The Untouchables

Two volunteers serving in Cameroon passed through my site on their vacation. They told me stories about their lives in the Peace Corps and I told them about mine. It wasn’t too long ago, so pretty much most of it is still sticking with me, but I particularly remember a story about their crooked police. It seems that out there, if you want any kind of service, you have to grease the wheels. So much so that volunteers are discouraged from dealing with them at all.

Our gendarmes (sheriffs, basically) aren’t the straightest, either, but the government has scared them into taking care of us volunteers with threats of being sent to the Western Sahara if we have any problems. That doesn’t mean, though, that we don’t have to deal with the ugly face of corruption, it just comes in different forms. Here’s my story.

Youth development volunteers in Morocco spend the summer (part of it, at least) working at an English-immersion summer camp. Undoubtedly, we’ll talk more about that later, but suffice it to say that the camp is expensive enough that most of your average Moroccan kids can’t afford to go. That’s where the US government comes in. Each YD volunteer is granted scholarships to send four kids from their site to camp, all expenses paid.

It’s a big deal out here in Freedonia, especially since the same deal went down with the previous volunteer for at least the last two years, and everyone gets excited. Kids I’ve told about the scholarships, kids who’ve received them in the past, and kids I’ve never even met before will find their way up to me asking for a spot. And it’s not just the kids who’re asking, either. I get my fair share of parents, organization leaders, and other interested parties knocking on my door, too.

The way the scholarships work is that they’re a gift from the people of America to the children of Morocco, transmitted by means of the discretion and experience of the Peace Corps volunteer. They are supposed to be given to youth who both show an interest in learning the English language and would otherwise not be able to experience something like this camp.

Some community members have other designs. For example, the director of my Dar Shebab, like many of his colleagues, expected to be able to give these spots to his own designees, notably his two daughters. He announced this plan unilaterally to his wife while I happened to be around. He wasn’t talking to me, I just understand sufficient Arabic.

A friend of mine from another group who works in the Dar Shebab came and asked me for a spot for one of his kids. I told him that they were intended for kids who showed an interest in learning English, such as the ones who came to our classes since I came here. He argued that the spots should be distributed democratically throughout the Dar Shebab. I told him that that’s not the point of them, and that there weren’t any left anyway. The director of that group came and asked for one of the scholarships. I repeated that there weren’t any left. He countered that he’s my friend, so I should be able to find something.

My host mom asked me why I hadn’t come over for couscous on Friday and I told her it was because I had had to ride to the outskirts of town delivering applications to two of my selected students. She asked me why I hadn’t given one of the spaces to my cousin. I wondered why I would even consider giving a folder to someone who never even darkened the door of the Dar Shebab. She asked me why I forgot about my family and told her that I had to start looking at students from my English class.

It’s all so surreal. On the one hand, we’re talking about a Peace Corps-run summer camp; these aren’t construction permits or seats in Parliament. On the other hand, however, it gets right to the heart of a culture of corruption and nepotism. The director of the ministerial youth center, the leaders of a youth development organization, and the people who’ve been taught more about the goals and responsibilities of Peace Corps volunteers than anyone else are the first to ask for a kickback.

Is it their fault? That’s hard to say. It’s a system in which employment and other opportunities are limited, and the best way to get your name on the list is to know the guy writing it. At the same time, however, I don’t think it would be imperialistic of me to say that Morocco – or anywhere else – would benefit much more from a system of meritocracy.

And what I am to do in the middle of it all? My Peace Corps superiors have offered to distract such attention by suggesting that I pass the decision along to them and allow them to be ignored and forgotten or rejected. That’s not my plan, though. I’m happy to take the hard-line position, to scorch my bridges (this probably isn’t serious enough to actually qualify as “burning”), to take on their disappointment and reject them myself. I mean, it’s a lot easier for me to say “I’ll see what I can do” and then simply not, but I think it would be a disservice to my community to give such tacit support to this very mild example of one of the greatest ailments of the developing world.

And, to be sure, it’s stressful, but it’s far more empowering to see myself taking a stand for justice and fairness. Besides, I can always watch my illegally downloaded copy of The Untouchables to recapture that Elliot Ness tenacity. If there’s anyone who’s as squeaky clean as Kevin Costner, it’s a Peace Corps volunteer.

Daylight Savings Time

Morocco just recently sprang forward an hour, which, aside from ruining my sleep the following morning, has been one of the most amazing cultural experiences of my service.

