Flesh... and lots of it.

And I thought the chicken thing was a big deal... that was only the minor leagues compared to what I was in for on Saturday. Child's play, culinary school for the waspy women of the world. Pre-school for living in the bled. Economy class while travelling the cultural Moroccan skies. I'm running out of shitty metephors...

Just imagine Quintin Tarentino and Alfred Hitchcock got together and used James Bond credit cinematography in order to deliver the scene in all of its gory glory, if you will. I started out with the aerial view; positioned atop my family's roof, watching the slaughter of our first sheep (um, yeah, there was more than one victim in this version) from where its noose was based through the Moroccan version of a skylight leading to the upper balcony. They started with all the family men pinning the little guy to the ground and took a well sharpened knife straight to the neck. Once it bled out from the jugular and had stopped kicking about, they made a small slit on the back ankle, into which they blew air in order to inflate the skin, yes, like a balloon so it's easier to skin, which of course is the next step. Once the sheep was taught and firm from all the... inflating... they started at the back foot and skinned it all the way up to the front. Do I have a video you ask? Why, yes. Yes I do.

I was ready for a commercial break once the entirety of its coat had been removed, but the fun had just begun. The venture into the infinite abyss was still upon us, also known as: the chest and abdominal cavity. We all took bio, so you know what's coming. Formal introductions with all of the internal organs, up close and personal. How personal you ask? Let's just say there were human lips put to sheep butthole in order to best flush the poo out of the large intestine - backwards - so it could then be cleaned up and eventually eaten. Waste not, want not. (It would only become more personal later that day, when we inevitably had an extensive tasting menu of each and every one of the aforementioned appendages.) so after the dismemberment and cleansing was complete, I was ready for a nap, the adrenaline having just finished pumping after witnessing my very first L'3id slaughter. Little did I know we still had another sheep to go, as well as a goat - apparently they have less cholesterol, a necessity for my host dad.

Once the festivities were finished, fat wrapped sheep's liver was the afternoon delight of choice, followed by pacreas (seriously delicious) and then some heart of course (yeah, going to pass on that in the future). We've had meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner since the event. I think I even smell of it. It's freaking me out. I don't know how the few veggie volunteers are handling it. Blood in the streets, entier cities radiating with the smell of cooked flesh, it's intense. Oh, yeah, and the creme de le creme... the Herma...

So every region has its own delightful perspective on how best to get the community to commemorate this pinnacle of religious holidays with appropriate celebrations. Sedona-miz has decided that the most effective portrayal of tradition is to have 5-10 men dressed up in full body costumes made out of around seven goat skins, chasing townspeople - mostly children - around with goat hooves attached to string, threatening to thwack them if they do not pay at least a dirham to ensure their safety. This is not 'trick or treat' my friends, this is 'pay up or your going to have a bruise that lasts at least a week in the shape of my dinner's hoof, got it?' (It's almost as insulting to one's dignity as Jess's swan-beak to the eye in season three of Gilmore Girls. ... Yes, I went there.) Luckily, I have filled my pockets with single dirhams, guaranteeing my well-being for the most part over the last few days. Though beware: the Hermas will haunt your dreams, they will taunt your memories, and the smell of decaying carcasses will follow you, at least until next year, when their presence is sure to return.

In other news, I may have found a house! Woo-hoo for living like a big girl! I be all grown up now. It's a while... block away from my current home-stay. They like me, the really like me, apparently, and wanted to keep me close. So they said they would only help me find an apartment if I promised it would be in the same neigbourhood as them. Fine by me! I get to move in the 1st of January, and I will hopefully have internet set up by then - and a fridge! Modern luxuries of life! - and I will finally feel like a human again. L'Hamdullah.

Thanksgiving... the Moroccan version.

Thank God/Allah Morocco has a Marjane. This unfathomable Oasis located in most of the large cities throughout the country, is basically a Target, Walmart, and Best Buy in one. It's a rather large treasure chest of all things branded and that should come with warranties. It even has cheese! Real, delicious, fatty, sometimes rotting, fantastical cheese. But, for all intensive purposes, on this occasion it had celery, canned and pitted black olives, canned corn and canned peas! All necessary components to the Thanksgiving extravaganza I had been planning for Nathaniel and I. So all that was left to get in Sedona-miz was some taters, onions, and of course... the piece de resistance... the turkey... er, well, chicken as turkey is bloody expensive in this neck of the woods.

