Azrou

We finished up our training session in Azrou with much adieu. That Friday night we had a lavish banquet with some of the best tasting food I have had yet in Morocco including bastiya (a flaky sweet pastry filled with chicken, almonds, and walnuts), mushrooms, salads, fresh fruit and a cake. There was some curvy Moroccan dancers and small band to entertain us. Of course, by the end of the night we were all dancing and trying to follow the haduce (song/dance,). Our assistant program manager was the most fun to watch. It is easy to imagine him as a toddler; he has a boyish face making it hard to distinguish his age. He was one of the first up to dance, and then yelling at all of us to accompany him. His threatened me with the bus to Rabat (I was grabbing a free ride with him there the next morning), so I quickly hopped up to shake it. It was really lots of fun.

After the dinner, we had sing-along time. Our stag is riddled with talent; you wouldn’t have guessed us to be Peace Corps at first but perhaps the first group of “Moroccan Idol.” We have belly dancers, singers, musicians, and lots of really fun people. We sat around in a circle outside, listening to “Chain of Fools,” “I’ve Got Sunshine,” and lots of others. After Blake sang (one of my CBT buds) my posse got up to head out to the bar, one of the few places where we could drink legally (acceding to Peace Corps rules). We met up with some of the Environment kids and had a good time amidst the somewhat drunk and sketchy Moroccans. Sketchy? You might ask? Perhaps, because in this culture, few Moroccans drink due to their religious beliefs. Some of the ones that do drink in the privacy of their homes or friends’ homes. These Moroccan men were out and about at a bar. I did not feel unsafe or threatened, but was relieved to be in a rather large group. Drunk American, drunk Moroccan… both have significant behavioral changes.

We split up after awhile; I stayed behind with the majority of the Enviros and a few of the Healthies. Times I feel split between the two due to my background and passions. I think I would have fit in right along with the Enviros as much as the Healthies. I think my largest project at my site will be to organize a trash disposal system, appealing to both sectors. Some, if not most of the Enviros, are placed beside or inside Morocco’s parks and preserves. Some deal with Ecotourism, others with creating a system of trails and maps to limit the degradation of flora and fauna, others with erosion control, and some with irrigation systems. How awful! Forced to hike all day and map out trails! Now, grant it, Enviros are the most isolated. Some have to leave their sites in the wee hours of the morning to hike to the closest big road, to hitch a ride into town, which could be miles and miles away. I have heard some of the most heartbreaking stories from friends of both sectors about bad host families, inappropriate host fathers, having to choose sides because half the town is one tribe and the other half is another. Both sectors have sites without water, without electricity (Melissa and Zach cook dinner by candlelight).

Our group leaves the bar to go ride bumper cars. Azrou, at the present time, has one of those traveling carnivals you often see in the parking lots of Kmart and the like. The carnivals that are hastily put up and taken down. That employ kids barely out of high school and ones that look like ex-cons. Carnivals that take little planes up in the air with screaming children and you say a prayer that those bolts don’t come loose and it truly takes flight. Same exact thing. Our group decided that this carnival had been one of the ones where someone had died, the company was sued and the carnival sold. Morocco picked it up in the 70s and now we were paying 5 Dhs/car to slam into each other. Awesome.

Bumper cars are fun. Bumper cars are even more fun when you are tipsy and listening to rap music from the States (Eminem anyone?). It was hilarious. After we rode and slammed into each other for at least 4 songs worth, we moved on to bigger things. Despite the fact that the carnival was pretty much closed, our group (mostly just because of the girls) convinced the young Moroccan men to turn on the flying planes. I do not do circles. Anyone who knows me well enough, knows that I like roller coasters, will ride in the front car but when it comes to circles I look like the Sandlot kids after a big chew at the balloon ride. I tried to stay behind (emphasis on tried). Poor whiny Zach, no one to ride with! He was whining like a little bitch how he had been the sympathy case with the bumper cars and switched off partners, and now he was alone again. Damn my black heart, iced over with disdain towards males in general but I like Zach. He is a cool guy and after losing a battle to some kind of intestinal parasite and a huge dislike of Moroccan food, his pants and shirts were loose and baggy. A whiny bitch with big clothes, who knew I had a weak spot?

I kept my eyes closed half the time and my hand over my mouth. I promised the car behind me I would try my best to projectile vomit, but that was up to my insides. Maybe it was the cool air, maybe the calming effect of the booze, but I kept it all down. Lhumdullah. (I wish now that I had vomited, cause that would have been HILARIOUS to everyone, except those in my wake… hence why I love Seth Rogen’s movies-Knocked Up, Pineapple Express, etc., and Jackass).

We departed. The Healthies had our hotel on one side of town and the Enviros, the other. I went back to my hotel and the dance party was hopping. We love to dance, and thanks to Nicole’s burnt copy or ‘Rize’, we were now into ‘crumping,’ a violent form of dance popular in LA. You should Google it in order to understand. In fact, I believe some of the PCVs even suffered a little from trying to do it… Either way, from bumper cars to dancing, we were living up our last night, aka “wylin’ out” in Gastonia terms.

Skipping ahead to the ride home from Rabat. Preface: Rabat was a culture shock; Azrou was a good stepping stone from the bled to the full-blown city. Women showed skin, had their hair uncovered, colored, and cut. It was a large city with banks, restaurants and stores with shit (worthless things like glass sculptures and porcelain dolls, things you can only buy with a surplus of income). Rabat is on the ocean and we made sure to visit and enjoy ourselves. People were swimming and surfing, I saw bathing suits, couples holding hands and kissing… craziness, especially coming from the bled.

