know is worse. Not to hope is unthinkable. Not to care is unforgivable." — Nigerian saying (according to Facebook and the innerwebs, anyway)

“There is only one success — to be able to spend your life in your own way.” — Christopher Morley

“You don’t have to be unhappy to have the blues.” – Little Ed (of Little Ed and the Blues Imperials) on “Wait, Wait – Don’t Tell Me,” June 12, 2009

Currently reading: “In Morocco,” Edith Wharton; “A Beginner’s Guide to Meditation,” Charlotte Parnell

Currently listening to: music from Gnoua Festival 2008

Currently solidaritizing with: The brave, green-wearing women and men of Iran

Dar hlwa dar.

I should be sleeping so I can get up early for the journey to Marrakech in the morning – my training mates gather for a weeklong In-Service Training, the first time we’ve all been together since we swore in as PCVs and departed for our separate villages. Looking forward to a fun reunion and a new teaching tip or two. 

But, before I leave, I wanted to put up a couple of pictures of my new digs. Long story as to the why, but I’m so happy I’ve moved. No more late-night worries, no more all-hours noise from the autoroute below my former apartment, no more dust flying in my windows from the vacant lot across the street.

This place is a bit more dated, but homier. A small patch of courtyard out my back door is all mine, site of a future pot garden, inchallah. 

Some definite drawbacks: I've killed more cockroaches in the past few days than I care to think about. The landlord's family upstairs is given to late-night arguing and TV-blaring, and the 3-year-old has temper tantrums on a schedule as regular as the call to prayer. No sink in the bathroom, but I can live with that, I think. Thanks to an emergency extension cord purchase, I’m now able to use my hot water heater. 

Despite all that, I'm happier here. There is quiet. There's an outdoor space. And a sense of being in a neighborhood, surrounded by families.  

Funny, I’d meant for ages to put up some photos of family/friends at the old place, yet never seemed to get around to it. This time around, it was the first thing I did after unpacking. Nothing makes a place feel like home to me like being surrounded by my books and pictures of the people I love.

Anny approved the fung shui. All I know is I feel more at home here than I have for a long time.

Obama's new beginning.

It’s nearly midnight, and I just don’t have the energy to go where I want to in dissecting President Obama’s speech in Cairo this week. You can read it for yourself here:

Text: Obama's Speech in Cairo 

Obama’s reaching out is definitely being talked about in my village. He even gave a shoutout to Morocco for being the first country to recognize America as a country back in the 1700s. (Fun fact: Morocco was also one of the first countries to invite Peace Corps.)

My favorite Obama quote: “A woman who is denied an education is denied equality.”

And as for those who ask “why isn’t the Muslim world apologizing to us?” the best analogy I can think of is this: Do we expect the entire Christian world to apologize for the murder of Dr. George Tiller by a misguided extremist? (Sorry it's not a better-crafted argument, but my head is nodding off even as I add this... maybe I'll try again later.) 

This just makes me laugh every time I see it.

A display of pressure cookers at my favorite mika palace (home of housewares and all things plastic). Take a close look at the box. If your eyes are failing like mine are, allow me to translate: It’s the “Happy Rebecca” pressure cooker! The woman on the box looks happy indeed (surely because she’s not sweating over a hot stove) and looks not completely unlike me.

Quotes of the day.

“There are two kinds of people, those who finish what they start and so on.” – Robert Byrne (courtesy Cheri C.)

“You have powers you never dreamed of. You can do things you never thought you could do. There are no limitations in what you can do except the limitations of your own mind.” – Darwin P. Kingsley (courtesy D. Lillie)

"When you look for the bad expecting it, you will find it." – Eleanor H. Porter, “Pollyanna: The First Glad Book”

"The unexamined life may not be worth living, but the life too closely examined may not be lived at all.” – George Eliot (in reply to Socrates)

Currently reading: May 25 issue of The New Yorker from Amrika (thanks, Mattchoo!)

Currently listening to: Holly Golightly, Juana Molina (thanks, iTunes!)

 

More surfing on the innerwaves.

The Los Angeles Times has an article today on increasing numbers of Peace Corps applicants, and the hopes for increased funding and more volunteers: 

More Americans Turning to Peace Corps

I'm not sure how I feel about increasing the numbers of Peace Corps volunteers. Actually, I'm all for it -- if we also increase, even if only slightly, the amount spent per volunteer/site. Not to give away funds to local communities -- I'm totally behind the Peace Corps concept of teaching rather than giving. But just a little bit more money would go a looonnnnggg way toward giving volunteers better training before heading into their sites, and better resources/support to help their communities launch projects. 

I'm also so happy to see Peace Corps re-entering Rwanda, Liberia and Ethiopia. I sometimes wonder whether Peace Corps remains too long in certain other countries ... at some point, shouldn't those countries be better equipped to do their own development work? Certainly in Morocco, in my sector, in my own little village, I can count several local young adults who have the education, the job-specific training, and most important the desire to do my job -- they just can't find any paying work. When should a country be considered ready to take over and offer these opportunities to its own residents? Are we sometimes a crutch, relied on long past necessary? I don't know the answer; I just wonder about it sometimes. 

In other news ... 

* Tomorrow is moving day, inchallah. But not until 7:30 or so, after the sun starts to go down and takes the heat of the day with it. I suppose, with how little I have, I'll still have plenty of time to unpack at least the essentials before bedtime. I just counted ... not even during college freshman year, I'm betting, have I moved in fewer than 15 boxes. What doesn't change, however, is the percentage of those boxes that hold books. 

