Hamman's

Hammans, are magic - distilled and placed in set form a gift from on high. But such sentiment is not shared by all, far too often Hammans and the public bathing house as a form disparaged as little more then breeding grounds for disease. But they are far more then that. They are both a haven for health and hygiene and a hallowed home for women and men, a place where Hsuhma takes a back seat to the vital social functions of society.

But first a geography lesson on the lay of the land found within each and every Hamman: basics being that their are three rooms. One hotter than hell, another the Mohave in summer and the final a reasonable San Diego spring day. Running through each of these rooms is a constant stream of men, babies and boys - i'd comment on how the other half lives but aside from its social function their isn't much that I can say about it as Hammans are sexually segregated affairs. Meaning I have little first hand experience with the female half of the Hamman. How Hammans are divided differs from region to region and village to village, with a sharing of space more common the more rural you get. If a single Hamman space is physically shared then it is temporally separated - with men in the early mornings and evenings and women the remainder of the day.

As for the process of visiting a Hamman, it is a virtual minefield. Or at least it would be virtual if it wasn't a real place with real concerns and dangers. Or at least that is the way it is presented to the unwary foreigner - and possibly that is the way it would be if it wasn't for the infinite patience and generosity of the moroccan people. But that said their is a right and wrong way to go about acting in the Hamman. For one, even though it is a public bath, men are never fully unclothed as it is both shameful to be seen naked and shamming to those that see you naked. But women, women are a different story - they are allowed to be most free when in the Hamman. When they are hidden from the judgmental eyes of society, where men and women's interactions are circumscribed, as women are allowed to be most free only around other women.

As for what goes into visiting a hamman, to be prepared for the experience you must be well hydrated and carry with you a change of underwear, a towel, a pair of sandals and a glove whose texture most closely resembles that of sand paper. Once you arrive at the Hamam you purchase for half a dirham a black tarry soap substance called Sabon Beldi, or "soap of the country" which you rub over your body after sitting in the Hamman - the hot room - until your blood feels as though it's boiling. At this point the cleaning begins - the rhythmic rubbing of the sandpaper glove all over your body. A process both disgusting and refreshing, but which eventually came to be for me the most relaxing part of the week. Along with the deadened grey skin my worries and concerns from the previous week all float down the drain towards the non-existent sewer system I prefer not to think about.

If you prefer not to scrub yourself the Hamman often employs a man whose job it is, for a donation of around 20 dhs, to scrub you clean. But be warned if you make use of this service you will be rubbed red and raw and resemble more a lobster then you had ever previously resembled a lobster, which for me at least is one creature i've never felt the slightest desire to resemble. Most often Hammans are a group affair - where two or more friends go together and rub each others backs, so that when one goes on their own one often ends up with one or two new friends.

The concept of the public bath, is one that is often equated with homosexuality in the United States but in Morocco such concerns are considered irrelevant and in fact if one was to mention them would result in deep embarrassment on the part of the person being asked, that you would feel a need to bring up such a subject. This embarrassment does not mean that homosexuality is common in Morocco - but rather means that the concept is so far from the realm of the possible that the mention of it is more likely to elicit laughter then serious concern. Homosexuality is viewed as a condition of the developed world - something to be found in France or Italy, Spain or even the United States but never to be found in Morocco. Why? Because Morocco has religion. End of topic, end of discussion, end of subject.

But not the end of our visit to the Hamman, because we have yet to cover possibly my favorite aspect of the Hamman - the final chapter - the act of shaving a weeks worth of beard growth from my sun kissed visage. And so we exit the Hamman - walking into the sunset - anticipating the next weeks visit to the Hamman.

Mr. Saids Wild Ride

Now the thing about transportation in morocco is that all that matters is if you have it: safety, liability, pollution, cleanliness, none of these things matter when confronted with the twin choices of driving or walking under the beating sun. In a country where the temperature routinely breaks 100, you really don't want to be walking under the hot southern sun (tafusht) so maybe you put yourself into circumstances that back in the states wouldn't be your first choice - or that wouldn't have even made your top 100 choices. But in Morocco, they really are your only choice. Especially when you are with your host family and they see nothing wrong with your transportation option - no matter how "interesting" it may seem to you.

