Close of Service

It's done! From 09/09/09 to 11/11/11, I served in my little mountain town of Amizmiz, aka Sedona-miz, and my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer has now come to a close. I am officially an RPCV now!

Currently, I think can accurately identify a few obvious emotions of RPCV life - relief, happiness, and exhaustion to name a few - though, I have got to say, I haven't really processed it all just yet. At the moment, it all feels like I'm just on another quick UK vacation, due to return to my site in just a few days' time. I'm still living out of a suitcase, still ruffling through many a 'Moroccan' outfit, still taking a questionable amount of time between showers... I have most definitely not reacclimatised to the West just yet. Though, once home in California, my mother has already made it perfectly clear how many times I'm allowed to wear jeans before they need to be washed and how many days my hair can go without a shampoo. Personal hygiene will be kept in check.

In addition to simple cleaning rituals, I'm obviously expected to be processing a few more transitional issues. It's not simply a move from Morocco to America that is taking place, it's the close of a job; it's the end of Peace Corps; it's reintegrating to a previous culture; readjusting to living with my family and not alone; it's hunting for jobs; it's applying to grad school; it's a difficult goodbye to my host family, a so long to my Moroccan community, and a departure from my fellow PCVs - volunteers who have not only become dear friends, but who were my co-workers, my family, and my entire support system. The former processes I had expected, I hadn't anticipated the sadness that would accompany the latter. So though I'm supposed to be dealing with all of these things at the moment, I'm somehow... not. In typical procrastination fashion, I am doing my best to avoid thinking about and processing all of these transitions. I have one more week left in London to just be. To just enjoy. Reality can strike next Tuesday, when my Mom can be there to temper my inevitable accompanying breakdown.

A breakdown that will surely go something like this: My mother and I will be shopping, on a weekend afternoon, among throngs of shoppers in a crowded mall. We are obviously doing some last minute Christmas gift buying, as stocking stuffers are still on the list. She says to me that she needs to find Dad some cologne and that she'll be right back, leaving me in the ornament section to find a new tree decoration. As I glance across the display, a small trinket catches my eye. It's a tagine tree ornament. Priced at $13.99. 10 minutes later, my mother will return to find me cross-legged on the grounded, crying into the tagine ornament, having just scolded a young girl and her parents for even considering buying something so ridiculous priced at nearly 14 dollars. ''Don't you know you could buy a real tagine in Morocco for less than 2 dollars?!? And then buy an entire weeks groceries for a family of 6 with the rest?!?! Don't you know what's really important in the world?! And what are you doing even buying a tagine Christmas ornament?! That doesn't even make sense!... Yes, I know The Office did a Moroccan Christmas episode, but culturally... I'm sorry, did you just say what's a tagine?!?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIVES?!?'' ... I just hope my mother knows what to say to the authorities and doesn't have me committed.

Anywho, instead of writing a future chapter of my memoirs just now, I'm going to go enjoy a crisp but beautiful morning in London with some friends. Here are some pictures of my last few days in Morocco for you to enjoy before my next entry.

Saying goodbye to my vegetable guys at souq

Quick snapshot of my mul hanut, Hassan. 

This was my grocery store for two years.

Frying up some pancreas and heart the morning of L'3id, 

the day before I left

My host family in their Sunday best, or Monday best as it were,

on the way back from the mosque the morning of l'3id

Saying goodbye to some of my dearest friends Fatima and Atika

Stamping-out ceremony in Rabat with a few fellow PCVs and our Country Director

Chapter Nearly Closed

As of today, I have exactly one week left in Morocco, four days left in Sedona-miz, and 19 days until I return home to California.

Currently, I am writing to you from the balcony of two fellow expats in town, who have kindly taken me in for a couple of days, following my dramatically quick exodus from my former residence. That's right, I was made to pack up and move out of my apartment in a matter of hours this past Tuesday. Let's go over some background.

After returning from Fes on Sunday, I made what was supposed to be a quick and relaxing trip to Tahannaout, a fellow volunteer's site, in order to disperse some coveted items that I wouldn't be bringing back to America among my fellow volunteers in the region. Upon arrival - after two hours of travelling that morning and 15 hours of travelling the day before - I received a phone call from my regional manager informing me I was not going to be replaced as expected.

Um, I'm sorry. What?

In true Peace Corps fashion, they waited until a week before I am leaving the country to inform not only me, but a number of other volunteers, that we would not, in fact, be replaced this fall as expected. So after weeks of prepping host families, preparing counterparts for handover, collecting materials, writing an elaborate and informative site journal, and getting my house in immaculate order, I had to immediately transition into an imminent closure of the site. Though PC 'guaranteed' there would be a volunteer this upcoming spring, they also 'guaranteed' there would be one this month. So, as my landlord was not, by any means, going to 'save' the house - and the items within it - for the next volunteer, I returned home to Sedona-miz and executed what was essentially the Moroccan equivalent of Super Market Sweep. Three volunteers and five families scrounged my flat for whatever they could get their hands on. A fellow volunteer, who also received the short end of the stick, described the feeling as being like "a King on his deathbed, everyone wanted a piece." In my case, however, the scrounging was truly a blessing as they all moved me out in a matter of hours! Gladly, all of my belongings went to good and grateful homes rather than being abandoned after I'd left.

In the midst of the chaos, I was still immensely sick from my travels up north, and was - naturally - already overwhelmed with leaving in a week. It was probably the most stressful day I had ever experienced during my service and I sure am glad it's over. As I'm not a person who usually asks for help, I was honestly surprised and extraordinarily grateful that everyone I reached out to was ready and willing to pitch in. Felicie came all the way in from her site to help, the expats happily took me in, the host family are housing my things, and many a phone call and text kept me sane that day. And though the lazy planning on Peace Corps' part was pretty damn inconvenient, it did solve my problem in having to buy each family l'3id presents next week. I think a 2,700 dirham fridge, ponjes, tables, blankets, blenders, and EVERYTHING ELSE in my house should more than suffice.