I’ve heard competing explanations as to why the kingdom felt this necessary. The one I like the best has to do with making our time more parallel with that of France for the ease of summer tourists. It’s also one of the best ways – if done correctly – for a society to conserve energy. Regardless, the sun now rises a little later in the morning and sets at almost nine in the evening, and I’m a lot more willing to run with the girls from the women’s association in the morning and to toss the frisbee with my English students at the Dar Shebab in the evening.

In all other ways, however, this time change has been the most stressful event I’ve dealt with since I got over my bone-itis. You see, the government, television channels, business professionals, organizations, Peace Corps volunteers, and other civically-minded individuals have added an hour to their watches; everyone else hasn’t. As a result, we have the conundrum of “New Time” and “Old Time.”

“New Time” is a reference to the current official time (as of this month), whereas “Old Time” quite naturally refers to what the time would have been if the clocks had not been changed. This commonly arises in conversation in the following manner: “Let’s meet at 6:30 to talk about how to solve all of the community’s problems.” “Great. New Time or Old Time?”

There are two problems, however, with the concept of new and old times, aside from its inherent ridiculousness. First, to be able to conceptualize “Old Time,” you have to be aware of the existence of “new time.” This creates a situation similar to that of the proactive employee who sets the clock in his car ahead 15 minutes so as to always be on time, but, because he knows that he really has an additional quarter of an hour (and thus really works from 9:15 – 5:15 and is early if he gets to work at 9:00), defeats himself and still arrives late. It would only make sense if he didn’t know about the time change, consequently not knowing about “New Time,” and, as a result, he’ll always show up an hour late.

Which brings us to the second problem. In practice, it doesn’t really matter if you say “New Time” or “Old Time;” it’s just as likely that they won’t show up all. This could be that New Time is more conducive to playing outside and enjoying yourself, as is the current weather, but my experience is that a meeting set in New Time is going to result in a non-event at either the time appointed or an hour later.

And this is the way I imagine it's going to be for the next two months, until the beginning of Ramadan when the clock is changed back (no one wants to wait until a 9 o'clock sunset to eat). Maybe then we'll have "New Old Time" and "Old New Time." That'll make it easy to get things done.

Moroccan Gazetteer: Rabat

Rabat, the capital of Morocco, is a complicated city. It is here that you will find the king’s main palace (off-limits to tourists and citizens, alike), the administrative heart of the Moroccan government, the foreign diplomatic and ex-patriot community, and, most importantly, the Peace Corps Morocco headquarters.

Some sources give Rabat a bad name for being “un-Moroccan.” This is probably because its present form was built mostly by the French and it has a very European style, and is partly why so many volunteers like to come here for a break from their sites (that, and the free internet in the volunteer’s lounge). It’s also a lot more relaxed in terms of tourist hassling, most likely the result of so many foreigners being here for business, not to take in the sights. And it’s significantly more expensive than other Moroccan cities, enough so that the Peace Corps allows a higher expense reimbursement for this city only.

But Rabat has a significant history behind it, as well, and has played its role in the development of Morocco long before the French. Artifacts from prehistoric settlements can be found in Rabat’s Archaeological Museum (which is mildly interesting, but not really worth the entrance fee unless you really don’t have anything else to do), and one of Rabat’s most spectacular monuments, the Shellah, was established before the arrival of the Romans, and is where we’ll begin talking about the city.

The Shellah (in French, Chellah, but we’ve talked about “ch” before) is a little outside the walls of the city, but only about a twenty minute walk from the Hotel Velleda, Peace Corps Morocco’s unofficial sponsor. Any given day you can find at least two volunteers staying there. When you get to the Shellah, you’ll see massive gates that are significantly bigger than anything within them, which open onto a lush tropical garden. A path leads you downhill until you come upon the citadel itself. There is a small section of Roman ruins that are mostly just stones in the general outline of foundations, but the highlight is the mosque-monastery ruin at the center. Most of it has been filled in with the tombs of past royal families. What makes the Shellah really unique, though, as a ruin, is a small pool off to the side. The water is inhabited by eels that are considered sacred and petitioned to with hard-boiled eggs by women having difficulty giving birth, and the water is littered with coins. There’s also a sort of stray cat colony living in the site and an old cat lady taking care of them.

Number two on your list should definitely be the Oudaia. This small enclosure was the original fortified Kasbah (a ribat, from which the city gets its name) of the Almohad dynasty for their conquest of Spain, and a semi-autonomous pirate colony. The streets look like a middling recreation of Chefchaouen’s blue and white, but you’re not likely to notice when distracted by the beautiful ocean view, spectacular ceremonial gate, and immaculate Andalusian garden.

