Fieldtripping

After two years in Morocco you'd be a little crazy too. This is my conclusion after three days in the Dades river gorge north-east of Ouarzazate visiting a current Health Volunteer. Once again I can't tell you exactly where her site is but suffice it to say that it is one of the most breath taking places I have ever been. The austere beauty of this remote site, nestled deep in the High Atlas, is testified to by the hundreds of French tourists that I saw practicing for the qualifying round of the Paris-Dakaer rally in their spacious and luxiouriously appointed RV's. These RV's which contained anywhere between 2 to 5 european individuals would - if used by Moroccans - have contained around 15 seated passengers, 10 standing, 5 on the roof and 6 clutching for dear life to the rear of the vehicle. I know this because my transit up the Dades valley managed to hold this many people - with room to spare for the occasional goat. All without the benefit of closable doors, air conditioning or windows that could open - I was in Peace Corps experience heaven.

The transit up the valley floor was not the only astounding point of this journey up the gorge. The next days brought surprises aplenty. The most jarrring to me was when we went to tea at the home of a local family who were close with the female volunteer we were visiting. For those who aren't familiar with Moroccan gender roles, women and men do don't interact once they come of age, unless they are members of the same nuclear or semi-extended family unit. Imagine my surprise then when upon my entering this Moroccan home and removing my shoes, a sign of respect, and waiting for my turn to be greeted by the women of the house I was greeted by a big 'ol , wet peck on the cheek by one of the family matriarchs! Now this may not sound like a lot to those of you back in the PDA heavy states - but let me put it in perspective: the volunteer we were staying with had never seen or heard of any male forigner, and only a very few non nuclear family member males, being greeted with a kiss in her village or in those surronding it. Why this greeting? I can only chalk it up to a "crazy" rumour circulating in the village that I, the strange man from America, had been seen making dough two days previously. A rumour that I can only shamefully confirm to be true, proving once again that the ability to make a killer pizza opens doors the world over, or at least in rural Morocco as well as in America.