Spring Camp

Last week most PCVs in Morocco were working at one the various English immersion camps throughout the country. Eight of us lucked out and were assigned work at El Jadida, a beach town with pimp weather and much, much less conservative inhabitants. I guess coming from Bzou that’s not saying a lot but still, when those 16-17 year old girls in sun dresses and tight jeans started showing up and things began to take an interesting turn.

Day 1:

All the kids have been divided up by the English level and I had the luck of being given the highest level group and thus spend the two hours going over song lyrics and playing various loosely language related games.

Cue first teenage girl wardrobe change

Sports time: throw mad TDs after teaching kids a watered down version of what they insist on calling rugby.

Second teenage girl wardrobe change

Lunch: stuff face with free food, don’t wash dishes, scrounge for leftovers as the kids leave

Third teenage girl wardrobe change (I wish I was exaggerating, but there more to come)

Club time: In the camp’s infinite wisdom, myself and two other dudes are assigned to lead a 2 hour dance club. After covering the basics of the chicken dance, country line dancing and (of course) the cupid shuffle, we just threw on some MJ and let those kids break it down for a good hour.

4^th change

This is where things get Moroccan. The next two hours consisted of watching five different AIDS awareness themed plays with the exact same soundtrack, a song much like the theme from The Hunt for Red October. It is difficult to describe how absurdly overacted, and needlessly metaphorical theses skits were, but let it suffice to say that most of them involved some sort of slow-mo street fighter style battle between white blood cells and the HIV. My personal favorite moment was when one kid answered his cell phone while performing. After the last piece an instantaneous dance party breaks out to Akon, Rihanna and what sounded like something out of a Wiggles concert, except in Spanish. (Note: after some research I discovered that the original version of this song was a top 40 hit in the Netherlands 10 years ago. Depressingly enough, the singer, Jody Bernal was actually born in Bogota before being adopted by a Dutch family. Also, a translated version of his Dutch wikipedia entry feels it is important to mention that he has an IQ of 96. As a method of comparison, fellow Colombian Shakira supposedly rocks a score of 140. )

Dinner: see lunch

Last wardrobe change

Talent show: sit through hours of brutality before being dragged on stage to help a girl crumbling under the lights finish off the last bit of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” We eight white people finish of the event with an air guitar/karaoke performance of “Don’t Stop Believing.” Immediately after, a second all out dance party breaks out.

So the next few days pretty much fell into this sort of pattern so neatly that the absurdity of it all was almost entirely predictable. Every day came with a promise of increasingly ludicrous Moroccan shenanigans, and usually not by the kids. Example: on the second to last day, the camp was scheduled to go on a field trip to the old, Portuguese city and see its historic cistern. The counselors boarded the bus believing the previous statement to be a fact. Nevertheless, after an hour-long bus ride we found ourselves at an industrial phosphate port which had not even been notified of our visit. All of the day laborers initially seemed absolutely stunned at our presence, (Port Jorf Lasfar not being a popular tourist destination) but soon their faces shaped creepy smirks as they suddenly became excited at the sight of 40 or so scantily (for Moroccan standards) dressed teens. So unprepared was the staff of this place that we couldn’t even get someone to show us around, we just wandered aimlessly beating a drum and chanting songs for 2 hours. This pretty much summed up the effectiveness of our camp’s administration.

The only things that helped me retain my sanity throughout the week were my fellow PCV counselors, the prospect of an all out party upon the camp’s conclusion, and, of course, the fact that on the second day several of us went to the barber and got matching moustaches and mullets. Yup, camp was pretty awesome.

US Culture

Yesterday, a fellow PCV and I gave a one-hour, introductory presentation to a local High School about the basics of United States' culture. As anyone who just read that sentence knows, it's a pretty big mistake to give me this kind of responsibility. Considering the audience, I could spew all sorts of bullshit and they would totally eat it up. I could claim that George W. Bush's punishment for such a joke of a presidency was a permanent assignment as lemonparty webmaster, and they would believe it. This was my chance to really screw up a bunch of gullible kids and tell them that most Americans are either Druids or firm believers in the Church of Scientology. To be honest I'm not sure which is less logical. Jk druids are chill.