So, my lovely host sister comes with me to the chicken guy, we order a 2 kilo bird to go and, low and behold, the butcher yoinks some poor unsuspecting fowl (to be fair... not so unsuspecting as they are in full view of their friend's prior death, they know what's coming to them) out of the shoulder height cage, pins the poor sucker to the ground, and Sweeny Todds the buggers throat and ankles, tosses him into a trashcan with fellow victims, and allows him to drain. Post blood emptying, he pushes the little guy against this quickly rotating metal wheel which de-feathers like none other. Holy crap that thing was magical. Anyways, he gives the birdie a good rub down under the faucet and asks me how I want it chopped up. I let him know I'm cooking the not so lucky duck whole, so he chops the head off, wraps it in some brown paper, and I carry the still warm soon-to-be-dinner off to Nathaniel's in a plastic bag. Delightful.

I get to Nathaniel's house, only slightly still traumatized, and we decide to start cooking around 2, since God knows how long it was going to take in the no-gauge oven. Round about 2ish we busted (that's for you Pete) out Grandma's stuffing and then went for the cleaning of the bird... I knew I had to get the neck off, maybe some of the extra fat, but what awaited me inside of the rather puny-sized cavity, I didn't really anticipate. As I reached in to survey how much stuffing we could in fact stuff into the the little guy, I realized there was still some stuffage present. This is the equivalent of accidentally baking the little plastic bag with the guts inside the turkey. Only without the plastic baggy. I quickly got friendly with the heart, lungs, liver, etc. Still warm and all. My poor Greenpeace friends are stoning me through the computer, I can tell. At the time it was hysterical though, which may or may not have been helped by the wine we had begun to dabble into.

Well, we successfully got our little friend in the oven by at least 230 I reckon.... and didn't eat until around 730. Freaking 2 kilo bird took 5 hours! Moral of the story is, it was worth it. To have a little piece of home in my belly was worth sticking my hand up into our friend's belly... and butt... and other orifices.

Well we are off to make banana bread french toast now, so I will bid you adieu! Will update after this weekends sheep slaughter and l'3id extravaganza, which I'm sure will blow any turkey... chicken story out of the water.

Love ya'll!

Menudo... the soup not the prepubescent mid-80s Mexican boy band.

I have done it, I have finally dipped into my second suitcase and am currently enjoying the glory of my ugg boots... sigh. It's freaking cold here, at least at night. Well, at least when the sun isn't blazing down upon me harder than a saddle... Yeah, moral of the story is, I needed the boots.

In other news, I got a flashback of home today, ironically found in the innards of a poor little cow. That's right, I had the Moroccan version of menudo for lunch, folks. Tripe -both stomach and intestine, lungs, and liver, swirled around with some tasty chickpeas rather than hominy, but still delicious and delightfully reminiscent of our good family friend - Menudo. Tip of the hat to you Dad. Oh, and add one more point to the 'why Morocco is Mexico without the drugs, sex, and alcohol' column.

Tomorrow is thanksgivingggggggggg, also known as 'a day i need to fast until 6 because of the lead up to the l'3id on Saturday'... About that. I'm cooking thanksgiving for my wonderful sitemate Nathaniel and I at Nathaniel's house tomorrow, so I'm officially looking at that as my get out of jail free card. Oh, grandmother's stuffing, how I've missed you... I'm sure to blog tomorrow about my catastrophies of substituting a chicken for turkey and the questionable amount of cooking time that should be allotted in an oven without a temperature gage... but hey, it's a learning experience, one that is sure to produce a buttload of leftovers as I only know how to cook for a group of over 10 people for this particular holiday. Get ready to stuff yourself like our good friend 'chicken posing as turkey' Nathaniel, time to fatten you up for the winter.

It's also been penciled in for some cheesy holiday movie watching... Love Actually definitely being included. Which,by the way, I started to watch with my host sister a few days ago. Thank Allah she is open-minded and not uber-conservative as I conveniently forgot the one of the 10 sweet, naive, heart-warming love stories surrounds a couple who meet on set of a porn shoot. High-five Donya for keeping tact close at hand. Oy.

Anyway, I am wishing you all full-tummies and close-families during this Thanksgiving break. For those of us who shared 4 wonderful Turkey days in St Andrews: I will be eating the stuffing while thinking of you! And my grandma of course. And to my many second families around the world: the Aragons, the Hoxies, the Menegons, the Muirs, the Gees, the Ramsays, and more I'm sure I've momentarily let slip my mind, thank you for welcoming me into your homes over the years and know your definitley in my list of things to be grateful for! And, no, I'm not throwing my own family to the dogs, I'll be talking to you tomorrow, but I wish I were there! Love you guys. Just don't try and be too nice by putting the Turkey leg in the freezer for me like you did for Alex during Basic. I don't think it will hold up for two years like it did for that month. Alex - eat 'em both dude.

Hug!