There are a fair number of hustlers hanging about, but they’ll always be my favorites in Morocco. I first came to the Oudaia on a trip to Rabat to assist in a women’s 8k race (I had won a scholarship to send two kids from Freedonia), and we took them on a tour of the city the day before the race. Obviously, when you have some 50 kids between the ages of 14 and 16 wandering through the capital city, you have to make them all wear the same thing, which happened to be a gray t-shirt and shorts sponsored by the American embassy, with the American and Moroccan flags on it. And so, the hustlers saw a bunch of kids all wearing American flags, kids who, due to their more rural origins, had the demeanor of your typical tourist rube, and started speaking to them in English. Of course, none of the kids understood English, which made them retreat even more. Another volunteer and I had to step in and explain in Arabic that we were the Americans and these kids, to whom they were speaking in English, were Moroccan and neither speak English nor need any of their services. One of my top five moments as a volunteer.

Your last big sight is the biggest in Rabat: the Hassan Tower and Mausoleum. The tower is actually the never-completed minaret of what would have been one of the largest mosques in the world, and the columns around the plaza held up its roof until an earthquake brought it down in the 18^th Century. And it is here, across from the tower, that Mohammad V, the first king of the modern independent Morocco, lies enshrined in his tomb along side his sons Hassan II and Prince Abdellah. There are fancily decorated guards all around the place who seem as much there to maintain order as they are to pose for photographs, predominately with Moroccans.

Most volunteers, however, will enjoy these once or twice and then spend the rest of their trips to Rabat focused on the nightlife. There are plenty of bars and nightclubs – and certainly a lot more than you’re likely to find in your site – but bars and nightclubs in Morocco can be some of the shadiest places in the world. Pretty much all the guys are drug dealers for some Eastern European mafia (or wish they were), and just about all the ladies there are on the job. It’s not the same nightlife experience that you’re used to from back home, which is the only real reason to go to the club in Morocco. That’s why you go to either of the two American places: the Marine House or the American Club.

I’ve never been to the Marine House (which, in case you were wondering, is where the marines who guard the embassy live), but I have read their invitations to Super Bowl parties. Maybe next year. The American Club sounds like the sort of place that would have dark rooms, high winged-back chairs, cigar smoke, and lots of port. In truth, it’s a lot like Rick’s Café in Casablanca; it has a cute garden patio, good lighting, overpriced drinks, and little to spark a poetic imagination. My only real experience with the American Club has been trying to find it in the middle of the night, walking halfway across Rabat, getting really bad directions, and finding myself in some pretty shady neighborhoods (the American Club is in a really nice area, that’s just a demonstration of how lost I was). Fortunately, all incoming volunteers are automatically added to the list, and when I got there my friends were still about five minutes away from leaving.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that of all the major cities I've been to in Morocco, Rabat is the number one of all them that I would want to live in if I were ever to come back here in the future. It's got a relaxed atmosphere but things to do, ancient ruins and grocery stores, mint tea and real hamburgers, and the marines play flag football on Super Bowl Sunday.

On Patriotism

The other day I pumped up my new football. I’ve got big plans of teaching and playing a lot American sports this summer, so I had a bunch of frisbees, baseball equipment, and a football sent out to me. A few minutes later, I realized that I had just been sitting there holding the football, feeling the grip and 7-9 PSI of air pressure. It just made me feel American having it in my hands.

Then I heard the tea kettle overflowing on the stove and remembered that I’m Moroccan.

Moroccan National Tour: Finale

It was early Sunday morning when our heroes woke up to leave Freedonia; it was getting close to ten o’clock when they actually left. This was due to going over to the host family house one last time – ostensibly to give them the key so as to take care of Amal – but also to have a delicious breakfast of Mama Mahjouba’s beignets. We were soon on the road, however, and just a little after noon found ourselves in Moulay Idriss, the small village just a few miles away from the ancient Roman ruins of Volubilis.

Volubilis can be a tricky place to get to. First, because the Moroccan name for the site is Welili and it’s hard enough for your accent to be understood when you’re saying the right word, and, second, because only tourists really ever go, and the taxi drivers are fully prepared to charge you out the nose to get there. If you go straight from Meknes, you’ll probably pay around 300 dirham, but if you go to Moulay Idriss – only a 10 dirham ride – you can catch a shared taxi for 30 dirham. That’s what we did. And we had lunch, Salma’s first prune and mutton tagine, essentially the filet mignon of Morocco.

