Basic Info: Final Site

So Starting November 12th I will be living in a town called Bzou in the Azilal region of Morroco. It is a historically Berber town at the foothills of the Atlas mountains and (supposedly) famous for the production of Jillabas and olive oil. For those of you who are obliged to visit next year, I will be relatively close to the major city of Marrakesh.



Go Yanks.

I Don't Get Intertubes Often

So last weekend, a few of us went for a long hike near the city of Safrou. Our intention was to hike for a couple of hours, eat lunch and walk back into town. Best laid plains…So what actually happened was we stumbled on a Berber wedding about an hour and a half into the hike and were invited n for the festivities. The hour that followed can only be described as pure absurdity. Women’s hands were offered, two volunteers were forcibly married to each other (in order to display the parts of the ritual we had missed), and I may or may not have been served by a toothless old man.

Up to now I have forgotten to mention that upon arrival a few weeks ago, immediately after hearing my actual name, my host mom rechristened (well, I guess not technically since they’re Muslim) me Brahim. They don’t get the Tyler Hansbrahim references.

The other day as I was commenting on how my family always watches some soap opera which I thought was titled “Pub” a fellow PCT chimed in “Pub means commercial break.”

I realize that my blog is not the most informative of resources as to what I actually do on a daily basis but instead of actually typing out numbing ennui I will soon simply reference you to the (better) blogs.

Hey G-men, what ever happened to defense?

I Don't Get Intertubes Often

So last weekend, a few of us went for a long hike near the city of Safrou. Our intention was to hike for a couple of hours, eat lunch and walk back into town. Best laid plains…So what actually happened was we stumbled on a Berber wedding about an hour and a half into the hike and were invited n for the festivities. The hour that followed can only be described as pure absurdity. Women’s hands were offered, two volunteers were forcibly married to each other (in order to display the parts of the ritual we had missed), and I may or may not have been served by a toothless old man.

Up to now I have forgotten to mention that upon arrival a few weeks ago, immediately after hearing my actual name, my host mom rechristened (well, I guess not technically since they’re Muslim) me Brahim. They don’t get the Tyler Hansbrahim references.

The other day as I was commenting on how my family always watches some soap opera which I thought was titled “Pub” a fellow PCT chimed in “Pub means commercial break.”

I realize that my blog is not the most informative of resources as to what I actually do on a daily basis but instead of actually typing out numbing ennui I will soon simply reference you to the (better) blogs.

Hey G-men, what ever happened to defense?

Quick Darija Lesson

It is no secret that I am an immature child. For this reason, learning Darija (or Moroccan Arabic) is posing some difficulties. To illustrate my point I will quickly translate the (run-on) sentence: I woke up from sleeping, went upstairs, ate breakfast and went to school. Here you go: Fqt mea neas u mshit lfuq, klit lftur u mshit l madresa. Oh boy.

I Don't Smell So Good

So after a month of collecting quantitative and qualitative data (shout out to Mrs. Fisher) I have determined that my odor has taken a turn for the worst. Don’t judge me. I challenge anyone to keep up with hygienic obligations if bath water had to be boiled and loads of laundry had to be hand-washed. Thank God for deodorant, as it's mainly Italian showers from here on out.

My Family is Badass

It has recently come to my attention that my host family does not fuck around. Yes, I already knew that my eldest brother was a nonhuman being who runs up mountains in jeans and a winter coat (my sister hiked up in heels) but I was no fully prepared for the all out badassness that ensued the other night.

So some lady shows up at our door with three boys at her side furious at our entire family. Apparently, my ten year old sister had cheated off her son during a quiz, an offense which he punished by punching her. This family does not put up with that sort of garbage so she hit him back and caused an in class ruckus. Later, when she told my older brother about the incident he physically reminded him that not nobody fucks with our family. He should have also told this because she was grossly misinformed as to what response to expect from my mom. What proceeded can only be described as a seven person (mom, 4 kids and 2 cousins) verbal beat down of this poor lady and the three rookies who supposedly accompanied her for support.