Though my bitterness over the situation has obviously not yet subsided, it has not affected my state of mind here in site at all. I am thoroughly enjoying spending my last few days with my friends, neighbours, and community. I'll be staying with the expats until Saturday and then heading to my host family's for my last three days in site. This will be my third L'3id here in Sedona-miz and I look forward to celebrating it the same way I have the past two years - watching the slaughter, eating the organs, and running from the hermas/boujlouds. Tuesday I'll head to Rabat for swearing-out, then on to Marrakech Thursday afternoon for a bit of a goodbye get-together before my flight on Friday. Most of my close PCV friends in the region will be heading in to send me off, llah yrhem waladin. Can't believe it's almost over.

Lunch with some fellow expats at Fatima's after the big move. 

Note: The cups, the table, the chairs, a couple plates, the salad bowl, 

the mustard, the hot sauce, and Andrea's shirt - all previously mine.

Coming Full Circle

During the last week of October, I made my way north to Fes, where forty-something Peace Corps Trainees awaited the arrival of eight knowledgeable, experienced.... and quite weathered PCVs who were each to spend a week in a Community Based Training site. I was placed in the small town of Ras Lma with five sprightly, sarcastic, and often quite sassy PCTs. The objective of the week was to discuss the Moroccan educational system and how their role in the Dar Chebab could supplement the schools curriculum and improve retention in students' language learning. Happily, the week didn't solely revolve around teaching strategies, but also involved cultural instruction, PCV life tips, and general best practices, tricks of the trade, words of wisdom, etc.

Throughout the week, I spent two nights with each of the female PCTs in their home-stays. Talk about coming full circle. As I was continuously a new guest, each evening presented a parade of pastries, a tray of tea, and any other culturally appropriate alliterative host-offerings. As the PCTs had only been in country for just over a month, they were still working on their baby Arabic and hadn't communicated far beyond the initial needs and wants of their daily lives. Each PCT, and family for that matter, took advantage of the girl who'd been here for two years and asked the questions they had been wanting to ask, sought the information they needed to fill in gaps, and enjoyed the opportunity to see where the PCT would be language wise in two years' time. Though, after having gone through PST myself and having worked with another CBT in the past, this group is already doing amazing language wise, tbark allah 3lihum!

Throughout the week, at each home I stayed, a few anecdotal gems materialized. I'll be sharing them now.

- On the second night of staying with the first PCT, most of her host family had gone to stay with an aunt in a nearby village, so we were left alone with the grandmother of the house, Fatima. Fatima has this gorgeous, wrinkled, caricature of a face that becomes extraordinarily animated as she tells a story. This particular evening, she began to tell us the story of how she and her husband, who lived and worked in France, met. How she was the second wife. How she had applied for two passports to visit him in France. And how he had died before she ever made it. The manner in which she recited her trials and tribulations of marriage brought out the water works. Not only in her, but in me as well. As we finished browsing old pictures of her as a young woman (she was model material, so beautiful), her husband in France, and his first wife who lived with him there, she proceeded to focus on one picture in particular. She gave us a look, looked back at the first wife's photo, and began to tear it up into tiny pieces. 'Safi' she said. She was finally done playing number two to another woman.

- The second home I stayed in was a wonderful venue of escapism. The host family was simply comprised of two older women and one young girl. A house free from men was sweet respite indeed. We enjoyed quiet relaxation, terrible soap operas, and candid conversation. Each of these women came from a Berber background and spoke the local dialect of Rifia in addition to Darija. As we spoke, I would accidentally let a few words out in my local Berber dialect of Tashelheit, which would make them giggle to no end. The Berber languages are vastly different, but a few words remain the same. A favourite is the frequently used 'no' or in Tash 'oh ho' as it's usually exclaimed with a significant amount of vigor and gesticulation; a much better alternative than the boring and inconsequential 'la' of Arabic.

- My first night in house number three brought on a bit of frustration. It was unfortunate that my first impression of this family had to be a meet and greet with one of the rudest, most arrogant, aggressive men I have ever had the misfortune of meeting in this country. He entered the home and immediately sat, somewhat inappropriately, with the three single woman sitting in the salon. He proceeded to not really question, but rather interrogate me on my religious and political views. As we exhausted some safe, generalized topics, he pushed further and introduced a variety of Fus'ha, or MSA (Modern Standard Arabic), vocabulary I wasn't familiar with. When I communicated that I wasn't comfortable with where the conversation was headed and that I didn't understand the vocabulary he was now using, he berated me with condescending terms about how incompetent I was and how I knew nothing of the world if I couldn't communicate in Fus'ha, but merely Darija. Later that evening he shouted across the table of some 15 people and asked what my name was. I replied with simply, Donniell. He looked at me sternly, repeated it with disgust, then added 'That's a boy's name.' I told him I was a girl. He then asked if I was stupid and seconded that it was a boy's name. I simply said okay. Luckily, after that evening, I didn't encounter him again.

- In the fourth home-stay, which happened to be in the same building as the third, we enjoyed a bit of a lady's night one evening. Racy Arab music videos were on, the women were dancing, and the topic of horny-ness came up in conversation. There were at least 10 women in the room, each rambling like crazy, dancing like fools, and discussing the levels of 'skhoon'-ness or 'hot'-ness there were each at. They happened to then go on and debate the levels of each of the PCTs present as well. It was a hysterical evening, filled with quotes comparing boobs to mini-buta gas tanks, how they wanted implants so their husbands will sleep on them, and how hard they've been trying for children. It was an entertaining evening to say the least.

- On my last day in Ras Lma, the PCTs were planning to have a Halloween event at the Dar Chebab. They worked on five separate stations which included: pin the knife on the sheep (a culturally appropriate take on pin the tail on the donkey), bean bag toss into a pumpkin, bobbing for apples, climbing through a giant (ribbon) spider web and face painting. They did a great job in preparing for the event, but the sheer amount of children surpassed any of our expectations. As over 150 kids showed up, it quickly turned into a free for all, which we barely managed to hold together. It was not expected, but the face painting station - to which myself and only one other PCT were assigned - became quite the hit. We had swarms of children watching us work and begging to be next. After an hour and a half of claustrophobia and intense near-eye-painting focus, we gathered our things in a zombie-like motion. While cleaning up, another one of the PCTs saw the two of us and noted how we appeared to be suffering from PTSD and wished us luck in recovery. It was intense (like boy scouts sleeping for instance, or fun at the circus...).