So I was standing by the wall to nowhere on monday, more about this wall to come later, waiting for the noon bus from Fez - sitting on a nice little pile of rocks basking in the shade of the wall to nowhere. Now, if I was travelling in to souk on my own I would have waited for the bus, but with my host mom and host brother - all bets are off. It was at this point that Said and his late eighties vintage Renault (the car of the Moroccan People) bounced his way down the road from Zeida and into my life. I say bounced because rather than, as most cars do, driving down the middle of the road his rust colored chariot careened from side to side - turning towards the center only when Said noticed the change in the grade between the asphalt road base and the volcanic fields that surround the road.

Suffice it to say at this point while I was entertained, I was not expecting to enter Mr. Saids wild ride, but after a y'alla (come here) from my host mom I piled into the car with the six other intrepid souls. Bouncing aside, the car ride was not unlike any of the other seven person taxi rides i've taken over the last four months. The ride got interesting though as we went down one hill and started to ascend the next hill, and Saids car being a stick shift he shifted - and the shifter snapped in two. This is the point at which people would get concerned in the United States, but in Morocco - one doesn't bat an eyelash - rather one just sits back, smiles and laugh as the car comes to a natural stop at the crest of the next hill.

Now how is a situation like this solved in two minutes or less, without spending even a single dirham? Why with a steel rod strategically discarded at the same point we slid to a stop at of course! Said, using only a large rock, delicately pounded the steel rod into the shifter case - and away we bounced down the road towards Zaida, souk and safety. As a postscript after arriving in Zeida we each paid our five dirhams for the ride and Said turned right around and bounced into the sunset to pick up another load of intrepid travelers to ride in his wild ride.

Sheep Shearing

It’s been a bit since my last update, and that means a lot has happened: last days in CBT, lightning storms, language proficiency exams, hours spent in seedy Moroccan bars (which do exist), karaoke, hunts for ice cream, a talent show (including fire dancing and musical comedy), swear in (in Ouarzazates only 5 star hotel, the Berber Palace), host family members stuffing plastic bags full of food, pool games, tearful goodbyes to now old friends, the meeting and making of new friends, the invention of card games, the sacrifice of watermelons to bu-itran (bu, means owner, while itran means stars– so that particular god phrase literally translates as owner of the stars) and the slow process of integrating into a community that has almost no idea why I’m here and even less of an idea what I do; But then for that matter some days neither do I.
That will have to suffice for this posts update because instead of rehashing old events I want to jump right into the events of last Sunday. Now, Tamazight, is for me, far from the easiest language in the world – that said I’m not known for my grasp of languages other than English. This means that a lot of the time in my conversations I’m grasping at straws or carrying water one thimble at a time; which has led to some interesting situations in the past and this time led to me spending a day, mostly watching, occasionally helping, shear 180 sheep in the mountains above my community.
I involved myself in this expedition to the heart of the Middle Atlas through a conversation with a twelve-year old boy in my village, Said, who invited me to accompany him and his family into the mountains to possibly see an alpine lake and possibly go fishing. Somewhere along the line I also got the impression that sheep might be involved, but on that point I was unsure. All I knew for certain when our business was concluded was that I was going to the mountains and that going to the mountains involved leaving the village at 5 am.
A 5 am departure was complicated though as that very morning when we were to depart at 5 am coincided with Morocco’s inaugural use of daylight savings time. This meant that I, in my desire to not be left behind or complicate matters arose at the new 4:30 am, which had previously been 3:30 am – while the reminder of those involved choose not to be concerned by anything as technical as adding an hour and arose at what was now 5:45 am or what had previously been 4:45 am. This confusion of time continued on and off for the reminder of the day, and the next day when government offices were open; was even more interesting to observe.
Precisely at 5:30 am, Said came and collected myself, and my 29-year-old host brother Ismail (who had likely been roped into watching me, foreigners can’t be trusted to guide or watch over themselves after all) and led us to the bitterly cold road to wait for the transit to arrive. I might sound like I minded this, I didn’t, because I had another lightning bolt, or an “I’m in Morocco” moment, as I call them; while watching the sun paint the sky above the plains at the edge of Atlas Mountains surrounded by some of the most welcoming people I have ever spent time with.
Soon 12 others and myself were piled into a Transit, a topic for another time, traveling into the mountains. We took the road to Itzer, turned up the road to Timhadit and Azrou, before turning off of the main road onto a tiny dirt track, a track that was soon eaten by the rolling hills and endless grass meadows of the Middle Atlas. A landscape whose bleak beauty, was given life and warmth through the patches of red and purple wild flowers which dotted the hills upon which one could see distant Shepard’s flocks. Into this transplanted Scottish or Irish moor we traveled along increasingly erratic tracks, the only reminder of my location the occasional mud brick house and the dozen Moroccans slumbering by my side. The men slumbering by my sides were themselves a cross section of modern Morocco: the older men dressed in traditional djilbas, the younger generation in either Italian designer or addidas tracksuit knockoffs, and those in between dressed in a purely Moroccan syncrinistic fashion: djilbas mixing with baseball caps, three piece suits with turbans, and the footwear anything from a pair of crocs to combat boots.
After an hour of travel our carriage came to a halt in a remote mountain hillock, with a house distantly sheltered by the alternately smooth and craggy hilltops. This was our days destination, this house nowhere near anything that could claim to be a pool, let alone a lake – I was suspicious. My suspicions were soon confirmed by the 180 sheep clustered tightly in a corral around the front of the mud brick house. Rather then feeling disappointment at the lack of a lake, I was exhilarated by the presence of so many sheep, as with my limited knowledge of all things related to sheep and to Morocco I deduced could mean only one thing: a sheep shearing party!
What is a sheep shearing party? Why it’s exactly what you would expect it to be: men working hard and singing work songs praising allah as they manhandle sheep from as near to dawn to as close to dusk as it takes to shear 180 sheep. All the while, as the men work in the stuffy, low ceilinged rock barn the women keep the mens stomachs full by feeding them delicious, mouthwateringly greasy fry bread while keeping their energy up with enough tea to drown the Persian army – but only after giving it diabetes (this is because Moroccan tea, while wonderful and offering a window into the Moroccan way of life, is still more parts sugar than tea).

