kelaa m'gouna area

here are pictures from my first visit to my site, which i cant name because pc wont let me. but it is a couple hours north of kelaa m'gouna, and east of ouarzazate. i was initially hesitant about being in the arid south and on the back side of the high atlas mtns, but my site is amazing. you must climb in a packed van(transit) for three hours into the dry mountains before emerging unto a wide rolling valley. my site is built into the side of a hill, surrounding a lush green river valley. behind the village(dwwar) is a limestone gorge that provides for amazing scenery and birding, but also is troublesome in that during heavy rains the outflow from the narrow canyon causes havoc on the villagers crops. the village is strictly berber(amazigh) but is on a major trekking route for foreigners(arumi). i have two other pc volunteers in the valley about a hours walk away.

the system of agriculture is ingenious, every possible arable stretch of land is used and irrigated through ages old aqueducts and ditchs. plots are small and make for a patchwork of different family-owned gardens, much different than the monocultured fields im accustomed to in the states. the gardens are separated by berms lined with trees or rose bushes, giving it a storytale feeling as you duck under low branches and jump side to side over creeks.


here is the view of the gorge that crosssects the valley. the walls are 150 ft in sections.


as you emerge on the far side of the gorge you begin to enter the side of the atlas that receives more rain and the vegetation is much more abundant. the area is apparently void of large mammals but is teaming with birdlife. i was amazed to see yellow wagtails, the bird i studied in alaska, and is known to migrate from north america to africa. maybe the individuals i observed so long ago are the same im seeing here, weird huh!!

the art of breaking up a donkey fight

on a recent visit to my site, I was taught an important skill, the delicate art of donkey conflict mediation. my family and i were sitting down to a leisurely meal, when were heard the horrible cry of our family donkey in pain. just as suddenly a neighor kid burst in, yelling that the neighbor's donkey was on the loose and looking for trouble. we ran outside to see our donkey in the fight of his/her life!! now, the uninitiated might ask how does one go about breaking up a donkey fight, well dear reader i shall tell you.

Step 1: run around frantically deciding what to do next

Step 2: select a good sized rock. this takes some skill to pick the right stone; preferably golfball sized and ergonomically comfortable to your given hand

Step 3: form a circle around the battling animals; careful of flailing hooves and snarling teeth

Step 4: pelt the assailtant with your rock; careful not to hit other people pummeling the animals with their rocks

Step 5: grab the tethers of the donkeys and begin to pull the animals apart. this step is reserved for more experienced practicioners ie fathers

Step 6: walk the aggressor home and yell at his/her owner for allowing their donkey to get loose.




as a pcv i understand my role as an agent of change, so ive recognized that these disputes are a possible area where i can administer my skills of mediation/pacificion. if all goes well i could be known far and wide as the "notorious ass whisperer"

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.”

morocco

here begins my twenty-seven month service with the peacecorps in the kingdom of Morocco. i will be a environmental volunteer in a location yet to be decided. to catch everyone up to the present, the group of 60 volunteers met in philly for a couple days in early march. then flew to casablanca (see map) and immediately drove to rabat, the capital. there we began language (darija the local dialect of arabic) and cultural sensitivity training. a couple days later the group split in half, with the environmental sector heading to the mountain town of azrou (between marrakech and fes) to begin focused orientation. in azrou i learned i would be learning a different language called tamazigt, an amazigt (the pc version of berber) tongue. after a week we broke into smaller groups (6) for community based training (CBT) where we will live in homestays in the surrounding area of azrou.



the palace mosque from the hotel in rabat located beside king mohammed VI palace



view of the old medina in rabat





rows and rows of tombstones outside the old city ramparts in rabat





















the european style town of azrou, training site for the environmental sector



huge atlas cedar, remanants of the old grown forests in the middle atlas mountains above azrou


the traditional sitting room in the auberge (hotel) notice the tiled walls and cushioned backless sofas



souk (market) in azrou, fresh vegetables in abundance


the toughest crew peacecorps ever saw!!

once you swab backs, you never go back

south carolina dept of natural resources hired me to assist in a couple projects in the winter of 2006. primarily sampling wintering shorebirds for avian influenza (bird flu) along the sc coastline. i lived on santee coastal reserve near mclellanville, a historic rice plantation and legendary duck hunting club. i was allowed to lived in the now vacant hunting lodge, a 20 room plantation style house for americas elite during the early 1900's, which to this day i question whether it was haunted. i worked for Felicia Sanders, a state biologist and extraordinary successful advocate for all things winged on the east coast.



most mornings started before sunup by boating out to a barrier island where the birds overnight in huge flocks. we set rocket nets on the tideline near the congregated birds and then retreat to the dunes with hopes that the birds will return to the area. the rocket nets are exactly what they sound like; think cartoons or some bad action adventure movie. three steel tubular cannons are packed with gun powder and attached to a 100 sq ft woven net by shackles. charges are wired and a lead of wire allows us to sit in the dunes and remotely trigger the net to fire as the birds return. an explosion as the net casts over the birds and we run to extract them carefully. the birds are swabbed with qtips, banded, and released.


resting after an early morning catching birds. shelton (usda), marc (scdnr), i forget


western sandpiper, looking at covert tracts


we also worked in yawkey wildlife refuge, a private refuge donated by the former owner of the boston red sox to sc dep of natural resources. its closed to the public and used exclusively for research and preservation, consequently there are huge numbers of shorebirds on the mudflats, remnants of rice paddies. rocket nets were impractical in the mud so we opted for mistnets.


overlooking the mudflats and mistnets waiting for captures


processing the birds in the mobile "sterile" lab


working up a semipalmated plover with the help of a coastal carolina student


for all you bird nerds the differences in least (yellow legs, shorter bill) and western sandpipers


i helped a grad student from clemson, christy hand, who was studying feeding behaviors of american oystercatchers in cape romain wildlife refuge. it was some horribly boring work staring through a scope for 8 hours a day with a stopwatch, but i got to wear a cool pirates eyepatch to combat eye fatigue. another story of the size of the world i had met christy in hawai'i at a party years earlier, and again in florida a couple years ago.


working with sc dnr allows you to experience some unique opportunities like; squirrel huntin', cuttin' down big ol' trees, chewin', dippin', drivin' trucks, and burnin' STUFF like forests! YEAH buddy!! i got to help on a prescribed burn on one of the properties near santee. it was fun until everyone left me there by myself to go to get mtn dews and moonpies from "da stow"


dj wiggedy whack!! towards the end of my stay in the huge house i got some visitors. two researchers from univ. of delaware came to study "secretive marsh sparrows". they were using song recordings to determine presence of certain species of difficult to find sparrows in the tidal marshes. i helped them set up some transects and being a amazingly strong man i carried the boombox the lure the birds in. "i got beats to make all the lil warblers go tweet tweet/what what/ all the rufous colored wrens say HO/yeah yeah" i think i got a chance with avian hip hop!!


we also sampled hunter killed waterfowl for AI. not one of my prouder moments (you know the paparazzi) but heres me caught in an intimate act with a teal