Overall, I really enjoyed my time up north. It was a good platform in which to reflect upon how far I have come in the past two years. It was like coming home in a way. And though I got completely and utterly sick, both of the cold/flu and gastrointestinal variety, it was totally worth it. I am really looking forward to seeing how the next two years goes for this great group of volunteers.

The fab soon-to-be PCVs and I 

Pin the Knife on the Sheep

Some Halloween participants and a few PCTs in the Dar Chebab

Magniloquence and playing the game

"You campaign in poetry,

You govern in prose"

- Leo McGarry, The West Wing

This isn't my first time quoting The West Wing on this blog and, I'm sure we can all agree, it won't be my last. Somewhere in the middle of the fifth season, Leo is having a conversation with Josh about making compromises in policy. How doing so is the reality of running a country, a necessary sacrifice.  In actuality, Mario Cuomo, the former governor of New York, should be credited with coming up with this in the first place, but you all know where my loyalty lies.

This quote happens to very acutely resonate with my current situation. If you're having trouble recalling my minor FREAKOUT in my last blog post, let me quickly remind you that I am in the midst of graduate school applications. I, however, am not alone in this venture. Many of my Peace Corps peers are also slaving away, racing the clock in order to complete their applications before our time here in Morocco runs out.

As we work our way through our personal statements, our statements of intent, the diversity statements, the resumes, the writing samples and even policy memos, we are all very aware and sensitive to the game we are expected to play. We are all in on it. The prospective students. The admissions committees. The language we have to use, the stories we have to sell, the synonyms we have to capitalize on; it's all a part of this game. The lofty expectations that the review committees presume we are all going to meet, only make the playing field more competitive. Because we are all playing the same game. We are writing these idealized versions of ourselves. Much like the poetry Leo speaks of, we are weaving tales of grandeur and hoping the admission committees aren't as sickened by it as we are.

Yet, once we are beyond all of this hyperbole, the real work beings. Once we've commenced our journey towards a law degree, an MBA, or a masters in public policy as I am, it is assumed we are to operate in prose. Long gone are the days of opulence and cadence. Out the window with transcendent syntax and warm, fuzzy alliteration... We are now meant to abide by brass tacks. We shall summate. We shall articulate.

We are to remain impassioned. And we are to remain impressive. Persuasive, even. Poignant. Just sans all that nonsense we were forced to incorporate back then in order to get to this point.

It's exhausting and it is frustrating. Albeit, if some other applicant ends up out-poetry-ing me and accepting a place I was not offered, I hereby promise to not fault the successful participant of a flawed system. As the old adage goes, 'hate the game, not the player'. It's really not their fault, I suppose. It is simply the game.

Though, let's just be clear here. I am the one who plans on playing the part of the successful participant within that flawed system we just spoke of. Just for the record.

Cause I Need Freedom Now

"Cause I need freedom now

And I need to know how

To live my life how it's meant to be"

- The Cave, Mumford & Sons

Hi, My name is Donniell Silva, and I'm overwhelmed.

The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one? Right? RIGHT?!

So Peace Corps worldwide has developed this delightful little chart that is supposed to identify critical periods in the life cycle of a Peace Corps Volunteer. Monthly checkpoints highlight issues including the anxiety of your initial departure, uncertainty when arriving in final site, mid-service crises around the one year mark, and so on. Here is what the chart has to say about my current state of mind (being one month away from COS - Close of Service):

Issues:

Trauma of Departure

Concerns about social re-entry

Bridging new and former identity

Redefinition of career

Redefinition of host country

Behaviours/Reactions:

Fright

Confusion

Alienation

Anxiety

Panic

Giddiness

Impatience

Obsession with Planning and Scheduling

Sometimes I like to fault Peace Corps for their lack of thoroughness when it comes to their reference materials for volunteers, but here I believe they've hit the nail on the head. Many things, almost everything, is coming to a head at the moment; last classes at the Dar Chebab, cleaning out my house for the next volunteer, packing up my last suitcase to bring home, saying goodbye to friends and coworkers, saying good bye to my family, then add grad school applications, job hunting, health insurance paperwork, student loan forms... and it all gets lost in a weird emotional amalgamation of what your life should be and could be. Bleurgh.

As my host mother so poignantly put it the other day, ''I can see your heart is still here, but your head may already be in America.'' Ever so steadily, my focus has shifted from my responsibilities here to my expectations at home. Full days and most evenings are dedicated to writing, reviewing, editing, and submitting statements of intent, personal statements, writing samples, and application forms. I can attest to the fact that I've felt every one of those aforementioned emotions - fright, confusion, alienation, anxiety, panic, giddiness, impatience, obsession with planning and scheduling (not that that last one is all that new) - every hour of every day these past few weeks. Those who know me well know that I like to be in control of any given situation - especially, you know, my life. More than wanting my first choice school or wanting my dream job, I just want to KNOW what the balls I'm actually doing after I leave here. I simply want something to work with. This black hole of time, this abyss of nothingness between now and next fall, is driving me absolutely nuts-o.

At the end of the day though, I am aware of how lucky I am, and how things really will be okay. Things will work out, as they always have. I'll continue to work hard and (insha'allah - how am I going to give that up back in the states?) it will eventually pay off. In the brief moments I have had fleeting faith in myself, my friends & family are always there in steady supply.

During our goodbye dinner at the end of our time at COS conference earlier this month, we had assigned superlatives to everyone in our staj. You know - most likely to be famous, most likely to take over the world, most likely to homeless etc. It amused me and simultaneously gave me hope when my staj assigned me the following superlative: "Most likely to attend Comic Con dressed as Josh Lyman... with the resume and experience to back it up." God willing folks, God willing, indeed.

Vignettes of Fatuity aka Marl Gets Married!