My host brother Mohammad, when we told them that morning that we were on our way to Volubilis, replied that “it’s just a bunch of rocks.” This is true, but what I couldn’t convey to him at that time is that they’re ancient rocks, some of which are carved into delicate Corinthian columns or aligned in beautiful mosaics, and supercool. We spent a while talking about what it is that leads people to go wander among the ruins of the past, and, to be honest, we never really came up with a good answer. Most of what we were looking at were just ordinary people’s olive presses. But the truth is that it’s fascinating, and perhaps our answer is that we just want to know, and to feel a connection with something we understand but still can’t quite imagine. Maybe it’s just to see the rocks.

Whatever it is, we had stayed too long, and still had to get ourselves to the quaint village of Chefchaouen before dark. The problem was that to go anywhere other than Meknes from Moulay Idriss requires hiring a private cab, and, as a result, paying like a tourist. By absolute chance, however, a taxi was filling to go to Sidi Kacem, a city very comparable to Newark, but best known for having a train station on the route to Tangier, the city we were planning to visit after Chefchaouen. We decided to go a little crazy and switch up the tour schedule and go there first. A 45-minute taxi ride later, and we were sitting in the station waiting for the last train out, which, after breaking down for several hours, disembarked us in Tangier at around 12:30.

Now, we had never made reservations anywhere else and hadn’t had any difficulties, but, it being the middle of the night, we decided to play it safe and go to one of the higher-end hotels nearish to the station. We got in the taxi and told the guy to take us to Solazur. He said, “Sure.” We got there, and he asked, “This is Solazur. You want to get out here?” We nodded a sort of “duh, that’s what we said,” paid, got out, walked across the street, watched the taxi drive away, and noticed large signs on all of the doors saying Closed for Reconstruction. And so, there we were, standing on the main tourist strip of a city known for its hustlers, shadiness, and beaches (and hash), holding onto large tourist suitcases and genuinely looking lost, and without a place to stay in the middle of the night. (I’m pretty sure that’s the name of a country and western song, actually.) Then we saw the big red sign up the street of the Ramada hotel.

Ramada is a nice hotel in the States, but it’s a five-star luxury resort in Morocco. It was like a beacon of hope; an outlandishly expensive, completely beyond our means beacon of hope. We decided to go. Not at first, of course, but I rationalized that at the least we could explain our situation and ask for help in finding a new place. We did that. Salma reasoned that, since we were there anyway, we might as well ask how much a room would be. We did that, too. The guy told us that he had a lower-quality room for a little more than half the usual price (I’m not going to tell you how much it was). We pretended like we were considering it although we were really only waiting for the other to say okay. Let me tell you, there is a real difference between five stars and a bargain traveler’s hostel.

The rest of Tangier was mostly just a relaxing weekend after the stress of Freedonia. We got to stroll through the old medina, which is nice, and walk along the beach, which was still rather cold. The highlight for us was a little Scottish church in the center of town. Despite the fact that cars and people were going by outside, you couldn’t hear any of it in the church garden. It was like being in another world. We also made excellent friends with the guys at Hamborger Stop right down the street from the hotel, and ate there for pretty much every meal of our abbreviated stay.

And now it was time to go back to Chefchaouen. We took the CTM bus and pulled up a little after noon and again were met by someone representing a hotel. A British tourist going the other way told us to trust them, though, so we did, and it turned out to be the main hotel for volunteers (none were there when we were, though). The price was having to go to the guy’s “artisana” (shop) and listen to his brother chat with us and act like he respected how we told him that we didn’t want to buy anything. He was a nice guy; we just weren’t interested.

Eventually we got out and took a romp around the old town. Chefchaouen is most famous for being the “chillest place in Morocco” and a number one favorite of volunteers. I’d say it’s adorable, though there really isn’t a whole lot to do there if you only have a day (with more time you could take some allegedly fantastic hikes in the mountains just outside). One great thing about it, though, is that you can’t get lost in the medina. No matter where you turn, all directions lead back to the center. And these alleyways are what make Chefchaouen so distinctive because they’re all done in a peaceful blue and white wash. It was here, walking along through the heart of Chefchaouen, that Salma and I had our most memorable experience. A handful of kids were selling some kind of food on the side of the road, and, it being in the Geneva Convention to always purchase what little kids are selling on the side of the road, we got one. It seemed like a type of sweet bread from the looks of it, with a slight quiche-ish quality, but it wasn’t. Oh, no. I have no idea what it’s called – Salma likes to say “gelatinous salt” – but it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I’ll never buy anything from little kids again.

