The Rolling Gypsies

Be werry werry quiet I’m hunting....

Sun, 22 May 2011 09:25:33 +0000

Today Dave and I decided to go for a hike and explore an area we started hiking last summer. It starts out of our town up a decent road to a high point where the cell towers are located. After that it turns more into a wide path crossing a parched valley of undulating hills. At this time of year there are a few patches of irrigated barley that color the brown earth like splotches of chicken pox on the skin. Nonetheless the early morning weather was perfect, mid-70s and a cool breeze. After crossing the valley the wide path becomes a little more narrow as it ascends up and over the mountain chain that seems to compose all our weather patterns. At the crest of the peak, you would hope for some magnificent views of the ocean or a stunning landscape below, but in the middle of Southern Morocco in the high desert you pretty much get more of the same. In a strange way it has an unexpected beauty all of its own. View from half way up the mountain looking back over the valley

From this point you can spot a lot more villages dotting the landscape then through the valley we just traversed. We followed the path, now descending toward the riverbed below and the first of several villages we would walk through. Just as we were approaching the first house I noticed a bright blue object on the path, it took me a second and a second glance before I stopped and said to Dave, “Isn’t that a bullet casing?” He looked in the direction I was pointing and with an equally bewildered tone, replied, “Yeah, that’s a shotgun bullet.” We looked at each other as if we had just discovered a pearl in the desert, a phenomenon. In reality, though it seemed like a phenomenon to us. I actually had thought that guns were illegal in Morocco, other then for military. We didn’t think much more about it really until another few kilometers down the trail as we descended down into a third village.

At this point our trail had become nothing more then a glorified footpath probably only trodden by the herds of goats that we passed along the way, but there did seem to be a drivable road again on the other side of the riverbed. As we got closer we could see two vehicles, rather nice vehicles at that, not “country wagons” as we like to call the cars that you usually see out in the bled (remote countryside). We couldn’t figure out where they would be going as the road, depending on your perspective either started or ended right where they were and there was nothing around them but steep mountains. As we came down off the one we had just come over the cars had seemed to have pulled behind some trees and were out of our sightline. We traversed down the ravine, crossed the riverbed and climbed back up the other side until we reached the road. As we turned a bend, there they were the two fancy cars which immediately took back stage to the more then half a dozen Moroccan men dressed head to toe in green camouflage and each carrying single barrel shotguns that were nearly as tall as me! They seemed to be scouting the base of the mountain for something but I honestly couldn’t imagine for what. We said our customary hellos, as we told them we didn’t speak French and they asked us if we spoke arabic and continued the conversation in French. In utter shock and amazement Dave and I kept walking, somewhat stupefied, not only at the idea of Moroccan hunters but at what that many people could possibly have been hunting in these mountains. We discussed the possibilities, both absurd and the more likely concluding that they probably weren’t after iguanas but maybe a remote chance of wild boar but most probably some sort of bird like grouse or quail.

A while later after we had passed through the village and were again heading up the longest, highest and steepest of the climbs we finally heard gun shots, maybe about a dozen or so consecutive bangs that rang out and echoed through the tall granite cliffs more like the sound of a building being felled then hunters after a tiny little bird. It was an unnerving sound for this landscape and one I hope I don’t encounter again during my time in Morocco. I’m not sure why the idea of Moroccan hunters disturbs me so. I have no problem with hunting, especially if it’s for food, although I don’t think these guys were out for a meal, or even on a limited basis for sport or management. Maybe it’s because after the last 15 months I have gotten to know a wide class of Moroccans and I would say, as a generalization (of course not including every Moroccan) they are not the most stealthy or surreptitious folks. When I picture Moroccans hunting, cartoon characters are all that come to mind. I envision Elmer Fudd bumbling through the forest trying to capture the wily Bugs Bunny.

In the end, maybe it troubles me because I hadn’t really thought about it before and it took me completely by surprise. I wish I had stopped to talk to these guys more, to find out about what they were actually hunting, where they buy guns and ammo in Morocco and how often they come out. That said I have become interested in the topic and hope I can learn a little more about this newly discovered experience.

365 Days

Thu, 3 Mar 2011 18:12:28 +0000

Before joining the Peace Corps we were told by a friend, a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, that time belonged to itself, that a day was like a week and week was like a day, and that is exactly what it’s been. The sun has risen, and at times felt like it would never set, on 365 days. Four seasons, though it feels more like two, have elapsed. The few trees we have around us have shed their leaves and are once again beginning to bloom and bear the fruit of their limbs. The wheat and barley, amazingly seems to be growing in the places where it has been sowed, despite the rain that has not fallen. I have seen litters of puppies born, now nearly the size of their parents, and now watch the same bitches with their teats practically dragging on the ground scrounge through the quarter barrels of trash for food,The riverbed has had nothing more then mere puddles and mounds of trash eroding its banks. The spiders with the extra long legs that seem to hump the wall more than climb up it, the mastodon sized rolly-poly type bugs and the line of scavenging ants have ended their hiatus and are beginning to make their way back into the corners and creases of our concrete bungalow.