Yesterday, I finally returned to site after having spent more than three weeks away from good old Sedona-miz. Before heading to summer camp in El Jadida (which will be covered in a later post, surely), I left site nearly a month ago to be a part of two of my dearest friends' wedding - yay Mckinley and Karl (or to those of you playing at home - Marl)!

The trip started off with a few days in Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, only an hour and a bit south of the ultimate destination - St Andrews. I spent those first few days brunching with friends, wandering through parks and cemeteries, and revisiting the museums of many an Art History field trip. I spent my evenings relishing in undeniably crap terrestrial television and enjoying the easy access of my friends and yours, Ben & Jerry.

Once the day came to head north, I could barely contain myself. Many of my friends, both British and foreign, have managed to make at least one trip back to St Andrews since graduation three short years ago. This girl hasn't. I was like a little school girl as the panoramic view of our small town came into sight over the horizon. I was terrified the few days we had to spend there would pass by much too quickly, and that they did.

Amidst the flurry of accessory buying, rehearsal dinnering, and family & friends meet and greeting, I attempted to soak in as much of the moment as I could, realizing it could easily be another three years before I manage to make it back there, let alone with over twenty of my closest friends.

So, before I continue with this tirade of personally touching moments and risk tearing up over a recounting of the speeches (... no really), I'll move on to what I do best, and focus on telling you the story of how I made an idiot of myself during the 24 hours leading up to, and during, the wedding of the century. I give to you: My Vignettes of Fatuity.

Okay, so let's paint you all a picture here. My dear friend Anna and I had just had a lovely morning returning to our first year hall of residence, University Hall, reminiscing room to room, creaky staircase to creaky staircase, and after a quick lunch at the Old Union Diner, we rushed to get dressed for the rehearsal ceremony and dinner. Once we had all arrived at the chapel, it was announced which bridesmaid was to be paired with which groomsman. I had heard in passing I had been matched up with Johan. Now, here's the fun part about a Scottish wedding containing only one Scot - there were more Swedes than anything else, and two Groomsmen were both named Johan. I had (preemptively) assumed I was paired with the Johan we had all been friends with for the past seven years, not the rather intimidatingly good looking, tall, dark, & handsome, doctor of a Swede - Johan somethin-somethin-beardy-schmeardy. Mind you, his flight was delayed that afternoon, so, naturally, I was doing this rehearsal walk down the aisle all by my lonesome. At that point, not only was I mildly intimidated by Dr. Model-Johan, I was also rather irritated as I looked like a numpty walking down the aisle by myself.

Fast forward to that evening. After an absolutely lovely and touching rehearsal dinner (tears were shed people... also, my table won a Marl trivia game & received Marl mugs!), we all headed to a local pub to meet the rest of the folks who had arrived a day early for Saturday afternoon's nuptials. Now, after a few drinks and mingling with friends and family, I saw that Dr. Johan had managed to arrive. I figured I should go and say 'hi' and give him crap about not showing up for his groomsman-ial duties earlier that afternoon. Reminder - I was only a few days out of Morocco and a few drinks in - So I walked up, made the hand shake gesture and, in true Moroccan fashion, moved my hand to my chest in the typical manner of respect. This, somehow, turned into a chest slap that resounded across the bar - which not only got weird looks from the Doctor, but from everyone else within ear shot as well. Now let me explain, when I typically do the Moroccan meet and greet, I'm usually under enough layers of clothing that any reverberations from the hand-chest maneuver would have been muffled by my conservative dress... Oh ho, not here folks. My spaghetti strap of a dress allowed for a full on belly-flop of a smack against this here upper torso. He stared. I stared. I attempted to utter the cultural excuse, which turned out to be a tipsy mumble in which I'm sure I mentioned something about the loo and scampered off. For Pete's sake.

Don't think I'm done yet folks, there's still at least another two chapters in the 'Why Donniell Shouldn't be Let Out of Captivity' chronicles. ... So then comes wedding day. It was perfect. Beautiful. Breath-taking. Until it wasn't. So I managed to make it down the aisle, flowers in hand, heels on, without tripping and eating dirt. Score! I also managed to keep a steady voice while doing a reading from Corinthians halfway through the ceremony. High-five! The trouble began during the recession. So me and the Doctor, the Doctor and I, met up at the back of the recessional train and began to make our way down the nave of the chapel. We somehow managed to be out of step with each other the entire way. We were knocking arms, gently hip-checking each other, as I awkwardly tried to skip a step and get back into sync with his stride. It just wasn't happening. I'm honestly terrified to see any pictures that were taken at this stage of the game... him - all stoic and manicured, and me - furrowed eyebrows and hunched over attempting to time the appropriate pace. Bah. Anyway, we managed to make it to the end of the aisle, dis-arm, and I made what I thought was a cute and friendly remark of 'Hey, you did your job! You didn't let me fall, thanks!' ... (You all know what's coming next.)... So we moved three steps further, aiming to exit the chapel to the right (only to re-enter moments later at the Eastern door for pictures) and as the rest of the wedding party exited gracefully, I managed to miscalculate how many stairs there were (I guessed one... there were two.) and basically escalatored my way out the back the door. You know what I'm talking about, like when somebody stands behind the couch and pretends to go down an escalator, and the accompanying sound effect is something along the lines of 'beeeyyoooooup'. Except I wasn't pretending, I just slow-mo-ed to my knees, in the door way, on the steps, grabbing anything within arms reach on my way down. This included the Doctor. He and the bride's (wonderful) mother picked me back up and we continued on our way. The rest of the wedding party & guests (thankfully) oblivious to the whole thing. Of course, charming me decided to try and joke it off, to which the Doctor was having none of. Literally wouldn't even look me in the eye. I was such an embarrassment.

