"In My Own Little Corner..."

"...in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be." In this case I converted myself into a Moroccan princess with the aid of a small group of adorable girls that bombarded me with flower bouquets. I think they're in love. Probably because I jump rope with them, sing weirdo jump rope songs and let them play with my hair. It's that simple. They were very creative in their vases, using garbage bags and abandoned rubber bands. The little one would just bring me leaves and dirt. Gems like this seem to happen on the daily at AMESIP.

The Marvels of Mawazine

I’ve discovered that I tend to overuse alliterations, but they sound nice, so who cares?

The Mawazine music festival has begun here in Rabat. It’s a weeklong buffet of music from around the world, including local artists. It was while stuffing my face at a student’s house on Friday that I discovered that Mika would be the main act on Saturday night. I freaked. He’s one of my favorite artists. I’d committed to a two-day trip to nearby Meknes with some friends and when it was apparent that no one had even a remote interest to shorten their trip to join me at the concert, I decided to fly solo.

I’d never been to a concert by myself before and was quite thrilled by the opportunity. I was also a little nervous about finding the place as my body language vocabulary hasn’t evolved enough to include proper nouns like Mika. I knew it would be different from the last time I saw him when I waited with my family in SLC’s freezing February weather for a couple hours to be handsomely rewarded with a killer, intimate performance as Mika was just beginning his career and had not gained significant popularity.

It was different. I feel like using a long list of expletives to explain how cool it was, but my mom reads this blog, so I don’t want to embarrass her. First of all, it was FREE! Well, technically (thanks Joe Baker) it wasn’t if we remember TANSTAAFL…there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. The price attached to the actual concert was $0.00. I paid a total of about $5.25 in transportation costs. The biggest opportunity cost was sitting through a crappy band from Trinidad and Tobago whose songs all sounded identical. It was worth it though, as I got there early enough to reserve the closest possible position.

Second, there were probably 36.8 times more people in attendance as the outdoor venue allowed for much more space. Third, I was the only white person I saw the whole night. Consequently, I was usually the only one singing my lungs out except during the choruses where most everyone joined in the fun. Despite not knowing the words, however, the folks in attendance were there to party! It was definitely a fun atmosphere and I got loads of smiles from people around me as I was singing every word of every song. I barely even felt like I was there alone. I actually ended up meeting a Moroccan guy who’d been to SLC doing a project on volunteerism with the U.S. Embassy. Needless to say, we connected on many levels.

Whereas Mika’s concert in SLC felt like a low-tech coffee shop gig, I felt like I was in the middle of a top-dollar, two-hour music video for this performance. He had multiple costume changes, ENORMOUS, inflatable ‘fat-girl’ legs for his, “Big Girl” song, a Moroccan wedding procession for, “Everybody’s Gonna Love Today,” an opera-singing accompanist for, “Blame It On the Girls,” a huge “BILLY” banner for, “Billy Brown,” an incredible garbage can drum line to open, “Lollipop,” and loads of other entertaining stage antics. Not to mention the radical, technicolor background visuals.

I went home exhausted, voiceless and still in shock that I only paid five bucks to see this. Livin’ the dream!

"I'll Never Let Go...Until I Drown in Freezing Water"

Friday is the holy day in Islam and many families here in Morocco celebrate with a traditional lunch of delicious couscous. Normally, since my work site is quite far from my home, I pack my lunch that I share with a bunch of attention-and-nutritionally-starved little nuggets. The food is always pleasing to the palate, but definitely lacks the freshness and tradition of couscous. Being surrounded by curious, energetic ankle-biters is not the most calming atmosphere in which to consume calories, either. So, It was with great excitement and a feeling of flattery that I accepted the invitation of one of my students, Hechem, to share the Friday experience with him and his family. The prospect of having a relaxed, more substantive lunch was appealing.

Hechem is one of the few kids I’ve had substantive conversations with because he speaks French. As a result we’ve become quite chummy. Evidence of this can be proven by tallying the number of times he kisses me a day (approximately 7). Keep in mind that Hechem is a 17-year old boy. The Moroccan culture is undeniably the most physical culture to which I’ve been exposed. Of course, this physicality is limited to same-sex interactions most of the time (suck!).

Consistently Moroccan, he insisted that I be made to feel at home. He found it necessary to facilitate this feeling by having me sprawl out on the couch and listen to everyone’s favorite American musician, Bryan Adams, followed by Sean Paul, Celine Dion and some rapper whose name fails me. We also listened to some Arabic artists while sipping some famous mint tea.