The sun has eventually set on 365 days in this Moroccan land, and for the first time in my life I actually can’t tell if it’s felt like a long time or moved quickly. To be honest, I can’t say we really have all that much to show for it either, at least not in quantifiable terms. My language skills are still savage at best. I can get through the day, get what I need and do what needs to be done, but as for communicating thoughts or much beyond work related ideas I’ll have to stick with my journal. We have been working on a project since we got to our site last July but have nothing more then hundreds of emails, a dozen drafts of a proposal and mounds of photocopies of cost estimates, lists and maps as evidence of any work done. We started an English club at the school but have only managed to meet three times since October.

On the other, less tangible side: I have learned to take a bucket baths with less then 5 gallons of water, I’ve become nearly comfortable using a turkish toilet, hand washed all my clothes with water I’ve pulled up from a well and carried over 500 meters away, I’ve survived living in 130 degrees with no air conditioning or form of relief, I’ve lived in a 40 degree house with no heat, I’ve lived in a concrete box with no windows and a plastic roof in raining downpours, 30mph winds, freezing and scorching temperatures, with moldy walls and loud and smelly neighbors, I have cooked a meal for my Moroccan family, I have met some of the most generous and open people and encountered some of the most infuriating, I’ve been bored almost to insanity, been scared and nervous about things I never even thought about before, learned patience and tolerance I didn’t know existed within me, I have laughed at the absurdity of it all, learned about some of my true friends and how to be away from family even though at times it feels like the worst possible place to be, I’ve traveled to new places and had the most adventurous 365 days of my life.

Long Time, No Speak - A letter to blogland

Wed, 16 Feb 2011 11:11:25 +0000

Dear Blog Reader(s),
I’ve obviously been derelict in my blog writing duties. We’ll chalk that up to laziness and, I guess, a sign of acclimatization. At some point life, even in Morocco, even in the Peace Corps, does become normal. I won’t call it routine because that, it is not. It does start to feel though, less exotic, less notable and even less worthy of writing a blog about. Now that my excuse is out of the way, if you still feel like reading it, here’s an update about what has been going on since last we spoke.

November was a month of travel and escape. Early on we had our third, and really final, group training called in-service training (IST) in Marrakech. It was much more work oriented then even PPST but I actually found it less inspirational or instructional. None-the-less it was nice to get together with everyone including the health stage, which we haven’t seen in a group since swearing-in. The “souk” themed prom and talent show were definitely the highlights. That and a week at the CNSS hotel. Afterwards we headed up to Rabat for some medical stuff and to help edit Peace Works, the quarterly literary journal. Then, we traveled to Marrakech before flying out to Spain for a 7-day Mediterranean cruise and then 7 days in Spain with Dave’s parents. It was an amazing trip with sites a plenty, good food, drink and conversation.

December, as always, was celebratory. Multiple birthday celebrations, Christmas and New Years. We even had special visitors from America to help ring in the New Year. One of my oldest friends from Livingston, Lee, and 2 of her friends came out for a couple of weeks. Unfortunately we didn’t get to spend the entire time with them but we did get to visit Fez, Meknes and surroundings as well as the New Year’s festivities in Essaouria.

As with any good new year, January brought work (though it has actually been going on the entire time)! Sometime in October we began an English club at the local college (Moroccan equivalent of middle school). At this point we have had 3 meetings but hope once we get a semester-long lesson plan worked out our meetings will become more regular. We’ve also been working on filling out the school’s library with books in English. We have had two donations through the American School in Rabat and are still working on finding some other sources for donations. All the while we have been steadily working on our proposal for the solar water pump and drip irrigation project. We have been getting estimates from several different sources for different components of the project. At this point it is still a work in progress and I’ll share more details as things solidify.

Though we have been in country nearly one year we are still on a fairly steep learning curve. Over the past few months we have learned some new information, including: the fact that a women’s cooperative already exists within the Douar, therefore we didn’t need to send the letter to ODECO asking for help in starting a co-op and there is already an environmental club at the college, to name a couple.

Eventhough I know it is a blog faux pas I’ll apologize again for the lack in timely posts and try to make a better effort going forward. Until then... leave some comments and maybe I’ll have some fodder for future entries.