The evening continues. We were then corralled outside the chapel in St Salvator's square for a brief reception before dinner, dancing, and other festivities are to begin. Luckily, there was no direct contact with the doctor at this stage as I had scampered off to enjoy the company of some other wedding folk. It is worth mentioning here the amusing scene laid before me. There is a large patch of grass in the centre of the square, making it a rather picturesque scene with day's beautiful sunshine and blue skies in the background. However, this scene happened to be spotted with many a lady slowly sinking, and sometimes quite suddenly dropping, into the aforementioned grass patch. The weather earlier in the week had been rather wet, so the grass was still a bit damp. Thus, every woman attendee's heels were sinking, if not stabbing the land one by one. A brief scan of the area would include at least five women clunking backwards and then awkwardly attempting to laugh it off. Myself obviously included. Why we all just didn't move to the cement walkway surrounding, I shall never know.

Once dinner began, I resembled a human being for a least a few hours time. Those seated at my table were great company, the food was tasty, and the speeches were touching. It was a grand couple of hours, it was. Then we all made our way to the dance floor just one floor above the dinning room. It was at this point I somehow missed my cue to dance with the rest of the wedding party as I was retrieving my flats from downstairs (oops), but made up for it with my Ceilidh skills later on. The Doctor and I were matched up for Strip the Willow, luckily he had no idea what he was doing, and thus managed to look like more of an idiot than I for at least 10 minutes. Hamdulilah. The role was quickly returned to its rightful owner shortly thereafter, I assure you.

Once the Ceilidh was finished, a jazz band took to the floor and the wedding cake was served. Now this wedding cake was like no other wedding cake, in that it was actually delicious. It was from one of our favourite bakeries in town, Fisher and Donaldson, and was the same kind of cake my lovely mother would send to our flat for my birthday every year at uni. It was a rich carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Now, on any given day, this cake would have been topped with that cream cheese icing, and that icing alone. I managed to forget for a moment that this was in fact a wedding, and that a glorious (disgusting) coating of fondant would more than likely be coated on top. So, there Iwas, amongst a group of friends, attempting for the last time to make conversation with the Doctor. I suggested we have a piece of cake. He declined politely (watching his model-ish figure, I presume), and I went in for a piece. In my head, I was ready to insist he have a piece after he saw how good the rest of us thought it was. So post-bite, I attempted to argue this point - only to realize that I had taken a bite fondant-side up and this substance was now stuck to the roof of my mouth and I was left licking at it like a dog with peanut butter on its tongue. ... Kill me.

Really though, other than these minor embarrassing setbacks, I had an absolutely lovely time, as did everyone else. The wedding was truly perfection and I couldn't have been more touched to be a part of it. Happily, Mckinley will be coming to visit me here in Morocco at the end of the month! Thirty days of heat and Ramadan will thankfully be ending on a high note :).

To end, Dr. Johan - if you're reading this, I hope you realize that I really am a decent (and somewhat normal) human being with, if nothing else, a sense of humour. If you do not realize this, you must think I'm an ever bigger weirdo than you once imagined. And in that case, you're probably right.

The ladies

The gentlemen

The bridesmaids

The groomsmen and a few friends

The happy couple :)

Marche Maroc Essaouira

Guess who has two thumbs and got to spend another week beach-siiiiiiide

---> this guy!

Last week, I had the opportunity to spend another few days in my favourite Moroccan city while helping out at one of the last Peace Corps run craft fairs back in Essaouira. For the last couple of years, Small Business Development volunteers here in Morocco have organized craft fairs approximately every three or four months in large cities across the country. Any artisan, association, or coop that the SBD volunteers work with, are invited to bring their goods to the host city for a three to four day long craft fair. These marches are usually held in conjunction with the local government, with the cooperation of the local artisana, and with the financial assistance of USAID. These Peace Corps craft fairs, branded as Marche Maroc, are driven by the idea of quality, set pricing, and fair trade and have been held in cities such as Marrakech, Fes, Rabat, and now for the first time Essaouira.

The extraordinary team of SBD volunteers are the folks responsible for executing such a successful craft fair this past week, and I was happy to offer up my services to help man the actual event. Other sector volunteers were generally asked to be floaters - giving artisans breaks when they needed them, filling in at stations that needed assistance, helping sort out questionable display styles, etc. It was a long week for the artisans and volunteers alike, with seminars and workshops starting at 9am and the craft fair running daily from 11am to 10pm.

The event exposed artisans to a new market for their products, to daily seminars on customer service, brand development, and sustainability, and to a new network of fellow artisans across the country. Unfortunately, as the SBD sector is coming to a close this coming year, this may be one of the last Marche Marocs put on by Peace Corps. As this was assuredly the last Marche Maroc I would attend before COS, I definitely bought my fair share of products!

One half of the craft fair tents on the north side

(shoes, carpets, wood crafted goods, jewelry, daggers, embroidery)

Another set of tents on the west side

(carpets, jewelry, goats cheese, and music)

Tents on the East and South walls

(bags, clothing, embroidery, argan products, skins & pelts,

scarves, dolls, metal work, jewelry, stuffed animals)

The table where I spent most of my hard earned dirhams -

Ali's association located in Arazan, just outside of Taroudant

Her ladies produce argan oil - both cosmetic and for cooking,

as well as Amlou - a spread similar to peanut butter,

usually made out of argan oil, almonds, and honey.

Her women also make necklaces, bags, headbands,

scarves, and dresses out of beautiful materials.

Over the past year I have purchased at least one of each of those products...

One of the many carpet & embroidery vendors

The very popular shoe stand from Taroudant

Traditionally dressed dolls made by Anne's ladies in Touama

Photos curtoesy of fellow PCVs Emily Donahue and Ali Records

SIDA and Gnaoua

So June happened. Apparently I missed my cue and totally blanked on updating this blog for the past month. My bad. I'll give you the same excuses for my absence as I gave my Mudir and see if you find them more compelling than he. Then we'll move on to more riveting information.

The first week of June was spent in Rabat doing a SIDA (AIDS) training for an upcoming (and now passed) Gnaoua festival in Essaouira. The second week of June was spent in Madrid initially dreading and ultimately conquering the GRE. The third week was spent in Marrakech with around 25 other PCVs conducting our first regional meeting under the new format PC Morocco will now be operating by. The last week was spent in Essaouira with nearly a hundred other PCVs enjoying the annual Gnaoua festival. I have since returned to Sedona-miz, enjoyed a few visiting PCVs' company, and sweat more than I have in the last six months combined.