Anyway, the kids learned the following information:

1. Biggie Smalls is awesome and everybody loves him

2. There is nothing in Iowa

3. The Yankees, Giants, Knicks and Tar Heels are the only important teams. NY Rangers too if you wanna get crazy.

4. Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is what America is all about

All in all I think those kids learned some valuable stuff. My only regret is not squeezing Ke$ha in there.

P.S. to those of you in the US, is Ke$ha actually popular over there or is it just some freak sensation among PC Morocco?

Milos

A couple of weeks ago while I was sitting around waiting to play ping-pong at the local youth center, a balding man in his mid-40s with a slight overbite and over-sized, thin-rimmed glasses walked in and casually demanded to be next on the table. He was wearing what appeared to be 90s era Shaqs and a faded windbreaker sweat-suit. Nothing fit.

As soon as he managed to get a hold of the ball, he began to dictate rules for how the game was to be played from that point on. It was actually pretty great to watch all the kids faces as they tried to pretend they would ever follow those guidelines again. Odd as it was though, I actually agreed with most of his rule changes. Finally, some one else thought allowing triple faults and playing to 5 was ridiculous.

Regardless, our guest continued to talk quite a big game and rejoiced in mentioning how skilled he once was back before middle age slowed his brilliance. At this point I realized that this dude had been holding the ball hostage for almost ten minutes, a time span that could have easily fielded 4 or 5 'normal' bzou rules matches. Soon enough, however, he began to warm up and one thing became instantly obvious. This dude was terrible.

It wasn't just that he could not keep the ball on the table, it was also the disturbing amount of effort he was putting into trying to do so. The abundance of swing-miss-almost-fall-over attempts at playing the game was simply too much to handle. And keep in mind, this is still warm up. This is also about the time that I noticed this dude was a lot like Milos from that Seinfeld episode.

Luckily, the dude's opponent happened to be a nice kid that, though very good, would have a sense of decency and not slam the ball at every possible juncture. In fact, the exact opposite happened. This kid was playing Milos so safe, with nothing but constant high lobs, that eventually some of those wild swings began to connect. Final score: overly ecstatic adult 5, bewildered youth 3. A ridiculous smirk emerged on Milos' face as he raised his arms in triumph.

Being that ping-pong here is almost always a king-of-the-court style affair, Milos had to face at least one more contender before being allowed to sit. This kid was not nearly as passive. Making only one mistake, kid number 2 assaulted Milos to a chest smashing degree. Final score: unrepentant youth 5, pretending he lost on purpose Milos 1.

As he came to sit down next to me I noticed streams of sweat leaking from all over his face. A boy was sent to fetch him a bottle of water. A total of 14 points had been played.

Oh what's that? You have snow? That blows.

It was in the mid 80s here today. For real. You can all laugh at me when summer comes and it's 120 but for right now...eat one.

SIDA

My overall lack of maturity being a well known fact, it should come as no surprise that the noble aims of a recent technical language training session on the topic of SIDA (AIDS in English) was all but wasted on my childish self. It began seriously enough, with discussion how to explain the importance of sterilizing razors and not using intravenous drugs or whatever, but things took a dark turn when we shifted to sex, semen and vaginas. Actually, just typing that made me laugh.

Admittedly, in a setting where everyone in the room is a native English speaker with full command of the languages subtleties, the topic can be adequately sterile and serious. The second my language instructor said the phrase “woman semen juice” instead of “vaginal secretions,” however, I knew it was over. Any chance at a constructive learning session had immediately dissipated and the mood shifted to seeing what sort of vile phrases we could learn in Arabic.

Since Moroccan society is, generally speaking, much more conservative as far as sex and the like are concerned, every one of us westerners in attendance had the additional pleasure of watching the host-country instructors blush at every phrase they were being forced to say. For many of the necessary terms, we even had to delve into standard Arabic as non-vulgar versions simply didn’t exist in darija. Speaking of which, did you know that in Morocco there is a linguistic distinction between the boobs of an unmarried woman (nhood) and those of a respected adult on whom “time has had effects” (bzazl)? Just pure gold. The best part for me was watching the cleaning ladies in the hotel being punched in face by the phrases we were being asked to repeat for pronunciation's sake after they'd unassumingly stepped into the room. Just imagine graphically describing unsafe sex to your grandma in nothing but slang. Classic.