* We've gone to Moroccan Savings Time for the summer, until Ramadan begins in late August. So now I am 6 hours ahead of CDT, instead of 5. Except when I'm not -- some people here operate on "new time," but some adamantly remain on "old time." Adjust your clocks accordingly. 

* An encouraging email from PC headquarters: This month’s theme for Gay and Lesbian Pride Month is “Your Rights, Our Rights, Human Rights.”  This theme is particularly germane when one considers that, the U.S. recently joined 66 other U.N.-member states in signing a decree for the worldwide decriminalization of homosexuality and that many of our Volunteers and staff members serve in societies with limited rights for gay and lesbian people.  With this in mind, let us reflect upon how we can build toward a more inclusive society. 

* I've collected paperwork from all but one of my summer camp kids. They're so adorably funny when they're excited ... and they're so adorably scared-looking in the accompanying "mug shot" photos. 

* I am NOT getting a sore throat. Nope. Huh-uh. Not happening. 

* Shout-out to Mom and Dad: My emails to you are STILL bouncing back to me. Maybe check your spam settings ... maybe it's because I'm overseas? PS: Please send tortilla chips recipe! 

Superhighway? This is the Autobahn.

-

My biggest news of the week is unfortunately once again related to my solitary pastimes and not to all the great work I’m doing. (Though I did start teaching at the nedi neswi this week and so have a brand new group of women I’m completely smitten with; and I did manage to secure new housing and make arrangements to move next week; and I have collected 40 percent of the paperwork I need to bring to the Ministry of Youth and Sports this week so my five scholarship kids can go to summer camp.)

My dear friend Anny introduced me to my new best friend this week. I am calling her Bouchra, which is Darija for “woman who brings good news.” She comes in a sleek, elegant package, and she’s fast. Oh, she’s fast. If she were a woman in Morocco, she’d be hshuma bzzf.

But she’s not a woman. She’s my beautiful new Internet modem. She connects directly to my Mac. No more extra software. No more 20-minute waits while a page loads. No more crashes. No more individually downloading every podcast. ITunes works. Facebook works. And, if I can sell the old modem for half price, I’ll cover most of the cost of my splurge.

So you can imagine my past 24 hours. I’ve barely risen from the ponj in my innerwebs stupor.

In my resulting obsessive speed-surfing, today alone I have found the following:

* Nicholas Kristof’s Sunday column of international “travel tips.”  Most of his advice is just practical suggestions for navigating any crowded tourist area, whether it’s a developing country or not. The comments on his related blog post take him to task for being overly titillating, implying foreign countries are all dangerous war zones and you’d be crazy to travel without a helmet and flack jacket. I don’t agree. But the blog also mentions an inaccuracy involving Morocco, and my reply got onto his comments page. Shades of Steve Martin in “The Jerk” – I’m somebody now!

* An article on upcoming local elections across Morocco that mentions an increased quota – 12 percent – for female officeholders. I hope to read more about women politicians in coming weeks.

* A Facebook group called Stop Sexual Harassment in Morocco. Harassment by men can seem overwhelming and never-ending here; it’s important to remember that it’s perpetuated by a tiny minority of very vocal young men. Contrary to the common stereotype of developing countries being backward and “not knowing any better” than societies in the west, plenty of Moroccan women and men know that harassment is wrong, and I’m so proud to see active efforts to denounce it. Most of it’s in French and Arabic, but if you’re on FB, join the group and add to the numbers!

* The sad news of the murder of Dr. George Tiller. (I’m not a journalist anymore, so I can call this what it is and not clean it up with “homicide.”) I met Dr. Tiller once, briefly, at a fundraiser. His patient, quiet demeanor spoke to a persisent dedication to helping women facing the most painful decision they’ll ever make, for reasons outsiders can never fully understand. He bravely continued to help women in the face of threatened and actual violence – a previous shooting, never-ending protests surrounding his home and clinic, and a series of attempts to co-opt the legal system to prevent him from providing a legal medical service. My heart goes out to his family, his coworkers, and everyone who stands up against the hypocrites.

Quotes of the day:

“A ship in harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.” — William Shedd


“If you want to test your memory, try to recall what you were worrying about one year ago today.” — E. Joseph Cossman

“It’s not who you are that holds you back, it’s who you think you’re not.” — Unknown


A day at the beach.

with Vish, one of my closest neighbors and favorite PCVs

In Morocco, Peace Corps volunteers arrive in twice-annual waves -- health and environment volunteers in the spring, youth development and small business development volunteers in the fall. Sadly, on that same schedule, a group of PCVs must depart to make room for the newcomers.

Thus, a group of us down here in the Souss gathered in Agadir last weekend to bid farewell to Tom, a health volunteer making his way back to the States after two years of patient, earnest and meaningful work. That sounds cliche, I'm sure, but Tom really is one of the most dedicated and optimistic volunteers I've met here. We'll miss him.

Tom and Ian on the beach

I don't travel to Agadir very often; the taxi ride is expensive and exhausting -- 45 dirhams ($5.50) and nearly four hours round-trip. It's a temporary treat when I do get there. Agadir is a beach town rebuilt, after a devastating 1950s earthquake, to cater to tourists. The beach is clean and lovely, restaurants abound, wifi and alcohol are widely available, and the shopping approaches that of any western city. Fun for an afternoon, but beyond that I begin to miss my quiet, dusty Moroccan village, which feels a continent away.

But we did it up right last weekend. A quiet afternoon lounging lazily on Zach's -- sorry, I mean Z Star's -- incongruously purchased Playboy beach blanket, trying to entice Moroccan toddlers to play with us, trying to avoid staring at the overly disrobed, moon-white skin of European tourists. Lunch at an authentically Indian restaurant, with some of the spiciest and best samosas I've ever had. Drinks at the English Pub, followed by Tom's rousing (to us, anyway) karaoke performance of "Folsom Prison Blues."