The focus of the month, though, was indeed the Gnaoua festival in Essaouira. Regular readers are aware of my undying affection for this city, so any opportunity to venture westward is a welcome one. Last year, I took some vacation days and enjoyed the festival to its fullest, which mostly meant sun, sand, and unwelcome gestures from unusually high & drunk male attendees. I opted to work the festival this year, balance out my play time with my work time, get my PC karma in line and all. Turned out to be a great decision as I had a wonderful and truly rewarding time doing so.

Peace Corps Morocco has worked with a Moroccan based NGO for the last few years in order to address the target population present at this festival in regeards to AIDS and (this year) STI education. ALCS - Association de Lutte Contra le SIDA, is active nation wide, in more than 12 cities, combating myths and poor education in regards to HIV and STI risk. Our organizations (I'm tempted to fall into Captain Planet rhetoric here... when our powers combine... the power is yours!) have traditionally come together during this festival in order to have the maximum presence possible to reach target festival goers. This year we had over thirty volunteers participate in this education outreach program.

Our primary focus while on duty consisted of canvassing the boardwalk in front of the ALCS pop-up tents. The NGO was offering free HIV testing in addition to free condoms and pamphlets with further disease related information. It should be noted that, naturally, there is little to no sex education present in Morocco. With it being an Islamic Kingdom, 98.7% of its population assumed to be Muslim, there is this nationwide facade that everyone lives by Muslim law, thus no one has sex out of wedlock, no one here would go to a prostitute, and why should I wear a condom? I'm not at risk!, etc etc. The general public knows what 'SIDA' is, and they know it's 'bad', but they don't always know where it comes from, how it's contracted, and what the consequences are. Furthering the point, even though they might have an idea of what SIDA is, next to no one knows what an STI is, let alone that they exist. Thus, this year Peace Corps helped ALCS put together Morocco's first ever STI pamphlet. Albeit, it was mostly cartoon condoms asking each other what these weird symptoms are and what they should tell their doctor, it was definitely a step in the right direction.

The week definitely started out weird though, those first couple stops were super awkward for all of us. I mean, here we are, a bunch of American kids, speaking comprehensive but still messy Arabic, Tash, & Tam, approaching who we assume to be reasonably devout Muslims with lines like 'Hey, you have a minute to talk about AIDS?', 'If you need some free condoms, go that way!', 'It only takes 20 minutes to get tested in that van over there!' I mean, I would have though we were crazy. Lo and behold though, the public came a runnin' and we tested over 600 festival goers, handed out over 5,500 condoms, and spoke to at least double that number. It was surprisingly much more gratifying than I ever thought it could have been.

Mid-shift one afternoon, though, I definitely pondered what had been more difficult: Months spent canvassing the streets of a republican Orange County with Greenpeace about the current risks to the environment? Or a week spent trawling the beach front of an Islamic Morocco educating locals about HIV? At least the former was in English.

SIDA and IST information booth & condom distribution center

Pamphlets galore - including Morocco's first ever STI informational guide

Anna & Jen posing in front of the travelling HIV testing booth

Me sporting a backpack full of SIDA handouts, ready & rearing to canvass

Information booth in action

One of the event's fabulous coordinators - and a fabulous friend -

Nina and I

Photos courtesy of another extraordinary coordinator & friend - Diana Yan

Then what are we fighting for?

''When Winston Churchill was Prime Minister and he was told that there were going to have to be major cuts in arts and culture because of the mounting costs of World War II,

he responded with a simple reply: ‘Then what are we fighting for?’"

Recently, a music festival here in Morocco has encountered an exceptional amount of nation-wide backlash in regards to the amount of money the government is forking over in exchange for some top celebrity appearances - among them Kanye West, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, Lionel Richie, and the star in which the most controversy surrounds, Shakira. The week-long Mawazine music festival, which is currently being held in Rabat, has been criticized by the February 20 movement for disposing of national funds irresponsibly as this year's festival budget is rumored to hover around nearly $12 million. The argument they put forward is naturally in line with what the protest movement has been saying all along, that the allocation of government funding is not being put in the appropriate place - with unemployment being at what it is, the price of household items on the rise, and the continual presence of corruption, they argue the money could, and should, be put to better use.

In this Foreign Policy article, they mention that 15% of Moroccans live on less than $2 a day. And when the minimum wage is 10.64 dirhams an hour (which, based on an 8 hour work day, is nearly what a Peace Corps Volunteer's salary is.), they ask how the government can be as ostentatious as to pay Shakira 6.5 million dirhams for a single night's performance. I mean, I get their point. It isn't hard to. A majority of the population is suffering and thus protesting on a weekly basis because of it (though I still vote they should step up their game if they want anything tangible done). And this majority will most likely not be the ones enjoying Shakira this Saturday night. However, there is a significant portion of the Moroccan population who are more than pleased with the presence of a music festival, especially given the fact that it's free. Personally, I am staunchly on this team. This country has always been in love with music - and Shakira for that matter - and enjoy any excuse to dance and celebrate. Whether or not the exact amount the Moroccan government (and more than a handful of private donors) is paying her is reasonable, I can't say, but the principle behind the matter I am in complete alliance with.

What is a country if not a summation of its culture, traditions, and community pastimes? If in the end, Morocco did decide to pull Mawazine's funding, in addition to the upcoming Gnaoua Festival in Essaouira, the Sacred Music Festival in Fes, the International Film Festival in Marrakech, and countless other proudly government-sponsored cultural events, what is the nation working so hard to enjoy? I guess I can only hope to see a sea of smiling faces alongside me this Saturday night.

Addendum:

Here's Shakira's Mawazine performance in its entirety thanks to Morocco's 2M network

National Lampoon's Wiener Vacation

"I hear the rain a comin',

it's rollin' 'round the bend.

And I ain't seen the sunshine,

Since, I don't know when."