Despite lengthy hours of this stuff, all we really accomplished was convincing the the entire staff of the Auberge that we were all serial pervs. They may never have taught us how to say "don't be a fool, wrap your tool," but creeping out a mass of conservative Muslim women seems like a fair consolation prize.

Carolina- Duke

Tonight, Carolina will face off against a pack of open-mouthed, white upper-class satanic offspring commonly know as the Duke University basketball team. The Tar Heels are 13-10, their opponents 19-4. The young Carolina players seem like they’ve just met and suddenly realized they have nothing in common, while the other ones move about the court as if they attended the same “A Separate Peace” style boarding school. At this point in the season, Carolina is statistically inferior to these bourgeoisie buffoons in pretty much every significant offensive and defensive category. The Heels have essentially given up on the season, while Duke is merely setting the pieces for a March offensive.

In short, this looks bleak. Never one to let mere statistics, precedent and general trends affect my emotions, I am confident in Carolina’s ability to remind those Durham douchebags why we play the game. Even a 2-30 season is defensible if those two victories come against Duke. If this sounds absurd to you, it’s probably a good idea not to read the next few sentences. Recently, I have decided that Carolina does not play basketball to win, but to cause Duke harm. Sorry Herm Edwards, you just don’t understand true rivalry. Sure, maybe at one point the Heels danced for the glory or even to piss off the stray dogpack in Raleigh, but times have changed. The truest modern goal is now to bring as much misery as possible to the reactionary cockmunchers who reside in the gated regions of Durham, North Carolina.

Channeling my 3 credit hours of philosophy, I want to say this is an example of utilitarianism. Carolina winning is of substantial moral value because it maximizes total happiness. All the bliss that normally accompanies victory is not cancelled out by the sorrows of defeat because Duke fans and players, by definition, are soulless scumbags whose misery actually creates additional glee. Simply by losing spectacularly, Duke could create a better world. Being in possession of this knowledge, those spoiled trust fund brats are deliberately withholding massive amounts of moral good from society. In a world where there is simply too little good, this is completely unacceptable.

With this in mind, I make one simple plea to the University of North Carolina Men’s Basketball team. Read the name on the front of your jersey and remember your role in this world.

PeaceWorks

Peace Corps has a submission-based quarterly publication which features articles, pictures and assorted time-killers from its volunteers. Below is my submission, one that should be prefaced with the context that our region (Azilal Province) takes considerable pride in the amount of times it has watched this video. It plays at least 4 times per party and it really gets us through some tough times. Shakira is the stimulus to our package. I seriously doubt it will be accepted but, nevertheless, read away.

If you have not seen the video for Shakira’s smash hit “She Wolf,” you are simply not a complete human being. Prior to encountering the sheer elegance of this masterpiece, I believed the essentials of life were just food, shelter and hardcore porn. In short, I was a fool. Thankfully, fellow PCVs who cared for me arranged three consecutive viewings of this radiant beauty so as to secure a safe eternal resting place for my soul. Now, I understand that more important than either food or shelter is this tale of a neglected, yet fiery girlfriend ready to pounce on other man prey. At least that’s what I think it’s about; it’s hard to tell since it switches from first to third person between verses.

The brilliance contained within these nearly four minutes of bliss, however, is simply undeniable. The text alone is worthy of a Pulitzer, or at least a Nobel Prize since it seems anyone can get one them these days. Anybody studying for the GRE would surely help their chances of doing well with an in depth analysis of this poetic ballad. With words like “lycanthropy” (the supernatural act of morphing into a wolf) and finely crafted similes like “I’m starting to feel abused like a coffee machine in an office,” it is impossible to find even a single flaw in the graceful flow of the narrative. Much like her predecessors Billy Shakespeare and James Joyce, Shakira coins new, crystal phrases like “I’ve been devoting myself to you Monday to Monday and Friday to Friday.” When faced with such overwhelming waves of splendor, the viewer can certainly be excused for being at a loss for words. It might be too good.

The service this video provides for humanity is priceless, its contributions so immeasurable that it is ridiculous to even ask, “What could we as a people do to repay its makers”? Simply put, we are not worthy of this mini-cinematic masterpiece. It was handed to us despite our inadequacy, and the least we could do is thoroughly enjoy its aesthetic charms. I mean, that scene where Shakira is dressed in a skin colored leotard, slowly raising just her ass while lying on the floor of a cage; totally fuckin sweet.