Love and condolences

So originally I was quite excited to write this blog merely as a relatively hysterical reflection on my mother's reaction to my last entry. Turns out the alias for my new town 'Sedonamiz' too easily reads as 'Sodomize'... and, well, my mom had a field day with that one. Wasted a few bucks in longdistance phone billage just doing that whole silent laugh thing, you know when your ready to start a sentance and it turns out 'I can't believe you wrote thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa -insert section of air gasping here-' Its a sort of donkey guffaw you are always embarrassed to do in public but find yourself trapped in it at the most inoppertune moments. Somewhat synonymous with the church giggles if you will. Anyway, from here on out my town shall be called Sedona-miz. Hello hyphen, how are you today.

Despite my desire to leave it at that delightfully tickling moment of faux pas (fopas! that's for you, you know who you are), I feel a slight need to mention somewhat of a darker trend happening round these parts.

Unfortunately, David Lillie, our truly fabulous country director, had the task of informing us PCVs that one of our own passed away in a Marrakech hospital yesterday. I'll refrain from mentioning names as I'm not sure what protocol is on that, but it was definitely a shock to the system and especially to those that knew her. I just want to send my best to her family and a big hug to everyone who knew her, sincerest condolences.

The worst part about it is that this is only one death among many deaths and serious injuries I have heard about in the past week alone. During our last days in CBT our cook's brother cracked his skull open in a motorcycle accident, a close friend of ours from the town had his dad die the very next day, and mom called with news of a friend having also seriously injured himself in a motorcycle accident. Since leaving CBT, a fellow PCV is attempting to comfort a long distance girlfriend who's grandfather is dying, the PCV mentioned above was brought to our attention just last night, and just before posting this entry facebook informed me that a family friend's father passed away as well. It's tough man, not being able to be around to comfort people, not being able to feel in control of a situation, it only magnifies what all of us newbie-to-sites are dealing with right now. Hamdullah nothing of this sort has hit home, or my home if you will, knock on a big old hunk of wood, but still. Dude. Lots of love to you all nonetheless.

Sedonamiz... or something like that.

So, I made it! I officially swore in, with the help of the US Ambassador among others, at Peace Corps headquarters on Thursday morning. Welcome to the life of a full-fledged PCV ya'll. I've got lots to say (and by that I mean lots to complain slash boast about) so let's get to it.

Swearing in was delightful and all that jazz. Great atmosphere, speeches, canapes post-ceremony, yet there was definitley one thing lacking... a cocktail. I'm pretty sure our program manager wasn't stuttering in Mehdia when he said there would be one provided at the reception, yet, alas, we got kiwi and rasberry juice instead. Which, hey, I'm not complaining, I am alllll about the kiwi folks, just maybe with a splash of some bubbly in order to fully congratulate our accomplishments? No? So maybe my priorities are slightly skewed, I did meet the Ambassador didn't I?

After the ceremony and reception we headed over to headquarters for an aweomely delicious and massive couscous luncheon just before heading to our rumoured swanky hotel. So we petit-taxi it over to this seriously beautiful hotel, marbled floors, framed mirrors, sauna and full bar restaurant on the roof, I mean it definitely had a few stars under its belt. So we are like, woah, Peace Corps has really gone all out in comparison to the expected standard of living we were expecting... can you say youth hostel? So as we begin to check-in, the front-desk staff seem a little apprehensive... a little worried... beads of sweat gathering above the brow. As it turns out, a karate convention of over 4,000 people had taken over the city (exaggeration... Rabat is the capital as it were) and thus, had taken over our hotel reservation. The life of luxery - real matress, hot running water, pillows stuffed with something other than clothes and animal scraps - was slowly slipping between our fingers. With what rooms PC could salvage, instead of two people, our room had eight. Good thing we are all such good friends cuz things got cozy real quick like. Erika, Allie, and I cuddled on a mattress on the floor while another three shared the actual bed, one was even pretzled on the somewhat cushy chair in the corner. We drew the line at sleeping on the coffee table, but that room was all kind of funky in the morning. Most of you are well aware of the digestional issues all of us have been having throughout our stay thus far, and Rabat wasn't an exception. We may have, you know, showered, and looked pretty for Swearing-In, but we sank right back into PCV tendencies that night. Welcome to the next two years of hygiene. Or lack there of.

Around 9 the next morning we booked it from the hotel to the Rabat train station and headed down to Marrakech. There are about a million of us down south, so it was packed with PC people. Leigh, Mari, and I decided to splurge slightly and ride first class since we were exhausted and had shit loads of luggage in tow. We had what seemed to be our own room with 6 seats -sweet!- until we reached Casa, when a Libyan couple on their honeymoon decided to join us. They also decided to makeout for the next 3 hours, completely oblivious to our jaws on the floor and our eyebrow contortion. Oh well, congrats to them, it was entertaining to some small degree.