- a take on Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues

I don't even know what to say about the weather these days. We had four months of winter without any rain, and then May happened. Since the start of the month it's been non-stop storming. Which, I would complain about more if they weren't accompanied by some epic thunder and lightening. I know I compare this place to Arizona all the time, but these daily afternoon thunderstorms are straight of my childhood vacations to Flagstaff and Sedona. The temperature - thankfully- drops a few degrees and the village comes to a standstill, watching & waiting, until the storm passes a short twenty or thirty minutes later.

Now, there is a lot I would love to write about these days, but somehow it all comes back to feelings tied to, results of, or reactions to the Marrakech bombing and/or the death of OBL. Both of which the Peace Corps has asked us to temporarily suspend our first amendment right on. Though it's a no-go topic for the moment, we'll see how long I can keep my mouth shut for. Probably not that long.

Happy news, however, I'm seeing my brother next week! No, he still isn't allowed to enter the country (note: in addition to military not being able to enter the country, no other Peace Corps volunteers are allowed to vacation here either. It's a complete shutout - Oh, except for us of course) buuuut, I was granted leave on short notice to go meet him in Vienna! So, in addition to seeing my brother, we'll be staying with two of my very good friends and the vacation also happens to coincide with my birthday. Success!

I must say, it has been well earned though. These last few weeks have been chock-full of primary school activities, Medical Clinic preparation, and grant proposal drafting in addition to regularly scheduled classes at the Dar Chebab. Not to mention the copious amounts of GRE studying I'm having to do these days. The five days in Vienna (well, more like three with two days travel) will be a welcome change of pace.

Sidenote: In attempt to come up with some sort of pun for the title of this entry, instead of coming across a classic sausage joke or Schwarzenegger reference, I stumbled upon a mathematical concept of something called a Wiener Sausage... talk about a mind trip. I was SO confused for least 15 seconds.

I got this:

Instead of this:

Ps. It's worth noting that the caption underneath that first picture was: "A long, thin Wiener sausage in 3 dimensions." Not kidding.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

No, Clint Eastwood has not randomly come to Sedona-miz. (Though how awesome of a coincidence would that have been? Clint & Sedona. Mmm, yes.) Instead, this is a current summation of this past week's adventures.

The Good:

Weddings. Weddings! Who knew I was such a gosh darn sap? Last Sunday, I had the privilege of witnessing two of my good friends from Uni marry each other, on one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen in London. At the Bingham Hotel, in Richmond Upon Thames, Paige & Harish exchanged vows in front of around 50 of their closest friends and family. I had been excited for the day to come for some time, but I hadn't anticipated quite how touching and wonderful it was going to be. I blubbered all over myself during the ceremony & speeches. Thankfully, I remained composed for the rest of the evening. Champagne may or may not have had something to do with that. Reacquainting with friends I hadn't seen for three years, some even six, was a gift in itself. I felt like I was home again, in a country I adore, with the people I love. Since it's still another six months until I get that feeling back permanently, I look forward to July when two of my very best friends get hitched as well, just this time in St Andrews.

Speaking of St Andrews and weddings and people I went to school with - I'll keep it brief, but my God was the Royal wedding beautiful yesterday. I mentioned blubbering before; it was more of a slow and steady trickle this time... But come on! That dress. And tiara. His 'I'm-quite-pleased-with-myself' smirk. The flower girls. And the choir boys singing. And... all of it. I'm a sucker. So sue me.

The Ugly:

Yes I realize I'm reversing two of the adjectives, but stick with me. The ugly should be quite obvious. There was, as I'm sure you all are aware by now, a remotely-detonated bombing at a cafe in Jma El Fna square in the center of Marrakech yesterday. No, I was not there. No PCVs were injured. No, Peace Corps does not have plans for consolidation or evacuation as it stands. Sadly, 16 people were killed, and around 20 injured they say. Among them French, Canadian, British, Swiss, Israeli, and Moroccan nationals. The cafe is known to be a hot tourist spot, one I've frequented in the past myself, so they believe the aim was at foreigners. Though the ministry of the interior says it has hints of Al-Qaeda, no one has claimed responsibility, so blame has yet to be placed. Here are some articles for more information:

New York Times

Reuters

Al Jazeera

The Bad:

Without making this terrible event at all about me, I'm disappointed in it's timing. There is never a good time for someone to cowardly plant a bomb full of nails in a cafe full of people enjoying their country, for someone to die while on vacation, for people to lose their lives for simply enjoying a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, the ramifications of this incident will extend far beyond those present at the cafe. This will strike hard the tourism industry here in Morocco. An industry the local economy relies so heavily upon.

A direct example of this would be the planned of visit of my best friend, her fiance, and her cousin this past weekend. They were due to fly in on Friday morning, and with the explosion having happened Thursday, this quickly made them question their visit. Well-versed travellers and hardly skiddish, they were forced to cancel their trip under the guidance of 'better safe than sorry'. Which I totally appreciate and understand. Unfortunately, in addition to my best friend, my brother has also been forced to cancel his trip this month. He was due to come for my birthday while on his R&R from the Army in Iraq. Yet, it seems Morocco is now listed as a hot-spot and he no longer has clearance to enter the country.

Lame.

So you see, friends, this week has had its ups and downs.

Yay for weddings. Boo for terrorists.

An anthem we all can stand by, yes?

Shall I make tee-shirts?

Medical Clinic

How about we take a quick ride back in time to March when the Sedona-miz Dar Chebab played host to a week long free medical clinic serving the needs of both Sedona-miz and the mountain villages surrounding.

I admit I sort of dropped the ball in telling you all about this in a timely manner, but the last month has been a whirlwind, so my apologies. Back to the point, however. So back around the second week of March, a team of three doctors, around eight nurses, and five or so general helper-outers from America hopped on board an airplane headed for Sedona-miz. They were invited by a local ex-pat couple who have been working in medical outreach for sometime here in Morocco. Every year they try and bring out either a dentist or doctor to help the sickly & far reaching ends of the village. They coordinated with two associations I work with here on a regular basis and after persuading the Mudir to allow us to use the Dar Chebab grounds exclusively for a week, we were in business.