Later, though, the celebration pointed up a sad commentary on my personal habits: I am completely out of training. One samosa, one plate of dal, and a single Beck's, and my stomach was tied in knots for the entire evening. Spicy food and beer are no longer in my daily routine, and my body didn't seem to know what to do with the combination. I fear for my future.


The big event.

Essaid discusses ways of contracting SIDA

Workwise, the big news of the past week was the SIDA (AIDS) education event we pulled off at the dar chebab on Friday night. The theater group failed to materialize, but its leader was instrumental in helping me pull the event together and I know it wasn't for lack of effort. The SIDA awareness group ALCS Taroudant gives a fabulous presentation, low-key but factual and informative. We had 20 kids show up, which was about 18 more than I allowed myself to hope for. All of them male, nearly all of them teens or young men. A candid and enthusiastic discussion about whether talking about condoms promotes forbidden sexual activity; the ALCS folks handled some pointedly accusatory questions with an equal passion for preserving the health of their country.

I think we can count the evening as a success. Vish showed up for moral support, and I'll go to a similar event at her dar chebab this week so we can compare notes.

For those of you keeping score at home, yes, the dar chebab is still closed. I miss my kids, but I'm keepig plenty busy with my women's classes, a new English class at an association that teaches homemaking and literacy skills to adult women, and making arrangements for English camp in July.

Every summer, Peace Corps, the U.S. Embassy, and Morocco's Ministry of Youth and Sports puts on four two-week English immersion camps in the northern coastal resort town of Al Jadida. I've spent the past week lining up the five students I plan to take to camp with me on scholarship.

I'm so proud of my group; they're all on the young side (13 and 14), and none has studied English yet in school. But they are good kids, motivated to learn and eager to interact with me. Most of them come from families that could never afford to send them on an opportunity such as this. I really look forward to watching them bloom, make some new friends and realize some new talents later this summer.

In meeting their parents to make the arrangements, I've also made some new friends that I already cherish. Nothing beats randomly meeting a woman in a taxi, realizing she's the mother you've been trying to track down for a week, and in the half-hour's drive home become giggly and sisterly, carrying each other's packages down the street and landing in her home for tea, a look through the family photo album, the squeals of delight as her daughters enter the living room to find me sitting there.

As if all that weren't enough, I'm in the midst of switching houses, a topic for another post. I hope to secure a new place, pack and move all within the next week -- before leaving for a week's training with my stajmates in Marrakech next month. After in-service training, a week's respite back home before going to Rabat for a meeting of PC Morocco's Gender and Development Committee. By then it'll be nearly time for summer camp. And not long after that school will start again, the dar chebab will be back in business (inchallah), and I'll be marking my first year of service.

While individually days sometimes move unbelieveably slowly, on the whole these past nine months have passed in the cliched blink of an eye.

I’m still here ...

Early on, I noted that people here have trouble saying my name, and I liked to suggest that it sounds like “bakiya,” which means package, or like “shebekia,” a sticky-sweet pastry served during Ramadan.

Lately I’ve been thinking about two other words that sound similar to Becki: “Bki,” the present-tense form of “to cry,” and “bqi,” a conjugated form of a verb which that means “to remain” and is usually used to imply that something is continuing and/or is sticking around.

There is metaphor here, too. In short, sometimes I cry … but I keep going, and I intend to stay right here.

... And here's one reason why.

In our country director’s latest weekly email, he included a portion of the speech given (in Tashelheit, translated here) by the language “valedictorian” of the newly sworn-in group of volunteers. I don’t have permission to use it and so haven’t included the author’s name; I hope he doesn’t mind. He says so eloquently what I think many of us hope to achieve here:

“‘Why are you here?’ The answer may have changed during the last two months, and may change again tomorrow. But for all of us, the answer is more than “I work for hay at salam.” [Arabic for Peace Corps] I’m here because my Moroccan [host] father thought the US, Canada, Mexico and Argentina were all rich states ruled by Barack Obama. I’m here because my American mother was afraid for me to live in a Muslim country and last week she said ‘ssalaam ualakum’ on the phone to my Moroccan mother. I’m here because last week my friend in Boston joked and asked if I had met Bin Laden yet, and because I don’t want my Moroccan brother to think all Americans are like Vin Diesel in ‘The Fast and the Furious.’ I’m here because I believe a peaceful world is a world in which and women of different nations, cultures, and religions understand each other despite their differences."

Currently grateful for: The dear family and friends who keep me not only in their thoughts but in their lives; the Mizzes Krista, Amy, Melissa and Cinnamon; my folks and my brother, who keep me in their hearts, the tax returns in my bank account and the care packages in the mail; the many friends who randomly send little things not only for me but for my dar chebab (thanks most recently to the Mizzes Jill and Nealy and again to the Marvelous Melissa!); my fellow PCVs who keep me grounded and sane and laughing, especially but by no means limited to Candace, Vish, Anny, Tricia, Matt, Linley and so many more.

Currently obsessively listening to: “Raising Sand,” Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, iTunes gifted to me ages ago by the darling Miz Jill, but which I just managed to download

Currently halfheartedly reading: “Double Fault,” Lionel Shriver, possibly the most overwritten novel I have actually continued pursuing in my life

In the field(s).

This weekend I met up with the other volunteers in my region for a gourmet picnic hosted by the talented and cheery health PCV Michelle. We gathered to mourn the imminent departure of several health and environment volunteers, who are two weeks away from the end of their two-year service, and to welcome the newly initiated volunteers who will be moving into their communities.

