confessions of a milk cartel bodyguard

for as long as i can remember (early march) ive been involved with the ben guiri milk cartel. its just something i've was born into for better or worse.
i'll take you along on a typical "delivery run" to town. my father, ali, rises @ 4 am to collect the "product" (milk) from our neighbors and loads ~80 liters into our streetrod.
we begin our 5 mile journey into azrou at breakneck speeds comparable to that of a blind, lame, and overburdened donkey. upon arrival 40 minutes later we first visit the cafes on the main drag to drop-off the "stuff." ali's jovial demeanor quickly shifts to that of a hard nosed businessman, he tells me to "stay with the car" as he comes around to open my door because the handle and latch have fallen off. ali returns with a jug of coffee and no blood on his hands, everything went smoothly. we motor up the hill with little concern for life, the horses under hood ablazin', only to arrive at the petrol station to give the "ponies" a drink. as we fill up the brakes fail and the car begins to roll away, but "the godfather" is quick to throw a log under the rear wheel, no sweat. 30 cents of gas and were off. next stop is to the neighborhoods for a little shakedown!! driving through the neighborhood, ali gives the horn a wheezy/dusty honk, and adeptly guides the car onto the curb to compensate for the lacking braking system.
as we open the rear hatch, the "users" begin to line up under my watchful gaze. "hey NO cutting" i yell "there's enough for everyone." after all the nickel and dimers are satiated we hop back in the "ride," cut the tires from the curb and are off. always the frugal boss, ali cruises with the car off the entire 3 miles down the hill, oblivious to the honking cars and trotting donkeys passing us regularly. we cut through the downtown to cruise the strip and let our presence be known, "i own this town" ali yells as we turn towards home. as we near ait amer ou ali, ali, ever the environmentalist, cuts the engine some 400 yards from the house and we creep into the drive. another day, another dollar. fugitaboutit!!

imilchil

this past week the env. sector broke into small groups and headed out to visit "real" PC volunteers in the field. zach, sarah sue, and i went to imilchil (8 hours south of azrou) to stay with rebecca gehring. imlilchil is situated near two lakes alledgedly formed by two lovers separated by family differences (think romeo and juliet). because of this story, imcilchil is famous for its marriage festival where the women ask the men to wed, and yup you guessed it i was turning them down left and right. for the first time we were in a strictly berber village where we could use our language. and boy was it bad, but on the bright side im an expert body gesturer. getting into the field and seeing a realistic PC setting was very refreshing, ive been getting bogged down in the 8 hour training days thus far, but seeing what life will be like for the next 2 years was great.


sarah sue, zac, rebecca, jesse (another volunteer from the area), me @ the tislite (the bride) lake. amazingly beautiful, the water was carribean blue/green, in stark contrast to the harsh, arid landscape surrounding it.


an old stone hut that overlooks the lake.


sarah sue and zach prance their way to the summit. at this point i was crawling.


we arrive at the lonely summit and are enjoying our lunch in solitude, when we hear singing coming from down the ridge. here comes mustafa, the cell phone tower guard, inviting us for tea. we join him in the tower for shared lunch and a couple hours of talking before heading back down. during our conversation mustafa was telling us about his family when he suddenly jumped to talking about my facial hair. somewhere along the sarah became confused and proceeded to ask how long his wife's beard was, oh the joys of poor language. moroccans are amazingly patient and generous, always willing to drink super sweet tea with strangers.


in the evenings i would go help jesse, a small business vol. also in imilchil, and her co-op set up sewing machines and looms they had received from a grant. notice the rugs.


the nomads trying on the co-ops wares, check out the guy on the left what an idiot.


resting on the hike down from the summit


hey mama

uncle jims letter

this is a letter my uncle wrote to me about his experience in the peace corps in sierra leone in the 70's. it is the best explanation of the inexplicable; the peace corps experience

Date: 04-11-2007


Andrew,

Your Mom suggested I write you a few lines. I guess your Mom thought I might have some special insight to offer. I’m not so sure I do. Fact of the matter is, although I had a similar experience to what you are having right now, my experiences were a long time ago. Beyond that I’m sure your situation now is quite a bit different than mine was then. I’ll try to sort out how your experience may be different than mine and how it may be alike, with some guessing on my part. (Some of what I’m about to relate may not sit well with your mother, but here goes).

First off, given your away from home experiences I think it likely that home sickness and culture shock won’t be as problematic for you as they were for me and as they may be for some of your PC Volunteer compatriots. Beyond that I’m sure that what ever happens you know that you have two parents (not to mention other relatives) who love you very much. You have a home to go back to.

There is no shame in not going the distance, but if you can make it
through the first year it gets much easier. I remember that the first year was very difficult, for a while what got me through was going to sleep and dreaming of home. Take it minute by minute, a day at a time, but take the long view. I would recommend not going back home at mid-tour, it may be too difficult to go back.

It wasn’t the bugs or the snakes or the political trouble that made
it tough, it was not knowing whether I was doing a good job or not.
Based on what I know of you and where you come from, you will if you only do your best. After you get through training, if what you are doing as a primary job doesn’t allow you to see that you are accomplishing something, take on a secondary project that does, possibly something that you enjoy more.

