Year 2961

Let me set the scene…

500 people.  Men on one side, women on the other.  The announcer is speaking in a language, which, quite frankly, sounds like gibberish to me at this point in my service.  I hear my name and applause welcome my every step towards the podium.  There the crowd is waiting, with breath bated.  I stifle my nerves and let the prose flow forth…

“Azul…”

The rest of my speech is temporarily halted, as I am overwhelmed with roars of approval from the audience.  All I said was “hello” in Tashelhit (one of the three Berber dialects here in Morocco).  I feel like Obama at Cairo University, when his “salam ale-kum” was received with resounding approval.  A smile is plastered across my face for the rest of my speech.

Now you may be wondering where I get the audacity to give a speech in front of 500 people after only living in my permanent site for six weeks.  Well, let’s be honest: I was tricked.  I was “taken” (read: abducted) to a Berber New Year party (yes folks, we are finally in year 2961, l’hamdullilah). 

Some of the performers at the Berber New Year party.  These men performed a traditional dance called, "aHwaj"

A friend appeared at my place of work decked out in traditional Moroccan wear: a key-lime pie colored jelaba with sequins and all.  She immediately chastised me for not having my “party” clothes on.  (Disclosure: Peace Corps volunteers don’t really pack party dresses for this sort of occasion; what does one wear to a Berber New Year party anyways?).  I head off into the darkness with her, deciding to trust that she has my best interests at heart.  We arrive at a quite monstrous, circus-like tent, whereupon I am greeted by her fellow association members.  The Tazerzite Association – the local Berber pride association – is putting on this fête.  Two of them pull me aside and basically guilt-trip me into making a speech.  I should have known.  I’m such a sucker.

That was mid-January.  Since then, I’ve dived right into my work.  I’ve been working at the Dar Chabab every day.  I teach way too many English classes, but I really do love my kids. 

An English lesson.  On the left, the kids wrote in Arabic, "Devil, Boogy-man."  Isn't she a beauty?

We recently had a basketball hoop erected, which has led to endless games of 2v2 action.  On weekends, I’ve begun playing Ultimate Frisbee with my kids.  At first they were quite skeptical of this weird looking “flying plate” – that’s the literal translation.  But after they realized that it could be quite competitive, they took to it like a fish in water…or I guess like a Moroccan to tajine.  Besides that, we draw all the time – I have quite a few aspiring artists in the class.  I even attempted making bracelets with the little girls.  That ended with a few hundred beads on the floor.  We play lots of games – Monopoly is, by far, the most loved board game.  Let me tell you, these kids are excellent bargainers; when the game is at a standstill, their genetic predisposition (my theory) to trade you Illinois Ave for Park Place and Boardwalk makes it seem like it was your idea to lose the game.

Otherwise, I’ve been on an epic journey for the past month. I went to Ourzazate for a Peace Corps training in early February.  Ourzazate is where they filmed Star Wars; just imagine the Mars-like landscape.  The roads to get there were treacherous.  We had a projectile-vomiting casualty in the front seat of our taxi. 

Two fellow PCVs and myself in Ourzazate, along with Francisco, the dog we adopted for the day.

Then I was on to Rabat for five days, and then to Azrou for another weeklong meeting.  This meeting was full of endless power-point presentations like the one below.  Can you follow all those arrows?

I have no idea what's going on here.

In Azrou, we slept as snug as bugs in a rug.  Oh ya, and there are two more beds hiding in the opposite corner.

We made the most amazing project write-up ever.  That's me in the pleated skirt.

This meeting included a Project Runway style fashion show, where we got to show off our best imitation of Moroccan fashions.  I entered with my fellow PCV, another Hannah, and we entered as “The Hanans” – our Moroccan names – and began the show with a choreographed dance to Britney Spears’ “Toxic.”  I know, you all wish you were there.  We won for best choreography.

"The Hanans" in style.  Pending our agent's permission, we will be making a reappearance at our next meeting in Marrakesh.

After Azrou, seven of us, including the driver, packed into a taxi for our journey to visit our first host families, just outside of Fes.  We decided to pay the taxi driver to drive us all the way to our tiny, two hundred person town, instead of having to get out and stuff our luggage into yet another taxi.  Upon arrival, it turned out that our taxi driver knew every single one of our host families.  He had attended Rachel’s sister’s baby ceremony thirteen years ago.  The world is really just that small.  After twenty-four hours straight of non-stop eating with our host families, we parted ways.  Three of us headed back to our sites, and the other three of us decided to take a visit to the old Medina in Fes for some hard-earned shopping.   

The beautiful leather shoes in the Medina in Fes.  I couldn't help myself!

Fes is known for its blue-glazed pottery.

Two pairs of leather shoes, four scarves, and some nougat later, I hopped back on the train to Rabat, where I have been recuperating for the past week, probably from some sort of bug and/or the kind of thing you get from non-stop traveling all over the country for a month.

And I did it all in a weekend-sized duffle bag.  Who says you can’t wear the same outfit for seven days in a row?  Builds character.