After arriving in Kech we were greeted by Ami, the lovely volunteer I am replacing, and Colleen, the volunteer that Sarah is replacing down the road from me. We had some lunch then seperated to head to our own sites. Ami and I decided to take a taxi back since I had, again, shit loads of luggage, and we chatted like crazy all the way there. Here I begin my side-note: Okay, so firstly I knew Ami was from California, vaguely the same height, and blonde, so thus, in Moroccan eyes, we were most likely the same person. But after some getting-to-know-each-other chat, we kind of, well, are... Middle names? Both Elisabeth. Omas? Well yeah we both have them firstly, but they were both in the war on the German side. Oh and you know, immigrated to and lived in the same city in California - Huntington Beach, with their husbands. What's her mom's name? The same as my dad's - Terry. There's more, but I think that suffices before I tell you our social security numbers are nearly the same too... Anyway, bizarre, but totally makes me feel some sense of comfort oddly!

And now onto the town itself, we'll call it... Sedonamiz... from here on out. Can't say the real town name for one reason or another in Peace Corps protocal, but boy does this place remind me of Arizona. Firstly, it's bloody hot. It's freaking mid-november and its almost 90 degrees, or at least feels like it. Definitely at least 80 right now. Secondly, I am pushed up right against the foothills of the biggest mountain range south of Marrakech, so the greenery is absolutely stunning. The view from my host-family's house is to die for, and hopefully I will post some pictures soon. One of the note-worthy mountains resembles the 'Lost' mountain - pointed out by the lovely Ami, and another is known to the town as the sleeping woman, as it resembles a a woman, in-profile, laying on her back on a slope. This most significantly parallels Arizona for me in that while growing up my family took many trips to Sedona and Flagstaff, where my Dad was born and raised. This idea of moutain ranges or rock formations resembling other tangible objects is a common community tradition in both locations. Any of you that have been through Sedona must be familar with 'Snoopy and Woodstock' and 'the Mittens' at the very least. It may seem silly, but this small similarity has brought a sense of familiarity for me and connecting to the surroundings is definitely calming my expectedly awake nerves.

Tomorrow a few community members, my host-sister, Nathaniel, Ami, and I are planning a mini-hike through the area to get a bird's eye view of the town and, well, bond with the environment surrounding. Super stoked. Playing some soccer in the morning with the local girls team and the little girls teams their coaching, so should be a great day overall! Glad to have gotten the Gendarme and Mudir meetings out of the way today so I can start settling in to the more enjoyable side of my work here, integration and relationship building. Really excited for the week to come and will keep ya'll posted on how the first week of teaching goes :).

Miss you all and really would love to hear from you, even if it's just a short hello!

xx

Phase one - complete

Setting the scene: tummy full of fish, peas, and potatoes; perfect beachside weather; four of us staring intently at our laptops; some bananagrams action happening to my left; all american rejects 'hope it gives you hell' in surround sound. (though, that last bit I'm struggling not to judge too much, Sam.) We've just arrived back in Mehdia after completing CBT. Apparently, I'm capable of living independently, teaching English, working with NGOs, and clearly ordering lunch in Darija according to the US Government. Boo-ya.

This does mean, however, that I've had to leave the town I've called home for the last two months. Despite my initial reaction of 'holy mother of God this place is a dump,' I've grown to love that town and its people, including their lack of rubbish collection. Well, everything but that I suppose. Those of you who know me well know that I am NOT, I repeat N. O. T. a public cryer. I think I've done it maybe 3-5 times my entire life. Yet saying goodbye to my host mom and grandma made me look like a freaking fire hydrant. They both looked at me with these puppy dog we'll-never-see-you-again eyes and I lost it. Plus, she sent me off with a fantastical chocolate chip bundt cake (in tupperware! yippe!), the woman deserved the tears.

After saying goodbye the fam at 7am, I headed over to where the taxi was meeting us and saying goodbye to the students we've worked with, the friends we've made, and the families we became a part of in just a nine week period of time was hard. Definitely going to visit and all, but I am kind of on the other end of the country. Morocco is roughly the size of California, so it's kind of like making the trek from Orange County to San Francisco. Ballpark. A local proverb states 'lli fat mat' which roughly translates as 'what's done is done,' so I'm looking at the situation fondly, and looking forward to what's coming up 'cus it looks pretty awesome folks.

So now that I have full delightful access to the internet for a couple days, here come some pictures people!!

... or they will be coming as the internet is being poo-poo right now.