A short hike from Michelle’s remote duoar brought us to a pastoral clearing where we layed out blankets and the feast Michelle had prepared, along with the yummy, heart-shaped carrot cake Joy prepared in my kitchen that morning. The weather was simply perfect for a picnic – not sweltering hot as it had been most of the previous week. A girl from the village flirted shamelessly with all of us as we idly tried to stretch out the afternoon as long as possible.




I don’t know when I’ve had a lazier, more enjoyable meal. Now that I’m home, however, I begin to realize that the mosquitoes had quite a feast of their own.

The outgoing PCVs will be missed. They’ve been a source of sanity, great advice and such good humor and optimism when I’ve been overwhelmed. I hope we can sufficiently pay it forward to the incoming crew.

Also on my day off I bought what may have been the last strawberries available in Taroudant, the only kilo I saw anywhere today. And no cherry tomatoes to be found. But the fruit seller tossed in a handful of red plums with my berries, juicy small plums sweet like bonbons. Peaches have arrived as well, and melons. Before I know it summer will bring pomegranates, tiny candies better than Skittles.

The fields surrounding my village, undulating waves of wheat just a week ago, are being harvested, bundled and stacked up neatly like so many pencils. As I pass through them on my morning walks I hail and am hailed by women (and some men) working in the fields. Already, next door to the wheat fields now reduced to stubs, expanses of green stand out in the desert landscape; the next crop is coming along nicely, whatever it is. This Nebraska girl doesn’t know her cash crops.

But I am pulling in a crop of my own. Months later than optimal, I finally procured some decent soil (gave a giant Ziploc to a student, who brought it back filled with dirt from her family’s farm) and started a few seeds on my balcony. Basil and parsley and garlic chives, the only herbs I had on hand. Really want to grow my own mint, my favorite for the simple pleasure of tearing off a leaf and crushing it for its scent, or popping it in my mouth. Instant pleasure.



Fruits and crops and fellow volunteers already have come and gone in my short time here. Can it really be nearly six months since I arrived in my village? Aside from the basil, what harvest do I bring; what do I have to show for my time here?

Not much, I’m afraid is the answer.

Workwise, I’m frustrated. The youth center remains closed while the new building sits halfway finished. Another two weeks I’m told; I’m betting that means another month at least – long after school closes for the summer and kids tend not to hang around town.

I keep on doing as best I can. I’m arranging an AIDS education event in a couple of weeks, with an amazing organization based in Taroudant and a local theater troupe. My women’s class still meets faithfully three times a week, although it’s far more about socializing than about studying, which is fine by me. Still tutor a few older girls, in my home or theirs.

But I’m constantly stood up by students and adults alike. I never know if my day will work as planned or if I’ll have the “gift” of an extra hour to read or study while I’m waiting for an appointment that never materializes. My hopes for working at the girls boarding school have yet to come off, and the director of my youth center won’t return my messages so I can set a meeting for us to make a plan for the coming summer. In the midst of all this, I’m supposed to start lining up five scholarship students for summer English camp in El Jadida. Hard to do when I don’t have a dar chebab where I can hang out with the kids I’m supposed to be serving.

Last week, my program manager from Peace Corps headquarters in Rabat came for a visit. I was next to last on the list; he visits all new volunteers before the six-month mark. He seemed to think things were going fine here, considering my current circumstances. Patience once again seems to be the lesson I am supposed to be learning here.

The lack of work leads to plenty of time for introspection. At times the solitude is welcome. Other times, I feel far more than an ocean and a few time zones away from everyone I love. While I have friends here, I cannot achieve the level of understanding that comes with years of closeness and common experiences (not to mention a shared language). The loneliness catches me unawares at times, sneaking up from behind so I don’t even see it coming until I suddenly find myself feeling utterly alone in the world. It’s easy to fall off the radar (of friends and family alike) when I’m not in the daily line of sight; it’s easy to feel forgotten, abandoned even, when of course it is I who did the leaving.

And to what end, my leaving? Paul Theroux, one of my favorite authors and one of the first Peace Corps volunteers, has a long piece in this month’s Conde Nast Traveler. He writes about the benefits, individually and collectively, of the U.S. sending volunteers into remote locations overseas to better understand – and, where we can, to help – the greater world in which our culture, we too easily forget, is just one part of the whole. While I agree with most of what Theroux writes, he holds a fairly elitist view of his early service, at a time when Peace Corps meant nearly complete disassociation from the greater world for two years. He pokes a bit of fun of the idea of Peace Corps in an age of Internet and cell phones, when he managed without even electricity or running water.

“What sort of a life is it,” Theroux writes, “when, on the days when things are going bad, you are able to dial Mom for consolation? The experience should involve remoteness, inconvenience, hardship, even risk; isn't that the whole point of being away?”

Hm. Is it? I thought the point was to serve our fellow humans and to share our cultures. I don’t know that physical hardship is required. Certainly I expected such challenges when I accepted my original invitation, which would have placed me in remote Tanzania, possibly in exactly the circumstances Theroux describes. For completely unrelated reasons, I ended up here in Morocco instead. I have the luxury of electricity, running water (and a water heater), comfortable sofas and, yes, Internet and telephone service. That places me squarely within the norm for the region in which I’m living.