We saw on average 150 patients a day who were composed of mostly women and children - we assume the men were either at work or too embarrassed to come to American women with their, ahem, hashuma problems. Over the course of five days we saw everything from the common cold and allergies to head tumors, full body rashes, and more nether-region problems than I could keep count of. If there's one thing I know Peace Corps has got to keep working on here in Morocco, it's SIDA (AIDS) and STI education. Half of these women didn't even know what their problems were or how they possibly could have gotten them. Let's just say I got to know a little more information than I needed to know about my neighbours and extended host-family members.

All in all, it was a productive and successful week with only a few setbacks due to the weather conditions (within the week it went from hailing golf balls to sunny and 90 degrees). The team from America were a wonderful array of young nurses and jet-setting development workers. Met some great people I hope to stay in contact with for sometime to come. With over 720 patients seen and treated, it was one of the more gratifying weeks I've had in Morocco lately.

The Moroccan half of the team, including me, who helped translate symptoms and treatment instructions between the doctors and village patients

The waiting tent outside of the Dar Chebab. You'd swear The Beatles were playing Sedona-miz the way these Berber ladies were storming the gates.

Inside the waiting area before being instructed to go to one of the doctors.

(FYI - behind the curtain lies the Gyno room. Forever is that instilled in my memory.)

Doctor checking out a young boy's ear infection. I couldn't exactly take photos of the tumors being removed discretely. You'll have to settle for the excitement of an ear exam.

In addition to exams, the American team brought suitcase upon suitcase of medication to prescribe to those in need. (Most important - Flinstone vitamins I say.) The only people against handing out free meds were the local pharmacies, who apparently had little to no business for almost a month after... whoopsies.

Spring Camp Taroudant

After having slept 13 hours upon my return to Sedona-miz, I now feel up to the task of filling you in on what I've been up to lately. Namely - Spring Camp down in Taroudant.

Last year I worked close to home, spending the week with around 90 kids in Marrakech's Centre D'Accueil, teaching English, holding an Environment club, touring the region's water treatment plant (which pretty much only reeked of methane, never again...). I had originally planned to work this year up in a town called Azzemour (Tash for olive) which is just north of El Jadida along the coast. It had only 18 campers last year, and after having had close to a hundred during Spring 2010, 18 sounded like a nice number for a week of near-sleepless nights. Fast-forward to a week before Camp 2011 is due to start. I was informed that Azzemour's Centre D'Accueil hadbeen closed for refurbishing, and I was now being sent to Taroudant. 'Sweet!', I thought, 'Two of my good staj friends are working that camp & I've never been south of these mountains, done and done.' Little did I know that 175 kids would be attending... my dream of a calm lackadaisical week with 18 campers evaporated the second I arrived.

Don't get me wrong, we had an excellent time and did the best we could with 9 PC volunteers & around the same number of Moroccan staff, but with 175 kids, it was pretty much insanity from start to finish. To give you an idea of our day-to-day, here's our daily schedule board:

Fellow PCV Bjai and I were in charge of Beginner-Low English, which means they basically knew squat upon arrival. With a class of around 45 we tried to keep activities as fun as possible, in order to keep the attention of not only that many people, but the punks that naturally find their way into any camp - in both Morocco & America alike. We did the expected number learning, animal vocab, fruits & veggies, etc. Lots of pictionary was played, men were hung, charades was enjoyed. The highlight, though, was definitely ending each day with about 20 minutes of Hello, Goodbye. A big shout out to the Beatles for creating a song with super simplistic lyrics so that even the most novice of Moroccan English speakers can wrap their heads around it. An a capella performance accompanied by desk drum beats made for an excellent close of each class. Mental high-five to Pringles-Beginner English Class.

Other than English, PCV Anna and I did a sweet Art club in the afternoon, in which we made Origami and friendship bracelets.

We all participated in the rest of the activities, which included a Scavenger hunt, Talent Show(s), a 'Religious Night', Improv Comedy, Taroudant Excursions, and a 'Spectac' to wrap things up the last night. Kids had so much fun, they all signed a petition to keep camp going an extra day. No joke. Moroccan staff were obviously as against this as we were, having not slept the entire week. I think we all averaged 2-4 hours of sleep a night, 5 if you were really lucky. And given the sleeping set up we had, that was impressive in itself:

Other random highlights include, but are not limited to:

- The dance five of us conselours did to Taio Cruz's 'Dynomite' for the talent show. There's a video out there somewhere, probably, (scarily,) (unfortunately,) making it's way to facebook soon. It was kind of awesome.

- The random homeless boy that joined our group on a walking tour of Taroudant one afternoon. Seriously the sweetest, most well-behaved Moroccan kid I've ever met, never mind the homeless part. He ended up showing up to camp every day after & just kind of tagging along. We fed him more than I thought was humanly possible to feed a 10 year old, and adored his company throughout the week. Adorable.

- This group of kids that could have easily beaten any group on America's Best Dance Crew. Like, Out. Of. Control. Good. Comparable to those Jabberwocky guys. So cool. So, so cool.

- Taking the winning team of kid's from the scavenger hunt out to smoothies in town. Most were excellent English speakers and we had a pretty awesome & liberal convo while enjoying our fruity drinks. Basically, it ended with the American PCVs begging the boys in the group to stay wonderful & sweet and not turn into the gross disgusting jerks that ruin a Moroccan male's reputation. They pinky-promised.

- Water balloon fight that lasted a couple days and ended in a one hour battle the last day of camp as the kids were leaving. Anna & Crisi introduced the first balloon in their English class as a disciplinary action against a punk kid that wouldn't shut up in the back of the room. They listened after that.

Anyway, all in all, another successful and enjoyable week of camp. Met some awesome PCVs I hadn't known before & loved a good chunk of the kids that came. Thankfully, after camp ended, we PCVs spent a good two days on the beach in Agadir, sleeping off the exhaustion in the sun. Just what the doctor ordered. And after another week of class here in Sedona-miz, I'm heading to London for a good friend's wedding on Easter Sunday. Can't wait to wear spring dresses & my hair down and have it be culturally appropriate!