I made travel arrangements to Ourzazate by CTM, a bus company that costs more for its direct routes, nicer seats and air conditioning. The other option was to take the souq bus. These buses stop for anyone and anything. They are known to break down, do not have air conditioning and are a wee bit more shady, but cost less. The difference was close to 50 Dhs, but Peace Corps is reimbursing me for my travel, and they prefer that PCVs take CTM when available. Starting at 6:30pm, I was to take the bus to Casablanca, transfer to another bus to Marrakesh and proceed to Ourzazate. Little did I know that I would not arrive to Ourzazate until 6:30 the next morning, but that actually worked out for the best.

I almost missed my first bus. We had stayed at a cheap hotel in Rabat (everything costs more there) that Peace Corps had arranged for us. The beds were not made, and we ended up putting on the sheets ourselves. We ended up having to ask for towels also and there were no outlets in the room. My phone was almost dead when we arrived at the CTM station and I plugged it into the outlet there, making a friend in the process. In his broken English and substituted French we talked about our jobs and why I was in Morocco. They called out that a bus was leaving at 6:00. I thought it was another one, no, it was mine. He was trying to get my email address as I was running out to flag it down. The bus driver scolded me, but in a jovial way and I received a few looks from the passengers. Falisha had come with me to the bus station, her bus was leaving a lot later and she joked about how I almost missed my bus because of my boyfriend. Luck, what little I have, was on my side.

The larger cities have few people who speak Berber, which makes finding places and traveling difficult. When you do find someone who speaks your language you make an instant friend and ally. Switching buses in Casablanca was no problem and the man who took my bags made sure I was on the right bus. I slept fitfully to Marrakesh; we stopped there around 1am to pick up a few more passengers. From there, the only way to Ourzazate is Titchka Pass, a windy two lane road through the prettiest mountains I have seen yet in Morocco. I remember them the first time going to site. We were told to abstain from lunch that first time, because lots of people get sick. The scenery is incredible and I regret that is was in the pitch black night, with only our headlights for light. The CTM bus took up most of the highway, especially on blind curves, good fortune that few people were traveling in the wee hours of the morning because it could have proven disastrous.

We stopped in a small town that thrived on travelers passing through. All the businesses were open, their lights on, beckoning people to stop and grab gifts and a bite to eat. Despite it being 3am, there were multiple grills open, the meat hanging from large hooks. You would simply ask for a certain amount of meat, they would slice it right in front of you and grill it on the spot. The smell coming from these grills was incredible, and in between customers the owners were fanning the smoke out, enticing empty stomachs. I got out using the bathroom and buying water, not hungry but I wish I had been. I acted like a seasoned passenger, like I knew what I was doing. I was definitely the only “arurmi” there (tourist/non-Moroccan). I made sure to get on the bus with plenty of time to spare. When we had loaded and the driver was ready to go, he sounded his horn a few times and we pulled out. “Wait! Wait!” shouted one of the passengers, “The man next to me is not here,” the bus driver looked angry and we stalled for a bit. No one knew where he was. He blew the horn a few times more, including a few obscenities. We had gone no more than 10 yards down the road when a man came running up beside the bus, banging on the door. The driver hesitated, and it looked like he wasn’t going to stop. I wondered if I had not gotten on in time, if this could have been me. He finally opened the door and started yelling at the man. The man got on and into his seat, calmly thanking the bus driver. The bus driver was livid. He was a jovial fellow and had made a few jokes throughout his drive, making the passengers closest to the front laugh. I didn’t know what he was saying but he seemed like a character enough. “Thfu!” is a universal remark made by all towards whatever is displeasing (my youngest host sister often receives this from my host mom). Except this time, the ‘thfu’ was so forceful he actually spit on the windshield. I watched his spit slide all the way down, leaving a snail trail of disgust. His reaction was unstartling and I became very wary of the power all bus and taxi drivers alike. If they wanted to leave you, they could.

We arrived in Ourzazate with no other incidents and I lazily climbed out and collected my things. I didn’t know what to do. It was 6:30 in the morning, much too early to do much. I grabbed a taxi to a hotel where most PCVs stay when in town. Checking into a room to catch some sleep, I debated about what to do; spend the day and night here and head into my site the next day, or push through and head back that day. One of my province-mates was also staying in the hotel. Had I been smarter, I would have just made him let me sleep in his room (most rooms were doubles), but instead, due to my indecisiveness, I checked into one of my own. I woke up in a sweat around 10am, the heat had already set in and at that point I decided it would be best to just continue on. For some reason I thought I wouldn’t have to pay the whole amount for 4 hours worth of time spent. Wrong. I tried to haggle with the receptionist; his argument was that this was a hotel. I understood, but at the same time I hadn’t used any of the amenities, and really there was only an unmade bed. Alas, I paid for the room and met up with Emory and we grabbed a taxi to Boumalen. I was exhausted and just wanted to go home.

I finally made it home around 2 that afternoon. My garden had flourished the time I had been away thanks to my host family watering it. It was a welcoming site. There were at least four huge zucchini squash, a dozen unripe tomatoes, and the beginnings of ears of corn. My jungle was spilling out over the sides, the leaves craving sunlight. The interior was as I had left it, two weeks’ worth of dust and dead bugs inside. My broom was nowhere to be found. It had been borrowed of course. For some unknown reason, my broom is coveted by my neighbors and host family alike. The broom has a wooden handle, with an attached brush, that’s all. For some reason, no one has coughed up the 12 Dhs to buy one like it and resort to the handheld ones made from a dried out bush. These are cheap but inefficient, having to stoop over the whole time and retraced sweeps to get all the dust. All I wanted to do was clean up a little, unpack, and take a nap. The little things… I brushed away the dead spiders and crickets and crawled into my bed (it being a folded blanket and sheets on the ground), exhausted from travel and the last two weeks events. Finally, I was home.