Instead, I face different challenges. It is never easy to be accepted into a new community, less so when every single thing about you – hair and skin color, language, gregariousness, even gait – screams “foreign!” Every cultural norm ingrained back home – that people queue up in lines at the post office rather than press, en masse, toward the counter, waving arms and shouting demands; that garbage is deposited in dumpsters that will be emptied and hauled away on a regular basis, not thrown into the street or the hallway of my apartment building; that I go for a run, or even a walk in my own neighborhood, unhindered by men circling me on motorbikes; that my efforts to do good in the world and to learn another language will be welcomed with patience and interest, not suspicion and belittlement – all of these expectations are turned on their head here. It is up to me to adapt to my new surroundings, not the other way ‘round.

And yet, for every strange difference that makes me feel as if I’m straddling a crevasse between two universes, there is at least one moment in which I am instructed that “huma huma” – people are people, everywhere. The man who just (to my mind) harassed me in the street can be seen a block away, tenderly stooping to kiss a toddler’s cheeks. The woman who just jostled me in line will, if I smile and joke with her, be the first to tell everyone else that I’m a dear thing who’s actually learning Arabic and actually lives right here in our town. The field workers I pass on my morning runs will not only wave, they’ll insist I come home for tea even though they don’t know a thing about me except that I'm passing through their sphere.

For every challenge, whether it’s homesick loneliness or inept communication skills or a life ethic that dares to put people before work, there is a lesson and a reward. May I be able to see every challenge for the lesson that it is.

Excitement of the week: The water main that broke and flooded my village, including the highway. Here’s Mohammed, the 16-year-old who works (along with everyone else) 14-hour days in the supermarket downstairs, surveying the damage:


Milestones marked: One-year anniversary since quitting my newspaper job of 20 years.

Currently reading: “In the Mind’s Eye: Essays Across the Animate World,” Elizabeth Dodd

Currently listening: podcasts newly discovered from the Council on Foreign Relations



More picnic photos.

Cultural exchange.

Using a knife to open the closed fly on new Eurotrash denim purchased for the trip home


Packing up the pic-i-nic


Gourmet breakfast, too


Quintessential Peace Corps gathering: Leave your hard-worn shoes at the door

Plus one.

I’m just home from a fabulous hfla (party) for one of the women in my adult English class, who had a baby boy a week ago today. Silly me, I thought I was just going to pay Zahra a little visit with her classmates Najat and Fatima. Didn’t realize I’d be bumping cheeks with 50 other women, watching them eat chicken and trying to explain vegetarianism, and generally allowing myself, once again, to be laughed at and called mesquina (“poor thing”).

Unfortunately, it was not a photo opportunity, so all you get is this typical baby card. Little Ali was kept heavily under wraps, the honoree was secluded in another room, and women here are notoriously camera shy. Too bad, because some of them were really rocking their djellabas. Not to mention the relative who was serving up the platters of full roasted chickens while wearing a nightgown emblazoned with little blue flowers and the phrase (in English) “I’m a shooting.”

But it was lovely to meet some more women, young and old and in between, explain what I’m doing here and encourage them to send their youngsters to check out the dar chebab … whenever it reopens, that is. (But that's another story ..._

More missed photo ops.

(Or, when will I remember to ALWAYS bring my camera?)

1. The three women greeting me on this morning’s walk/run, each bearing a steaming tagine on her head, inviting me to lunch with them. Every outing’s an emotional whiplash: Each man circling me on his motorbike is more than made up for by the generous, friendly, welcoming women I encounter.

2. My impromptu crochet lesson at the women’s association … now, who among you thought I would ever take up crochet? Wish I could say I made my textile-savvy mother proud, but I’m afraid my stitches turned out as loose as a Vegas showgirl. And why anyone would voluntarily choose to squint and hunch over a tiny hook for hours on end is kind of beyond me, but it was a nice chance to bond with some of the ladies.

3. My post-run adventure Sunday last, when I forgot the key to the main door downstairs (it’s locked when the offices across the hall aren’t open). After several hours spent trying to track down my landlord or anyone else who might be able to open the door, the supermarket owner downstairs agreed to my original idea, which he’d first considered unthinkable: Yep, he found a ladder tall enough to reach my balcony, and yep, I climbed up to the second floor, on Main Street, at the busiest time of day. Because I didn’t quite stand out enough around here.

Quotes of the day:

“How lovely to think that no one need wait a moment, we can start now, start slowly changing the world!" – Anne Frank, age 14 (thanks, Mom!)

"Either today, or tomorrow, or someday, you have got to realize it." – Oscar Wilde (thanks, Staci!)

“Wherever you are, be there.” – Emerson (thanks, Universe, for sending me this when I most needed to hear it.

Currently listening to: “Rebecca” by the Pat McGee Band (narcissistic, much? But I’ve always bitched that no one writes songs about the Beckys of the world, so I was happy to find that someone has)

Currently reading: “Covering Islam: How the Media and the Experts Determine How We See the Rest of the World,” Edward Said; “Uncivilized Beasts and Shameless Hellions: Travels With an NPR Correspondent,” John F. Burnett; “Not Much Fun: The Lost Poems of Dorothy Parker”; “Quick Fix Vegetarian: Healthy Home-Cooked Meals in 30 Minutes or Less” (thanks, Mom and Dad and Steve!)

Currently loving: Iced tea with Constant Comment teabags from home (ditto!)

A day at the fair.

Earlier this week, a few of us Taroudant-area volunteers stopped in at the moussem for Sidi M’bark. A moussem is a local festival for a favored saint. That's pretty much all I know about the event.

In certain ways, it felt as if I were back home in central Nebraska, whooping it up at the county fair. Tent after tent of steaming barbecued meat; purveyors rolling carts of popcorn or ice cream, crowds of people out mostly to watch each other, children running the maze amid the legs of the crowd, the afternoon heat verging on oppressive.