TO BE CONTINUED...

Under The Shadow of La Rais

Well I have a home for the next two years, and it’s in the north. My site is at the edge of the Middle Atlas Mountains, at the base of a black mountain from which a spring named El Rais flows. The spring is used to irrigate many of the fields in my site and is used as a source of drinking water in some of the Douars. What I didn’t mention about the mountain from which El Rais flows the three kilometers to my village, is why it is the only black mountain in a line of brown hills: it is a volcano. Before you get concerned though let me reassure that I’ve been informed by reliable sources that it is in fact inactive, possibly dormant, and hopefully extinct. Though a little bit of me has to admit that it would love to wake up one morning to see it smoking – among other reasons, so that when I’m old and grey I can say I’ve lived in the shadow of a fiery giant.

Another reason I wouldn’t mind an active volcano would be the winter – because apparently ill be needing all the winter clothes I brought and then some, just to keep from freezing when using my bit lama (turkish toilet) – which makes a volcano capable of keeping the snow down a lot more attractive. Just because my site is on a plain doesn’t mean I don’t get the cold, as while my site is located on a plain –the plain itself is nestled between the High Atlas and Middle Atlas at an elevation higher then that of Denver. That said I still have it pretty good – I’ll just need to take precautions in my house : like buying a wood burning stove to keep my bit lama from freezing over in the winter.

The people in my site seem incredibly welcoming and kind – and those who speak Berber are defiantly filled with Amazigh pride. The Province my site is located in, Khenifra, is known throughout Morocco as a locus for Berber pride, and during the French period and early years after independence as a center for Amazigh resistance to the central, Arab dominated, government in Rabat. As a result of this history the king, Mohammad the 6th, has only recently paid his first visit to Khenifra province – an event of much excitement in this country as a visit by the King is viewed much like that of a rockstar is viewed back in the states – except the king has power and can make things happen.