Once the couscous was on the table, Hechem proudly stated, “I know the perfect eating music. Couscous tastes so much better with this music.” I was excited to hear some metaphorical Moroccan melody about the delights of couscous when he surprised me with Celine Dion’s, “My Heart Will Go On,” which we’d already listened to at least twice. I started hearing Twilight Zone music and thinking I was back at another one of those awkward church dances where ‘they’, in their efforts to encourage more intimate interaction between sexes, insist on playing those awfully boring slow songs. I don’t know if it was the magic of Celine Dion or just excellent cooking, but as I took my first bite I was in heaven.

We’d been gulping down couscous from the shared bowl in the middle of the table for about five minutes as the music slowly faded. I was hoping for the next song in the couscous mix to be something a little more Moroccan, but Hechem put it on repeat. If I knew how to curse in Arabic, I would have asked him what in the (fill in the blank) he was doing. The song finished for the second time and Hechem unhesitatingly pushed repeat…again. I started laughing my face off and did so even harder with each consecutive replay of the beloved anthem, which happened at least 6 more times.

Luckily, I created a spontaneous intermission by suggesting we do the “Polynesian Jiggle,” a famous dance involving heaps of shaking used to maneuver the massive amounts of food just eaten downward to create room for more. Hechem took to it like a dog to its own vomit. Finally, he played the music I’d wanted to hear and we danced around the dining room for the next five minutes while his mom, aunts and cousins watched with curious delight. Sufficiently jiggled, we finished our meal with a sour buttermilk treat (that I had to choke down), and then lay down for a nap.

We were momentarily sidetracked by a pillow fight with his adorable, nappy-haired 3-year old cousin and then I was left to wonder, “Why don’t Americans take a freaking chill pill and have a two and a half hour lunch break, too?” Although, if the music menu were limited to crappy Canadian love ballads and the Robin Hood soundtrack, I’d rather just chew on my toenails for five minutes and consider that my lunch break.

"The Dweam Wiffin' a Dweam"

The moment a lot of you have been waiting for has arrived. Vicky (Hermione) and I are shown here with our proud matchmaker and owner of a wedding shop. We were chatting it up with these guys I'd met a few days earlier when all of a sudden we were putting on traditional Moroccan wedding clothes and taking engagement pictures.

We spent our honeymoon exploring a half-completed mosque, the beach and a palace. The mosque was meant to be the largest in the world but was not completed during the reign of its advocate and no one really shared in his ambition after he died. So, here it sits halfway done. The beach is only a 15 min. leisurely walk from my place. I met a guy there who speaks Spanish. We had a nice talk about religion and politics. I enjoy meetings where I talk about things you're not supposed to with people you're trying to be friends with. It was a weird honeymoon. Vicky was talking to a guy in French the whole time.

Word-Free Life Lessons

The kids 'LOVE' when I do this. Its already become my trademark...probably because I teach this lesson 86 times a day on average. For some reason the kids love to throw rocks at each other and fight. To quote Ursula, the obese, purple octopus/philosopher, "Never underestimate the importance of body language."

AMESIP

AMESIP is the association with which I am volunteering. It stands for something in French along the lines of Moroccan Association for helping children in precarious situations. Luckily, some folks from IPEC (International Programme on the Elimination of Child Labor www.ilo.org/ipec) were visiting this week doing a study in order to have more ammo for their attempt to get more funding from the UN. Wow, this post has a lot of acronyms. Lol. Jk. Anywho, these folks spoke English well and were able to more clearly explain the organization to me.

These children come from extremely disadvantaged backgrounds and were it not for this organizations’ interventions, they would likely be out on the streets every day working or begging to help support their families. Instead, they get to come to AMESIP and take Arabic, French, Art, PE and Islamic studies classes. They also get to:



Play the harmonica with their noses. This kid gave quite the performance with his dancing, harmonica routine. About 15 other kids and I were laughing ourselves silly for 20 minutes straight.



Sing and dance with me. You can't really tell in the picture, but the one right next to me loves to sing and dance with me. She's quite talented, too.



Give free Arabic lessons to the excited, yet clueless American who repeats everything they say, but learned his lesson about repeating what the teenage boys teach him when one time after doing so, he and the kids were sternly rebuked by an Arabic teacher.

It’s been a great time thus far and in a lot of ways reminds me of my work in Ecuador. I play a lot with the kids and feel we’re learning a lot from each other. I’ll often take a step back and am overcome with gratitude that this organization is in place. I don’t think my heart could take seeing some of these talented, beautiful children wasting their lives away begging or selling cheap plastic toys on the streets.

Marrakech Photos

Well, these took so long to load that I'm not going to bother with correcting their orientation. These are my four wives allotted to me underneath Islamic rules. We are at an old ruin built in the 15th century.