The two main features of the moussem were the fantasia, in which horsemen charge across a field firing their rifles, and an open-air slaughterhouse for the camels whose meat served as the featured delicacy. That was especially hard to witness. Camels awaiting their turn stood or sat near the killing site, looking blissfully placid as camels do – until we realized their legs were tethered so they wouldn’t get away.

I never have been a county fair kinda gal.

The world of Islam.

Once in awhile, a friend or relative will email me, after reading about the latest atrocities in Iraq or Afghanistan, concerned about the dangers of living in “the world of Islam.” Case in point: Last week’s daring protest in Kabul by Afghan women outraged over new laws that, for one thing, sanction marital rape. They faced beatings, stones, spitting from men in the streets, and possibly worse upon their return home.

The assumption is that life here mimics the violently oppressive culture of a handful of Muslim countries – think Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan, and to a less violent but still tyrannical extent Saudi Arabia, where, for example, it is illegal for a woman to drive, to appear in public without a veil, or to leave the house unescorted by a male relative.

The “world of Islam,” incidentally, encompasses more than half the globe. Not only all of the Middle East (most of which countries are not in fact mired in war or violence), but all of North Africa, perhaps half of sub-Saharan Africa, most of Eastern Europe, huge numbers in India and Indochine countries … not to mention ever-growing numbers in Europe and North America. To lump all of Islam into a few wartorn, politicized crises is short-sighted at best. (Then there’s the fact that Peace Corps operates only in politically secure countries, at the invitation of those countries; we would never be positioned in areas the U.S. government deems even slightly unstable, much less dangerous.)

The implication in my friends’ fears is that Islam is a faith intrinsically based on violence and hatred. Nothing could be further from the truth, despite what much western media would have us believe. It has, in certain desperate regions, simply been co-opted by hate-filled individuals looking using religion in the name of furthering their cause, in countries where conditions make the residents amenable to angry political messages.

The reasons for the crises in certain regions of the Mideast have everything to do with constant war, drought, famine and desperate need. Powerful factions who crave control use the people's desperation for their own political gain. Western invasions of those countries only push more people to the cause of local warlords, who promise not only freedom from occupation but the basic human needs of food and shelter.

Morocco has its problems, to be sure, but desperation over daily life is not among them, not on the whole at least. Those conditions that allow warlords to gain power are not in evidence here. To the contrary, most people seem optimistic that development will continue to improve their lives.

As for the treatment of women: Certainly there are differences in culturally appropriate behavior, for men and women, compared with the U.S., but this is not Afghanistan. Women are allowed to move about freely, and while most do cover their heads, it is by choice and custom rather than by force or law. New legal changes give women far more equality in marriage and divorce. Women can work and drive and travel and get the educations that will help them improve their futures.

While there are certainly aspects of the Koran regarding equality of women, for example, with which I might disagree, they do not involve literal physical oppression. And, in fact, I am given allowances for my behavior because it is known that I am not Muslim; aside from the occasional half-joking attempt to convert me, I am never, ever castigated for not being of the faith.

And, much as with the Bible, there are plenty of passages in the Koran that contradict each other, especially regarding the status of women. (In fact, many westerners don’t seem to realize that much of the Koran tells the same stories as in the Old Testament or the Torah: Abraham and Isaac are major players, and Jesus is acknowledged as a prophet, if not the prophet.)
Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran are indeed dangerous places, and especially so for women who dare to claim equality. But it has to do with politics and control, not with Islam – even though they claim to be doing their evil work in the name of religion, much as Christianity has been so used over the millenia.

Those Afghan women who dared to protest in the face of violence and repercussions are brave indeed; here in my Moroccan village, I am far from the only woman cheering them on.

Shelved.

The highlight of my week has been finding someone to build and install a shelf over my kitchen counter. For the low, low price of 120 dirhams, my kuzina is phenomenally better organized … and you know how satisfying organization is to me. I was even inspired to go out and buy some plastic shelves to organize the mess under the counter as well. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll even be inspired enough to cook.

Cleaning up Casa … and the country.

Here’s an interesting article on the nation’s efforts to clean up slum areas of Morocco and help residents into better low-income housing. I don’t know anything at all about this issue; the costs to the residents seems prohibitive to me.

http://www.salon.com/wires/ap/world/2009/04/18/D97KVSV80_af_morocco_towns_without_slums/

Quotes of the day.

“… for you are never so smart again in a language learned in middle age nor so romantic or brave or kind.” – Garrison Keillor, “Lake Wobegon Days”

“Once you are outside a place you can never go back. Not really.” – from “Sweetness in the Belly” by Camilla Gibb

Dirt road blues.

The other day I was summoned to see the besha, the official responsible for the local police force. He gave me a little lecture on venturing too far from home on my morning bicycle rides and walk/runs. Apparently I’ve been spotted out on the rugged, open trails that meander around the orange groves and villages linking this region.

Not that I’d be hard to spot; besides my blonde hair and strange Western getups, there’s a clear view from the highway and villages into the bled, or countryside. While it feels blissfully rural, in truth I’m never far from civilization.

Though I felt a little like a 4-year-old chastised for crossing the street alone, I’m not as angry about this infringement on my independence as I’d expect myself to be – mostly because I’m not taking it overly seriously. I nodded my head and left the besha’s office with absolutely no intention of changing my behavior. My morning routine of surrounding myself with nature, of breathing air free of exhaust and incomprehensible noise, of moving and stretching my limbs and testing my limits – all this is critical to my well-being, especially when so little feels familiar.