Sincerely,
The Rolling Gypsies

A Family Dinner

Thu, 14 Oct 2010 19:45:10 +0000

Ever since our arrival in our new site and talk of renting our own house we have discussed with our host family having them over for an “American” dinner. Dave and I had fleeting conversations about what we would serve and how we would do it, but we couldn’t decide on anything that seemed “American” enough or appropriate. In addition the endeavor seemed so daunting and intimidating we just kept putting it off. Four months later we finally we decided we would make hamburgers and french fries for dinner and brownies for dessert.

We invited the family to come over at 7:00 on Thursday night. We knew the french fries would take a while so we started prepping around 6:00 and cooking them at 6:30. As 7 and 7:30 came and went we realized we had made a mistake. A friend suggested they probably wouldn’t be over until after last prayer call between 8 and 9 and hopefully they would arrive before 10. By 8:00 the french fries were nearly completed and Dave and I were sitting around a cleaned apartment with hors d'oeuvres on the table, feeling like an adolescent throwing their first party and no one showing up. By 8:30 the fries were cold and becoming increasingly soggy.

Around 9:00 we heard the customary Doud (David) Oh Doud being shouted from the hallway. We opened the door and with a nervous somersault in my stomach invited Mohammed Saidy, his wife Fatim and their two sons Hassan and Hamid into our humble abode (or tigmi). Awkward silence eventually gave way to timid conversation as I retreated into the kitchen to finish the remaining fries and cook the burgers.

Feeling out of place in our house Fatim found comfort, at least, in the kitchen. Where, she, took solace being in the kitchen her presence made my already intimidated self nearly tremble with fear. She watched over my shoulder as I placed a batch of fries in bubbling oil and advised me that I was doing it incorrectly and that I should put them all in at once. Not wanting to insult her I followed her instruction and threw the remaining uncooked fries into the pot. As I stood over the boiling mass, Fatim paced around our tiny kitchen stopping to ask questions of how much items cost or where we purchased them. I answered as much as I could while waiting to get the hamburgers out of the fridge without her peaking her nose in there as well. Finally, with nothing left for her to poke around or in, she slid back out to join the rest of our guest in the parlor. With a sigh of relief, to continue cooking an already failing meal of great significance without the overseeing eyes of a gentle but exacting woman, I pulled the fries out of the hot grease, got the patties out of the fridge and finished cooking the most simple and onerous meal of my life.

We put the shriveled burger patties on their oversized buns on each plate alongside the least soggy and burnt fries of the lot and brought them to the table. We all sat down and waiting for our guest to start eating first realized we were sitting in silence staring at each other. So, Dave and I took the plate of onion and tomato slices and started building our burgers, and each step we took was duly repeated by each visitor at the table. We had told them before the dinner they were coming to little America and that there would be no Moroccan traditions at this meal, and so they seemed to follow our cues on the way to make and eat a hamburger. It was a very strange role reversal having someone else watch how we, were eating, or using utensils or not. Dave and I found ourselves tongue tied and lost when they started thanking us for the meal and blessing our plates with more food as that is usually our line and we were not sure of the correct responses. The hamburgers, albeit small, were tasty with ketchup, mustard, onion and tomato while the fries were mostly inedible they seemed to slowly disappear from each plate.

For dessert we served homemade brownies and Danette chocolate pudding which seems to have been received fairly well. After dinner we sat around and discussed a range of topics from chopsticks to argan trees and before we knew it, it was after 11:00. When they were gone Dave and I were sure our first attempt at hosting Moroccans could best be described as a joyful tragedy, something you are glad happened but don’t ever want to do again.

GPS Embargo...

Fri, 8 Oct 2010 15:55:44 +0000

Apparently GPS units are forbidden in Morocco without written permission from the ministry of communications. Our recent package containing our GPS unit has been held up in a customs office in Agadir for the last 2 weeks, since we received it’s arrival notice in our PO Box. When we came to retrieve it, they told us we didn't have authorization to have a GPS in country and the package had to be returned to sender. We knew there was nothing we could do about it so we said okay. As they started to pack the box back up I looked at the bureau chief with sad eyes and in a doleful voice said, "what about the rest of the package...it's just food... and I'm hungry." He looked back at me, paused for a second to think and said, "fine" and then proceeded to pile all the granola bars, the bag of coffee, the m&m's, the boxes of macaroni and cheese and bags of black beans onto his desk. He got us a plastic bag for all the food and taped the U.S. flat rate box with the lonely GPS unit back inside. We have heard horror stories about people having to pay hundreds of US dollars to retrieve much less expensive items, so for the last two weeks we have been envisioning all sorts of scenarios including declining the package all together and having to try and file for the insurance money or paying $200, or more, to recover the box. In the end it was not our best case scenario but it was certainly better then we were expecting and most definitely not the worst it could have been. We gave the men who helped us each a piece of what I only imagine was a handful of soon to be halloween candy that was thrown into the package and left the office surprisingly happy and satisfied.