This first visit of his to Khenifra province led to the transformation of any town he might possibly pass through or see from an adjoining road – a transformation that included the sudden appearance of hundreds, if not thousands, of Moroccan flags hanging from any and every possible surface, bathing the towns of the province in a red and green glow. In addition to a spike in flag sales the Kings visit also brought a shake up in the Provincial capital, Khenifra, where both the Governor and Minister of Health were shown unceremoniously out of their own offices and into the street. The reason for these sudden forced retirements is shaded in “official” mystery, though the word on the street is both administrative inefficiency and corruption on the part of the governor and Minister. The new Minister of Health is an unknown figure, but the new governor is a native of the province and a Berber and so his appointment has elicited wild joy within the majority Berber province.

The Province of Khenifra though is not entirely Berber, or Amazigh as Berbers prefer to be called (Berber is derived from the Greek word Barbarian), a reality that exists within even my small slice of Amazigh heaven. Of the eleven Douars in my site, which contains roughly 4,200 people, three of my Douars speak only Arabic and an additional two are mixed. My site itself is spread out over 28 Kilometers, with my furthest Douar 15 Kilometers from my Sbitar (rural health clinic). This area is serviced by one male nurse so I’ll be doing a lot of traveling, on my Peace Corps issued Trek Mountain Bike, to get the lay of the land before starting any big projects. As no matter how dedicated your healthcare professional, that’s a lot of space and a fair amount of people.

Peace Corps Crazy

I started my last post by talking about how two years in Morocco could drive one a little over the edge, so I thought in this post i'd relate just one of the crazy volunteer stories i've heard.

This particular Peace Corps story involves a volunteer who served in Morocco two or three volunteer generations in the past - or in laymens terms - roughly four to six years ago. This volunteer had requested to be posted to a very remote site, deep in the High Atlas Mountains, far from other volunteers or other americans or forigners of any type. Throughout training he had always been a little stand-offish, not anti-social per say, but far from the most gregarious member of his stage. With this background it was not unusual for him to dissapear into his remote mountain site for weeks at a time with no contact with the outside world. About a year into his service though volunteers around him began to grow concerned, as even those with whome he shared a souk town realized they hadn't seen him in more then two months. This alone wouldn't have caused too much concern if not for the rumours about the strange american that started to make their way from Moroccans into the Peace Corps grapevine. From the volunteer community the rumours then made their way to the Peace Corps Office in Rabat and a staff member was dispatched to investigate the Kurtz like rumours eminating from the Atlas.

Upon encountering the long lost volunteer nothing seemed amis, he seemed well integrated into his community and was seemingly healthy in appearence. In fact the staff members concerns were quickly disarmed by the volunteers pleasent demenor and warm greeting. The volunteer quickly invited the staff member in for hamburgers, which the staff member gladly accepted. As he entered the volunteers mudbrick home the staff member was quickly struck by a pungent odor, but the volunteers home seemed clean and in order. That is until the volunteer opened a closet and pulled a hunk of rotting, maggot infested meat from a pile that reached to the volunteers thighs, and began to mold it into a hamburger patty. The volunteer was medically seperated the next day - and was back in the states by the next week.

Hence the term Peace Corps Crazy. Now how true is this story? I have no idea - likely it is just a Peace Corps urban legend. But still, it makes you think.

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.

Ice Cream In Oz

There is a cloud in the sky, and therefore my little Moroccan world is being rocked. Why? Because after one month in country I am shocked if the temperature in Ouarzazate in the middle of the day is not approaching unbearable. But that said, in Morocco there is an ice cream season – and it doesn’t start until lack of ice cream leads to cerebral hemorrhaging. It’s bad to generalize, and I know this – but that said, of all the Moroccans I have spoken with about Ice Cream season the universal response is one of consternation in regards for my desire for Ice Cream when the distant High Atlas Mountains are still snow capped – never mind that on the plains birds avoid laying their eggs in direct sun for fear of their eggs being hard boiled and turning bad before even touching their nests. Thus without Ice Cream and with heat like that, a fieldtrip up the lush and cool Dades Valley Gorge to visit and experience the life of a current volunteer couldnt come at a better time.