I am doing nothing wrong, merely going about my daily life – admittedly, a life lived in an independent manner that is unusual for most women here. The police, for their part, are just doing their job; they are held responsible for my safety. (That they would not worry about a local womans safety is a separate frustration; that I am constantly being spied upon is yet another.)

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not thumbing my nose at personal safety. I make sure I have a clear view of civilization at all times, whether it’s the nearby highway, the next village or the women gathered in a field. I am always fully aware of who and what is around me; my cell phone is always at hand. I am never really out of sight.

The truth is, I feel even safer and more welcome in the country than I do in my town. The few people I meet, men and women alike, greet me enthusiastically – none of the suspicious, sullen stares I often encounter in the urban crowd.

From time to time, I do worry about What Might Happen. Usually my worries center more on flat tires and long walks home (and, indeed, my phenomenally good luck, testing the limits of these thorn-strewn trails, did in fact run out on me last weekend). But sometimes my thoughts to turn to What Might Happen vis a vis Some Strange Man coming upon me, alone, with no one around to see. We all occasionally think these thoughts, whether we’re in a foreign land or in our own comfortable hometowns.

And, just as back home, I am determined not to live in fear but to continue to live the life I wish to lead. I do not behave recklessly, but neither do I succumb to a vague notion that the world is an essentially unsafe place. It is, sometimes, but mostly it is not. (For those of us with the luxury of living in a country untorn by war, that is.)

What frustrates me is the bigger picture of which this incident is just a part – the larger sense, not just here but in most of the world, that women must be kept veiled, secluded, at home, for two reasons: 1) to avoid enticing men (the implication being men can neither control nor bear responsibility for their own behavior) and b) to keep them safe (the implication being, again, that the world is a dangerous place, and also that it is the potential victim’s responsibility to avoid danger rather than the potential perpetrator’s responsibility to avoid committing it.

Women do bear part of the responsibility here, for going along with the charade. As long as society continues to treat women as second-class citizens, and as long as women accept that status.

To that end, read Nicholas Kristof’s blog post this week linking women’s inequality globally with the “greater” problems of poverty, environmental instability and war. It’s all linked. A society in which women are equal participants is, quite simply, more stable. Apparently Kristof and his wife have a new book coming out on this very subject; I’ll be eager for a copy when it comes out. But he was referring to a new book also featured on “Fresh Air” this week. Michelle Goldberg’s “The Means of Reproduction: Sex, Power, and the Future of the World” goes straight to the top of my wish list.


The good news.

Eleven days later, the nationwide transit strike is over. Funny how agitated one can be when one knows one can’t go anywhere … even if there’s nowhere one particularly needs to go. For more than a week, all I could think of were the succulent, plump, juicy strawberries waiting for me in Taroudant, a mere half-hour’s drive away. And all the other things I “need” and can’t procure here in the village: a fan for the looming summer heat, lettuce, cashews, avocadoes, a Diet Coke in the zwin café.

Not that many of those things would’ve been available to me had I managed to get into the city. Besides freedom of movement, food availability was another casualty of the strike; stores ran out of goods, farmers couldn’t get their produce to market, and prices skyrocketed as a result. A bagful of veggies that usually would’ve cost me about 5 dirhams (about 60 cents) left me 10 dirhams lighter in the pocket today. That’s not a hardship for me, but imagine if the average American family’s food costs suddenly doubled without warning. When you’re already living on the edge of poverty, a jolt like this can mean literally going hungry. Now that the strikes over, will we see prices drop back to normal?

As far as the strike itself, I was luckier than some of my colleagues, who were stuck in Marrakech or some other crossroads for days on end, on their way home from spring camps or to Rabat for mid-service medical exams. I would not have been smart enough to bring enough cash (or credit cards) for such an emergency.


The bad news.

Today my mudhir informed me that the dar chebab will be closed for at least a month while this new building goes up. Where the money came from to tear down a perfectly good building and put an identical one in its place is beyond me, but I can think of about a hundred ways I’d have chosen to use that money to actually benefit the kids we’re supposedly serving. Kids I’m worried will forget the dar chebab is an option for them if it’s never available. Things were slow enough even when it was open.

In the meantime, I’m tutoring a couple of my older female students privately, at my home and theirs. I hope to find a new place for my women’s class to meet three evenings a week. I’ll make the rounds of the schools again to drum up new business. I’ll visit the nedi neswi again with some project ideas, and I’ll finally venture over to the dar taliba, a boardinghouse for rural girls who attend school here in town. And I’m hoping to pull together some people power to do a SIDA (AIDS) awareness event in May.

I’m getting plenty of reading done. And I’ve watched the entire run (two seasons) of “Sports Night,” in which (especially once he dropped the laugh track) Aaron Sorkin foreshadows “The West Wing” with snappy dialogue and fast laps around the office.

Wish the construction workers at the dar chebab were as dedicated as those working right next door to my apartment building. It’s almost midnight, and the persistent pounding of a destruction mallet shows no sign of stopping. It’s a symphony of noises here on Main Street Morocco, that’s for sure.

Just finished reading: “Sweetness in the Belly,” Camilla Gibb

Currently reading: “Lake Wobegon Days,” Garrison Keillor

Currently listening to: “Dirt Road Blues,” Bob Dylan; “Sky Blue Sky,” Wilco

Quote of the day: “Anything you lose comes round in another form.” – Rumi

Heroines of the day: Afghan Women Protest New Law on Home Life (subject of a future blog post)

To camp ... and back.

With spring campers dressed for a mock Berber wedding.

Juxtapositions.

Really, I am constantly writing blog posts in my head, much like the voiceover narrative that was my personal soundtrack in childhood. I just somehow never get around to channeling them from brain to fingers to the innerwebs. It’s not as if I’ve nothing new to report – nor, on the other hand, that I’ve been too busy to write.