This is Vicky aka Hermione Granger. She truly is quite brainy. She speaks Arabic, French, German and some Spanish. Best of all is her English. I feel like she's a kindred spirit. We share a lot of the same views on life, share favorite books and love languages. We are standing in an amazing palace built by a guy who rose from slavery to become ruler of Morocco. Its quite the amazing story, but I think the power and freedom went to his head cause man this place was ELABORATE!



These are our Rasta friends, Youssef and Mustaffah. By the way, when people have a hard time with my name, I just tell them to call me Mustaffah and think of the handicapped hyena from the Lion King laughing at Whoopie Goldberg saying my name over and over. Youssef has offered his house to us as a stopping point on the way to see the nomadic tribes of the Sahara...yeah! Mustaffah lives in the kite-surfing capital of the world which is also home to a world music festival next month. He's offered his place for us to stay as well.



This man gave us a tour of his carpet making plant. They still do it by hand and we watched some ladies working on them. He talked like his brain was a life lessons book which I of course thoroughly enjoyed. I felt like I learned a lot in the 30 minutes we spent together.



I'm standing in front of a famous mosque whose minaret (tower) served as a model for all the mosques in the area. I'm always in awe of what religious belief can motivate people to do/build. Sometimes, I think we focus too much on the negative things that are attached to religious motives. Anywho, this was the place we sat down to have our rendezvous with Rasta. It looks even more spectacular at night.

The Secret

Believe me. The ‘secret’ works.

The Secret is a book that expounds upon the law of attraction, largely popularized because Oprah added it to her book club. What are women going to do when she retires by the way? They might be like those Obama fanatics who were so riled up by “Hope and Change,” dedicating hours upon hours to campaign rallies until he was elected and then found themselves (right along with Mr. President) wondering, “Well, what do we do now?” I just hope these women continue to read books and take care of themselves properly even though Oprah isn’t there to tell them how to do it. Honestly, though, I would let Oprah babysit my children.

Anywho, the law of attraction basically says that the things we receive in life are a result of our having focused our attention upon them. If I’m consistently focusing on all the things that are going wrong in my life, I will attract more negative things, for example and vice versa. They really take it to the extreme in the book/movie, though. One guy claims that he always gets front-row parking because on his way to wherever he’s going he visualizes a front-row parking spot with his name on it. I think the part he doesn’t tell us is that the events he’s attending are things like, “Save the ‘Emo’ kids” fundraisers, Hunters Anonymous meetings in San Francisco, and how-to talks about creating schools that focus on creating near-death experiences for troubled youth (he would definitely have to fight me for that parking spot on this one).

I don’t know how much of a secret this stuff is. Nevertheless, I’ve been putting out the visualization vibes and have actually imagined a gigantic neon sign over my head, accompanied by obscure techno music, flashing in impeccable Arabic, “Hey, talk to me if you’re way rad.” It’s working. I’ve had many great experiences with the locals. My evening with the Rasta men in Marrakech was unquestionably one of them.

Just yesterday, though, I was casually strolling the streets with my neon sign well-lit and a guy gave me the good ol’ one-fingered salute. I didn’t exactly know how to take it because the bird flies with regularity in my family and the dude had a HUGE smile on his face. Was it an amorous gesture? Does he hate white people with camelbaks, red shorts and homemade knitted hats? Is the secret a complete lie and Oprah’s just trying to make more money she doesn’t need? I don’t know but out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy who was wearing an equally stellar homemade looking thing on his head and thought to myself, “I would like to get to know that guy.” But, I just kept walking, feeling pressed for time as I was going to be late for work.

Who do you think tapped me on the shoulder about 2 minutes later and asked me in perfect English, “How’s it going, man?” Yep. You’re right. It was Tarik. He’s 24 and is majoring in German studies. Imagine that connection, eh? He’s also fluent in Spanish, Arabic and French. He invited me to his house within about 1 minute of knowing him. He lives in a really poor area and his house is extremely minimalistic, so I was quite surprised when he showed me his library. He had books in all the above-mentioned languages and loaned me Catch-22, Words to Live By (C.S. Lewis), and a modest German novel. He took off his cap to reveal a huge Sideshow Bob-esque afro, introduced me to buttermilk (wow, that’s SOUR!) and we talked. Topics ranged from social problems to sports to religion to politics. I’m sure we’ll be hanging out again soon…but keep it on the DL…it’s a secret.

Marrakech Mayhem

Having only been in Morocco for 2 days, laden with jet lag I would've probably been advised not to travel four and a half hours south to Marrakech this weekend. But, I did and was thankful for it.

