Tim wuz here

While Tim was here he learned a bunch of ridiculous realities about PCV life. While often reminded of a whole host of stuff I had forgotten about life and culture stateside, in many cases I also felt the need to speak up for my adopted culture. So, now comes a list of paired junk which I will pass off as a post.

- What Tim learned
- What I realized/remembered/commented/I realize this is a pretty shoddy gimmick that barely makes sense

- The whiteness of one's skin and the initial stated price for any item are directly proportional
- Five bucks here can buy you a 3 hour bus ride from my site to Marrakesh, a sandwich, a 1.5 liter bottle of water and some candy, so stop bitching.

- Presence in Morocco makes one's standards of what composes quality booze drop dramaticaly. Seriously though, the Jim Beam he brought actually tasted good.
- It also raises one's standards of olive oil.

- French terminology is pervasive.
- The term "cyber park" is a lot funnier when thought of in an English context.

- Cows, goats, sheep and donkeys can often be found wandering by themselves with no owner in sight
- Has anyone born after the 19th century ever seen a donkey in the states?

- Tim was pissed when I shaved my mustache

- That thing was so vile that even Moroccan's welcomed its demise

- Cabs do not leave unless there are at least 6 passengers and only go to predestined destinations.
- Safety regulations and convenience are for pussies.

- Morocco is fuckin sweet

- People, it's dirt cheap and you got a free guide. Just go ahead and visit.

Language

If you happen to be a fellow PCV who reads this blog (theres probably not more than one of you) the following will be old news and thus completely worthless. My advice, stop reading. There's no reason to waste your precious time reading crap you already know to be absurd. What's that? You're a PCV and thus you have untold hours of free time, thereby forcing you to debase yourself by reading the filth I write?

Anyway, for the other two or three people who casually glance at this in between visits to youporn and ESPN, the following is a bit on language. As PCVs in this country, we have a odd, yet interesting niche in society. On one hand, we are (somewhat) trained in one of the local languages and can, with great effort, communicate with the people in our community. On the other hand, we are a bunch of foreigners and in many ways get treated as such.

Stuff Moroccans call us:

1. Nesrani- Literally meaning "Christian," it is used to refer to all white peeps
2. Romi (taromit for girls)- My favorite of all things to be called because it literally means "Roman." This is more commonly used by Amazigh people (who have been here since forever ago) and truly shows just how up with the times mountainous Moroccans can be.
3. Jackie Chan, Bruce lee- Yelled only at some
4. There is one other Berber word, possibly phrase, which was tossed at me in a small, nearby village. While I didn't make any sense of it, a Berber trained PCV translated it as "the one who steals our olive oil." Ouch.

Also, being immature pricks (1) we also translate certain phrases from colloquial English into the Arabic dialect we supposedly speak.

Examples:

1. klba, 3afak- bitch, please
2. dak shi li galt- that's what she said
3. dir lxddama wld- do work son
4. sear l cunt- go to the corner

OK so that last one is pretty harmless in English. Doesn't make it any less awesome. Regardless, oftentimes the reverse of this effect is also true. I can't imagine any group other than Morocco PCVs saying stuff like "Take care of your head" or "God Bless your Parents" in an entirely serious context.

Then there's the most glaring language issue of all; our constant bumbling with Arabic and its pronunciation. Despite having no authority on the subject, I feel Arabic has to be one of the hardest friggin languages on this planet. Sure, the Arabic I try to speak is not nearly as complex as the standard, written version with its ridiculous number of conjugations, (2) but its still plenty confusing. To get an idea, observe the following three words written in out Latin characters.

qra- he read (past tense) or imperative command for read (present)

qr3- bald

qr3a- bottle

First off, the fact that the same exact word can be used in the third person past and in the second person present is just ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the fact that the English word "read" is spelled the same in past and present and yet pronounced differently. Anyway, if you are thinking to yourself "those three words are completely different. I mean, since that backwards three thing does not exist in our alphabet it has to represent some totally distinct sound."

Well, according to my textbook the letter "ع" can best be approximated by a non-native speaker by "pronouncing the 'a' in fat." So, in the word qr3a, we have a type of "a" sound, followed by a another slightly different "a" sound. Awesome. You would think that a person would understand slight mispronunciations from a foreigner considering the similarity between the two letters, but no. People honestly think I'm asking for bald coke (3). Lastly, in Arabic there are two different "s's," two different "h's," two different "t's" and two different "d's." Wonderful.