More than a week has passed since I returned from the extravaganza that was Spring Camp. Morocco’s Ministry of Youth and Sports, for whom those of us in the Youth Development sector work, stages regional camps around the country during the spring break from public schools. They are intended to be English immersion experiences for teens 14 to 17. In reality, the English concentration isn’t exactly serious, and a plethora of kids as old as 19-20 make things difficult to control. We had a few problems, of the nature you might have with teenagers anywhere in the world, but we had a fantastic camp director and a fun group of Peace Corps volunteers.

Among the problems was the painful divide between kids from the region where the camp was held, and those from Rabat, the nation’s capital. Having been to Rabat a few times, I was aware that it’s quite different from my typical southern Moroccan village. Rabat has the generic flavor of any modern international city; besides a plethora of high-fashion (and high-priced) restaurants and shops, it’s not at all unusual to see women in modern clothing, sans veils, driving, socializing in public and working in all sectors. In Rabat’s ministry neighborhood, I ate I spring rolls one afternoon surrounded by teens from a private school across the street, with teased hair, heavy makeup, short skirts and the money and freedom to congregate in an upscale café. None of this is a judgment, just a stratospheric difference from the Morocco I’m used to, the Morocco of dusty, unpaved streets where veiled girls hold hands while riding bicycles on their way to and from school and are generally invisible otherwise.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised, I suppose, to see how the Rabat kids and those from the countryside formed their own, separate cliques. It wasn’t about socioeconomic status so much; any kids who can afford to go to summer camp are generally from well-off families, and those from both sides were equally eager to display their fashionable clothes (wardrobe changes seemed to be the most important activity of the day). No, the divide was in large part about identity – Arabic versus indigenous Berber, to the extent that those from Berber-speaking villages spoke Tashelheit as a secret code against the Arabic-speaking Rabatis. Sigh. Dark-skinned vs. light-skinned, city vs. country, native versus invasive … all around the globe these distinctions persist as long as we continue to see them as divisive.

My favorite memories of camp center on the individual kids I befriended. Mariam, a shy young girl who started crying at dinner the first night out of fear and homesickness (it was her first trip away from home) … and who started crying again the night she left because she didn’t want to leave. Meryama, a level-headed, tough-talking country girl who’s already wearing a milhalf (the large swath of fabric married Berber women wrap themselves in) and noted proudly that her fiancé supported her desire to go on to college. Ayoub, Hamza, Ali … three young boys who stole my heart with affectionate, unaffected smiles and endless variations on the fist bump.

This camp was just a taste of what’s to come this summer when Peace Corps and the U.S. embassy sponsor a series of two-week camps that are truly an English immersion experience, with more control over how the camp runs. Every volunteer is allotted five scholarships to bring five of his/her students to camp.

Closed for construction.

I returned home to find my workplace closed. Where my dar chebab once had three separate buildings when I left for camp, now there are only two. Why the middle room was torn down, and a new one is supposedly arising in its place, I have no idea. All I know is the surrounding rubble makes it no place for kids to be hanging around, not to mention that it blocks the doorway to my classroom, which currently is serving as storage space anyway.

Being closed for construction has given me a much-needed short break, but I’m kind of itching to get back to work now. I had two little girls over Saturday afternoon to color and play Jenga (and admire the pictures of my niece and nephews scattered around my salon); it was the social highlight of my week. The week’s successes included unclogging my bathroom sink using all-natural remedies (baking soda, vinegar and boiling water, to be precise); getting lost on a bicycle ride that gave me a fantastic, solitary view of rutted trails and golden wheat fields; perfecting the art of iced tea; and watching all two seasons of “Sports Night” (the last of which made me oddly homesick and teary-eyed, which is not really the intended effect of a sitcom). Oh, and getting my Internet connection up and running again, hamdulilah!

I’d have welcomed the dar chebab’s closure as a welcome opportunity to travel around the country and visit some other volunteers, but a nationwide transit strike, with no taxis or buses going in or out of our little villages, is keeping everyone home with no end in sight. And this morning’s offroad adventure finally tested the limits of my bicycle tires, or I’d suggest it’s about time to try biking to Taroudant.

Who knows what this week brings?

News article of the week: America Seeks Bonds to Islam, Obama Insists

Heroes of the week: The Vermont Legislature and Iowa Supreme Court

Podcast of the week: Tuesday’s Democracy Now! featuring the Poynter Institute and a nonprofit model for newspapers

Currently reading: "The_Sheltering_Sky" Paul Bowles; “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” Khaled Hosseini (I love the juxtaposition of these two titles)

Currently listening to: “Wait, Wait! Don’t Tell Me!” (this week’s guest, William H. Macy, is almost as funny as Michael Pollan was last week); The Frames (thanks, Katy!)

Currently jonesing for: More Uno decks for my dar chebab; blank CDs; and flavored teabags for iced tea (I’m partial, hint hint, to Constant Comment, Wild Berry Zinger, and anything involving mint or peach)

Quotes of the week:

“The desert’s a big place, but nothing really ever gets lost there.” – from “The Sheltering Sky” by Paul Bowles

“Here we say that life is a cliff, and you must never turn around and look back when you’re climbing. It makes you sick.” – ibid

“You can’t see where you are going if you look backward.” – Miz K

More photos.

Field trip to Ourzazete's 700-year-old original medina and casbah.

One of the Moroccan camp counselors hamming it up.

Triple decker (thanks, Trevor!).

Wheat fields.

Turtle crossing.

Passing time in a Ourzazate cafe.