After about fifteen minutes of whooping ass, my mom realized that perhaps this was the most appropriate sight for her young kids and had my seventeen year old sister promptly corral Mehdi (6) Fati (10) and me (21.5) into the living room to protect us from the raw brutality occurring in the middle of the street. We were also given a small ball with which to entertain ourselves.

Something Random

Our training class has adopted a cat. Its official name is Henry Rowengartner but I often get it wrong.

Last night my entire family watched 45 minutes of WWE. Oddly enough the people who were most into it were my mom and sister who continually cheered on Chris Jericho. The entire time I was wondering whether Mehdi recognized some of the moves from the dozens of times they've been perfomed on him. When I first got here I was in a big Last Ride and Powerbomb mood, but lately I've been all about the Snowplow. No Walls have occured as of yet.

Hakeem Nicks Finally caught a TD pass.

Answering Basic Questions

Since the second week here, I have been living with a host family in a mountain town called imouzer. Ill be here for the entirety of the two months of training, after which i could be sent anywhere. its pretty chill but fucking cold and im told it could easily snow within the month. five other trainees are stationed here as well as a full time volunteer. We hold it down. those of you not fazed by this either live in canada or have forgotten the fact that its fucking october. if you live in canada the bleak meaningless of your life has already numbed you to common insults an thus calling you a jackass would scarcely serve a purpose. still, screw you.

so, about my family. I have two brothers at 6 and 19 and two sisters at 10 and 17. So as to avoid excessive comments on the subject i will simply say that yes, she is quite pretty. There are also two cousins who tend to live with us. i say tend to live with us because their dissapearance is common and not really spoken of. I do not have a host dad but my mom is pretty chill. Since I sleep in the room witht the only tv, every morning at 7:30 Mehdi, the six year old, wakes me up so he can watch some dubbed japanese show about dueling yo yo gangs that wear matching jumpsuits.

the key boards here are french so typng is a pain in the ass. this will hence be my excuse for any spelling mistakes.

Sports 'n Shi

With regard to sports, being in Morocco is pretty fuckin odd. The two sports I was debatably passable at, running and soccer, are almost exclusively popular here and thus I now suck at them. Barely existent sports such as baseball and football, however, now redisplay my talentless coordination as the calculated dominance of a virtuoso. Those who have seen me play baseball in the US know, with complete certainty, that I am terrible. Moroccans who have seen me play baseball here (I’ll get to this) are amazed by my ability to catch the ball more than half the time. Those who have seen me play football in the US are aware of how worthless I am. People here are in awe of my ten, sometimes even fifteen foot completions.

Soccer and running, however, are completely different animals. My host brother is a 19 yr old beast who runs a 2:30ish marathon for the Moroccan national youth team and some of the dudes we play sports with are on the town’s soccer team. These mofos are tanks. Luckily, the sport we’ve played the most is baseball and their swings are just as bad as mine. Yes, apparently my swing is so pitiful that a group of people who have only seen the game in bits of movies are instantly of equal caliber. Interestingly enough, their first experience with baseball was a lot like my first experience with baseball. By that of course I mean that someone was hit in the face with a bat. By me. Instead of Chris Mercaldi, my backswing’s target this time was the former pop superstar, Usher.

Intro

I title this a return a return to childhood because in many ways, my experiences here continually make me feel six years old. Communication is labored, often bearing immature utterings like “I don’t like,” “school not good” and “I want this.” Being unfamiliar with this city, my mom stresses a 10 o’clock curfew (which hardly matters as I’m usually asleep by then) fearing an unkempt youth will, quite literally, steal my lunch money. Even the normally reliable TV is unable to deliver a semblance of adulthood, mostly barraging me with the pre-adolescent entertainment of Tom and Jerry. Upon returning from language class it is not unusual for me to have the same homework as my six year old brother Mehdi. Yesterday we conquered counting up to 99. It is still too early for three digits. Speaking of digits, girls are completely unattainable, bound by Islamic regulations. Again I am a child, restricted and confused. But then again, I always liked Tom and Jerry.

I've never really done a blog before (at least one that isn't purposely vile) so who knows how this shit will pan out.