So now that I've bored you, my 4 (maybe 3 by now) readers, I'll leave you with some sweet phrases in English for which only asses like us PCVs have a use (4).

1) To small-boy someone (v)- asking a fellow PCV to go to the store and get something

ex. "Hey broldemort, if you're going out can I small-boy you for some chips?

2) Morocco goggles (n)- when marginally dirty stuff looks really clean because of the conditions to which one is accustomed. Obviously, it also applies to bitties.

ex. "Yo brosimite sam, does that town/chick look clean or is it just my Morocco goggles?

3) Peace Corps pretty, PCP (adj)- a) a person who is attractive enough to withstand the lack of hygiene imposed by service. b) a person who would not normally be attractive but due to scarcity of possible mates is considered "doable." (Yes, these are exact opposites.)

ex. "Ey brometheus, is that broad PCP?"

"Idk brolsen twin, it depends what you mean by that"

"look Wolfgang Amadeus Brozart, I just wanna know if I should make moves"

"oh fo sho, Bronan the Brahbarian"

"thanks for the input Brohamed VI"

(1) Well maybe I'm the only immature prick, but everyone else still says this stuff.

(2) There are not only different second person pronouns depending on gender, there are also different pronouns and corresponding conjugations depending on whether it's 1, 2 or 3+ people

(3) the phrase "bald coke" has to mean something in some version of slang

(4) There are more of these but a friend is putting them together for a submission to our newsletter so I won't use em all up here...not that the make any sense.

A Quick Outline of Every Moroccan Comedic Play

Part 1: Two options

Every comedy sketch here starts out with either an old, and inevitably senile, married couple or with some important man whose crucial work cannot be disturbed. The old couple will begin by arguing about something which reveals how ludicrously ancient they are while the important dude will just frantically type on a fake laptop as if the work being demanded of him was far too much to ask of one man. Quick side note: the manner in which the character pretends to type instantly reveals that people here have no idea how to do so correctly.

Part 2: Interruption

A homeless, sometimes glue sniffing, character will enter and do dumb things like repeatedly fall over or shake uncontrollably. People laugh. The male character from the first scene flips a shit and screams at any present female characters, then slaps or kicks the interrupter. After ripping a few lines akin to "but I homeless and sniff glue so I want money from you!" in some misguided accent, the interrupter leaves.

Part 3-X: Repeat Part 2 Ad Nauseum with New Stereotypes

Other popular characters include: Rowdy teens, promiscuous girls (always played by guys in drag), and girls who do not want to get married. You may be wondering: How long could this pattern be sustained without exhausting its undeniable comedic value? Well, first off, these kinds of plays usually start off tired and immediately veer into brutality so there is absolutely no value to sustain. Secondly, I was thinking about the answer to that question yesterday about 35 minutes (and 6 interruptions) into a textbook masterpiece and realized the only determinant that ends these mostly ad libbed ordeals is physical fatigue on the part of the male lead. I mean, this dude is up there kicking and screaming at all sorts of seedy peeps and disobedient daughters, basically non-stop for the whole performance. It's kind of impressive in that sense.

Part X+1: The Cliché Finisher Into Unintelligible Arguing

The punishment only ends when the male lead executes the last and traditionally most hackneyed line of the ordeal. By this point this dude has already shot off an assortment of Univision-worthy punchlines and the audience knows what's coming. Thus, the last one has to outdo them all. That at least, is the intent. Usually it's just something like "You should have listened to me!", "I can't believe that failed!" or "Now what are we going to do with this worthless, glue addicted daughter!" Ok, so the last one is completely fake. The point, whatever it may be, stands. After the clinching line, the on stage situation devolves into arguing as everyone exits. It is the annoying, loud-mouthed cousin of the musical fade-out.

Despite all of this, it would a lie to say I never laugh during these. I mean, some of those old-Berber-dude-trying-to-use-a-phone impressions are dead on.

Things that are gay in America but are totally not gay here

- Holding hands with another dude

- Picking flowers for another dude

- Making designs out of said flowers for another dude

- Turning said designs into a crown for another dude

- Having a crown-wearing photo shoot with another dude

Just as a refresher, homosexuality is technically illegal in this Muslim Kingdom.

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.