What comes next is hard to explain. If you can make it through your
experience will form a hard knot inside of you, something which will probably color the rest of your life. Maybe its pride, a better sense of perspective, or just that part of you that got you over there in the first place, I’m not sure what, but it will make the good times that much better and will help get you through the tough time for the same reasons.

I think they probably teach you this, but don’t expect that progress
will be measured in meters. Be happy with millimeters. Also, don’t
get bummed if it seems that your efforts are not appreciated, that may come later, if it comes at all. Just do your best.

Please, please, please be careful. Some volunteers never make it home again. (e.g., If they give you a motor bike, wear the friggin helmet, if you travel keep one eye over your shoulder).

Not to be melodramatic, but looking back, they were the best of times and the worst of times. Don’t expect to come back home and that anyone will understand, not your parents, not your best friends. Only people that have been where you’ve been, seen what you’ve seen.

Ten, twenty or thirty years from now however, you may be walking down the street and hear a song (probably Crosby, Stills and Nash) or smell something, all of a sudden you’ll be back there, you’ll see their faces. Is it a good thing? Sometimes. Is it a bad thing? Sometimes. But from here on out it will be part of you. If that’s not something that scares you, you can do this, it’s worth it.

Write back when you get a chance.

Love,

Uncle Jim

P.S. Feel free to pass this on to anyone over there who you think might need it.

the ben guiri household

this is my pre service training (pst) host family (the ben guiri) from ait amer ou ali. my father ali, 70ish, is a fruit farmer, but dabbles in any and everything. unfortunately i dont have pictures of him, but imagine a moroccan mel brooks. what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in personality. my mother fatima, 70ish, is the matriarch and is forever doing something important, ie baking bread, milking cows, serving meals, etc. they have 7 children, but only 4 live in the house with us. milouda, 37ish, is the quiet, forever patient helper. said, 35ish, is the family funny man, always quick to sing me "happy new years to you." aziza, 25, is the boisterous youngest daughter, and my link to understanding whats going on through her knowledge of spanish. ibrahim, 21, the youngest is often on the road selling fruit trees for his father in the weekly markets (s-suq) in the surrounding area.

aziza, milouda, fatima, said and yours truly


this is the courtyard of the ben guiri, quite plush by moroccan standards. we have a large home with 8 bedrooms, two sitting rooms, two bathrooms and our own well.


the formal sitting room. im not allowed in because i break things


the typical breakfast; fresh baked bread, olive oil, olives, butter, and coffee with milk and tons of sugar

ait amer ou ali

ait amer ou ali, is the site of my group's community based training (cbt), about 7 km from azrou. my group consisted of six members and a language teacher. one member returned to the states due to a stomach illness. we spend the majority of our days in class studying language. the evenings are spent with our individual host families eating dinner and practicing speaking.

the two women on the left im not sure who they are but emily, me, hadija, jhonny, zahara, kira, lexie

my cbt group, mohammed, emily, jennifer, kira and hadija, the cook. sitting down for lunch, usually fresh salad, bread, and tagine (in the clay platter). meals are eaten with your hands by tearing off bread and scooping from the communal central dish.

the average day interviewing locals and hacking my way through the language unintelligibly in a southern accent

baraka: a blessing from God… or get the hell out of the shower

Upon arrival to morocco we learned that baraka, refers to an act of god in the form of a blessing, i.e. the king evading an attempted assassination. So this week when I asked to bathe in the hamman, a woodfired sauna/steamroom, I was told that the neighbor had their hamman heated and I was to go use theirs. Now you need to know that the normal hamman experience lasts hours, so I entered the hamman under the impression that this would be a relaxing experience. I sat there soaking in the soothing heat reflecting on the days events for 15 minutes, when my host mother, Fatima, knocked on the door. Now my tamazigt (the language) isn’t perfect, but what I understood was “Andrew is the heat ok or do you what me to continue to stoke the fire until your desired heating preference is attained.” “Yeah” I responded “Thank you, Fatima, the heat is perfect, you may rest my dear.” A few minutes later she came aknocking again. “Andrew… blah blah blah… baraka” my brain interpreted this as “Andrew you are real gift from heaven” “oh thank you Fatima, I do what I can” I thought. I drifted off to my own thoughts when again, I was rudely interpreted by someone knocking upon the door, this time it was my host sister, Aziza. Aziza speaks some Spanish, thus allowing us to communicate with the fluency of toddlers. She again reminded me that I was indeed “baraka” a gift of God and that there were “otra chicas entra la hamman” (other women entering the hamman) wow I thought being a “baraka” really has its benefits here. “Hold on one second I don’t have my pants on” I yelled out. After dressing myself suitably for the company of ladies I waited patiently. Finally Aziza returned and insisted I open the door as I did she grabbed me and told me to get the hell out of the hamman. As I quickly dressed and was hurried out of the changing room I noticed a row of scowling women lined up just outside the hamman in the cold night air. The next day in class we learned that “baraka” not only means gift from God but also hurry up as in get the hell out of the hamman we’re freezing; white man. Timing, it’s all about timing.


p.s. the next day while interviewing several of the townspeople, I was identified as the “guy from the hammam.”