So we left for Rabat. Salma almost got herself on the wrong bus a stopover halfway there, but we got to the capital city without any problems. Rabat is unlike any other major city in Morocco in that it was developed pretty much exclusively by the French, and it really feels like being in a European city. It was also incredibly hot, so we headed down to the ocean and one of the coolest places in the city, the Oudaia.

Granted, the Oudaia is known for its adorable streets of blue and white wash, and we just came from Chefchaouen, but it’s so beautiful looking out over the ocean. Plus, we got to fight with some of the henna ladies who are incredibly pushy about decorating you. (They say it’s a “cadeau,” but it’s a “cadeau” you then get pressured into paying for.) We also took a long walk through the medina, and I suddenly became a tourist and bought everything I saw. I’m not sure what came over me, but it was a lot of fun. I rationalized most of it as being clothes for summer camp in Jedida (on the beach, we’ll talk about that later), but I think I was really just getting jealous of the souvenirs we were buying for Salma and other people. I’m probably not going to use a mirror shaped like a traditional Moroccan door in Jedida.

Our second day we spent most of the morning at the Peace Corps office taking care of a little business and introducing Salma to my “family.” As usual, my friends seemed to like her more than they like me, and so we left and went back to the medina. This time, Salma bought everything that she saw.

We reserved Friday for seeing the main highlights of Rabat, starting with the ancient settlement of the Shellah. I have to confess that I am a bit of a romantic, and I love nothing more than the Indiana Jones/Tomb Raider adventure of walking into an overgrown ruin, climbing through it, exploring the unexplored corners, pretending that there might be unexplored corners at a major tourist stop, and feeling supercool. It was also my first time going there, which was not the case with our next stop, the Hassan Tower. The walk was a lot longer to get there than I had thought, so we were fairly tired and ready to sit and/or eat something, but it’s still incredible to see the partly built tower of what would have been one of the biggest mosques in the world.

That night we thought about seeing a concert of the just opening Mawazine festival (which went on to make quite some news later the next week), but time didn’t allow. We did stop at our two favorite spots, the medina – this time we got to see a police raid against venders sticking their wares in the street – and the Oudaia Park. The next morning we walked around a little bit, and then caught the train to our final city: Casablanca.

Clever people and guidebooks like to point out the fact that the movie, Casablanca, perhaps the most well-known aspect of Morocco among Americans, was filmed entirely on a soundstage in Hollywood. There are only two things similar between the city and the movie (aside from the name): they both have a restaurant called Rick’s, and there’s nothing for people to do there but sit around and wait. Which is mostly what we did. Our only real reason for being there was for Salma to catch her plane two days later in the morning and we didn’t want to have to worry about travelling the day before. Now, don’t get me wrong, we had fun in Casablanca, it’s just that if you have a choice between watching the movie and visiting the city, the movie is better.

So we saw what we could, but Casablanca is very much like Houston; it’s really big and there are a lot of people who live there, but as hard as it tries, there’s really nothing interesting to see. But we saw all there was. We went to the Mohammad V Park and saw the cathedral that resembles a beautiful example of Communist Industrial Architecture, and we walked through the old medina (about the size of a small grocery store) to get to the Hassan II Mosque, the second largest Islamic building in the world and the only mosque in Morocco that allows admittance to non-Muslims. Unfortunately, non-believers have to pay 120 dirham each for the tour, so we decided to skip that. We even went to Rick’s Café to take some photos, but here even the faithful have to cough up a good 150 dirham for dinner.

We found a movie theatre near the hotel and watched Angels and Demons in French, and had an amazing cross-cultural experience. We bought our tickets for a show scheduled to start about 20 minutes later, and the ticket-taker opened the door for us and showed us to a seat. It was a little odd, since she was using a flashlight and there seemed to be a film showing on the screen, but we thought that maybe the lights were out on purpose to show previews. A lot of previews. That was until we noticed that it was a “preview” also starring Tom Hanks, and he seemed to be reprising what we expected to be more or less exactly his role in Angels and Demons. No, it was the end of the previous showing, so we got out to wait for the beginning of ours. This was the shock. All the people working at the cinema were accommodating, but not a single one of them – or the 20-30 other patrons who came while we were waiting – thought it was normal to wait for the start of the movie. You start watching when you get there, and you stop watching when you get tired of watching. It doesn’t really matter where you start in the story since a good 60% of the people watching are really only there to make out with whoever came with them.

And then it was three o’clock in the morning, May 18^th, and we were getting up to get Salma to the airport. She flew out at 8, I had already caught the fast train back to Fes, and by early afternoon I was standing in my house in Freedonia, a little stunned, but feeling fantastic about everything I had just seen and done.