Of course, we were late meeting each other and had to run to catch our train. Sweaty, but glad we didn't have to wait two hours for the next one, we sat down in what felt like the Hogwarts Express. The train had cabins that sat about 8 people with doors that made it seem like our own private place. We were talking about the tanneries where people stomp pigeon poop into leather to make it extremely soft when Vicky, from England, said, "Of course they do, pigeon poop has magical properties!" Given the situation and the fact that there was another Brit on board I thought we were headed directly to magic school. Turns out, Vicky is quite rad and was extremely helpful with her Arabic skills.

Marrakech is certainly a lively place. The big plaza was extremely entertaining. We watched snake charmers, monkey trainers, storytellers, musicians of all types, henna tattoo artists, dentists (on the street!), fortune tellers, dancers and we even watched a boxing match. Anyone could put on the gloves and box each other...the catch was that the crowd had to pay enough money for them to fight. I was left wishing I'd have paid more attention when my older cousin Trent was beating my body into bloody submission as a youngster. Alas, I only watched. But, man it was a sensory overload to be there on that plaza. Aside from all of the entertainment, food vendors were out in full force with spicy aromatically pleasing wares to offer.

Marrakech is known for its hustlers. People posing as tour guides offer to take you places and then expect money for doing it. They can be rather pushy and annoying. So, it was with great relief when someone grabbed my shoulder and said, (in perfect English) "Hey I'm not a tour guide. I only want to talk Rasta." I turned around to be greeted by a dread-locked, nearly toothless friendly face and in my best Bob Marley accent replied, "That's right. We must win it with Rasta. If we don't win it with Rasta, we will continue to suffer until we learn these things...with Rasta there will be no more war!" Youssef and his friend, Mustaffah were obviously excited by this and we ended up going to the base of a large, beautiful mosque, sat in a circle and listened to Youssef tell us of Rasta, Islam and Arabic folklore. It was such a beautiful time and proved to me that good, truth-seeking people are found everywhere. (pictures to follow...for some reason they're not loading)

The New Cheese

Its interesting what travel can do to a man. Undoubtedly there's an overwhelming sense of novelty that comes with the territory of being involved in service work in a foreign country whose language I do not speak (aside from basic greetings that ALWAYS draw a smile and sometimes hugs and kisses from complete strangers). Certainly there's a sense of longing for the good ol' days when kids respected their elders, politicians didn't philander, gas was cheap (even though I walk everywhere), and I had a job where I could bank on having thought-provoking conversation with my students. But, there's definitely an excitement derived from the above-mentioned novelty and for the nebulous nature of not knowing what awaits me nor knowing how to communicate about it.

Although I am living on a different continent, trying to speak a different language, surrounding myself with people I don't know, some things never change. For example, I caught a teenage girl picking her nose the other day and that's still funny. My host mother started breast feeding right in front of me the other day and that's still a little awkward. I smile and wink at a lot of people and they smile and wink back. Body language is a powerful tool anywhere.

I've yet to adjust to certain elements of the new cheese, however. I'm shocked (and a little angry) when I'm startled awake by the 4:30 A.M. call to prayer from the mosque that's right next to my house. I find it one of the most beautiful sounds when I'm relaxing with my new family, drinking tea late at night, but somehow at 4:30 in the morning its not as pretty...yet. I still feel a bit different after my bucket bath than I do when I take a steamy American shower. The conservationist, "if its yellow let it mellow, brown flush it down" side of me deeply appreciates said baths, but I still need to convince the hedonistic Dane that they're ok, too.

Overall, I'm convinced that I'm in for a richly rewarding few months here in Morocco. Inshallah. (God Willing)

Who Moved My Cheese?

What creams my twinkie? What floats my boat? By what is my crank turned? What causes my pretzel to twist? What motivates my kitty cat to get all dressed up in his pajamas? My responses to these questions would determine what my "Cheese" is according to Dr. J.(not to be confused with the B-ball phenom with a killer afro)



In a book sharing the title of this blog post Spencer Johnson writes of four characters living in a maze who unexpectedly face change when their "Cheese" vanishes. The maze and cheese provide simple metaphors for navigating the sometimes nebulous world of novelty that arrives at life's crossroads.

I have recently approached a point where I've decided to move my own cheese. I've been gnawing on a delicious Pepper Jack brick for the past 8 months, experiencing the softness and occasionally surprising spice of Sunrise Academy, residential treatment center and boarding school for girls. Teaching these lovely students has been an experience that words cannot adequately describe. We've laughed a lot, played a lot, shared many life lessons together and I've felt my capacity to care expand. I've never had a job that has infused me with this much passion and enthusiasm.

But, its time for new "Cheese". Briouats are Moroccan pastries that are pumped full of a variety of fillings and then fried. I've heard of a simple and supposedly incredibly tasty version that calls for cream cheese. They sound delicious. I wonder how they compare with my Pepper Jack brick.