Cafes

Cafes here are not the same breed as their yuppie, trendy beverage serving versions stateside. First off, if you asked for a frappuccino here, and by some miracle the guy actually knew what you were talking about, the response would be akin to "what kind of ass drinks coffee cold?"

If you want to envision a Morrocan cafe, you first have to forget the image of the wifi enabled hipster hotbed with cozy chairs and chilled out blues covers that is your typical starbucks. These here cafes are for men only. Spending time at a cafe is one of the many means this country provides for creating an instant sausagefest. A typical evening sesh here includes watching Barca (or Real if you have no soul) amidst a haze of cigarette smoke while a group of crazy old dudes violently play rummy, shout gibberish and drink tea. Yes, rummy is a dangerous game. Cafes are filled with cursing, inane arguments and random outbursts of noise...but not booze. Still these things are pure, unadulterated man.

Keeping all of this in mind, now imagine sitting at one of these establishments on the first day a new cd player/speaker system has just been set up. Whatever music comes on will surely set the mood for the suspicious crowd mumbling their doubts in between drags. The stereo is turned on and the first songs played are:

"Everywhere" by Michelle Branch

"Respect" by Aretha Franklin

"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cindi Lauper (2x)

That's right, the third song ever played in this joint was that 80s hit classic, followed immediately by that exact same tune. The only two explanations for the repetition are (a) the owner put the song on the CD twice, in succession or (b) upon hearing the magic that is Ms. Lauper, whoever was in charge decided to play it again. I'm not exactly sure which is more absurd. Upon hearing these tracks I figured we would have a revolt on our hands. What I had forgotten was that Moroccan men are ridiculous. They ate that shit up.

My Favorite Things About North Korea

Now that the most ridiculous team in the tournament has been mathematically eliminated and await their final beating, I present my favorite facts about Portugal's grundle (sp?) towel.

- Their fans at the World Cup are paid Chinese actors

- They have a player nicknamed "the People's Rooney"

- The team could not afford to book private time in a gym...so they trained in a public one...during normal working hours.

- Official sources say no players would ever try to defect.

- They threatened to ban the South Korean anthem and flag at a home game between the two teams so the match had to be moved to China.

- Their coach regularly communicates with Kim Jong-il for in-game advice

- This is done via advanced cell phone technology, invisible to the naked eye

- This technology was created by Kim Jong-il himself

- Kim Jong-il allegedly shot a 38under par his first time on the links.

World Cup Fever

Those of you who know me well, realize that I have a habit for developing irrational hatred towards random sports teams. I have hated the Duke basketball program since they played (and lost) in the 1999 NCAA title against UConn because, to quote my 11 year-old mind, "played like assholes." My parents forcing me to take French in 7th grade logically led to my brief loathing of the French national football team. Most prominent, however, has been my persistent distaste for US soccer.

How, people often ask, could I possibly hate the footballing symbol of my adopted country? Usually I just say, "cause fuck you, that's why" but this being a written piece and all, I shall elaborate. Firstly, the US is possibly the only country in the world that could win the World Cup and collectively not give a shit. Think about it. Were the US to raise the trophy this year, would LA riot like after a Lakers championship? Would people in Chapel Hill rush Franklin? Would dukies light bonfires with their collective douche secretions? Simply put, no. Streets would remain calm, cars would remain unflipped, and Durham's gated community would not remove the sticks from their asses in order to light them. There's always a bit of good in everything I guess. Regardless, it would barely make a blip on the US sports conscience.

The second (and initial) reason is a lot more childish, and a lot more powerful. It dates back to that USA-Colombia game in 1994 where a simple mistake by the one of the generation's greatest defenders caused Colombia fall of the footballing map for the next 16 years and counting. Yes, there were other narcofutbol related issues that contributed (documented in an episode of ESPN's 30 for 30 which sadly doesn't air here), but the 6 year-old who watched that game didn't care. The ensuing news report of Andres Escobar's murder is the first moment I can firmly place in my memory. It is hard to let go of habits developed at such an age where even memory is hazy, and so a deep hatred for US soccer has lived within me for many years now. Was the US at fault that day? No, of course not. Any team worthy of playing in the world's greatest tournament would have seized the opportunity and exploited the deflated opposition. Still, I never claimed to be rational person, let alone a well-informed, football-conscious toddler capable of making valid judgements.

And so we arrived at this year's tournament, with Colombia watching from home, and the US in the same group as local favorite Algeria.

Game 1 USA-England

Going in I knew one thing for sure, I wanted US to lose, and badly. Just because I am supposedly an informal representative of the US here, doesn't mean my sudden hatred for its soccer division would suddenly fade. And so, when Gerrard put one through 5 minutes in I clapped a bit. Fuck you Sam's Army, chew on that for a while.

Then the game stagnated and the US was able to hold ground for an extended stretch. Suddenly, my instinct to always root for huge underdogs wanted to kick in. Don't get sucked in, "it's a trap" I thought, quoting Admiral Ackbar. I let a few digs at the misery of USA's backline loose and figured the matter was settled. Yet, a few minutes later when Green's butterfingers erased the deficit,I felt glad. Not ecstatic or anything, the goal was not gonna make a difference when England regrouped at half and got some 1812 payback in the latter 45 minutes.

But then nothing happened. Much to England's frustration, the game ended in a draw after countless advances fell flat. Also, Tim Howard was a beast out there. I left the game feeling confused. Had I just gotten some sort of pleasure out of a US soccer victory?

Shortly after I returned to my site and everybody was congratulating me on the US's valor. All of my protests against the moral worth of the team were brushed off and I was pegged as a die hard USA fan by most everyone in the community. Uncalled for.

Game 2 USA-Slovenia

My sitemate (a girl) wanted to watch this game and so we called in a favor to a cafe owner who allowed a select few of us access into his place while it was closed for afternoon siesta.* The game began and all present were tauting me with cries of a bitter US defeat. "No protest here," I said, to their undeniable confusion. Why would I go through all this trouble, just to cheer against the country I am supposedly from?

Not too far in the first half Slovenia placed a beautiful ball past the stunned Howard. Suddenly I was pissed. Days of being told to root for the US had taken hold and watching that ball hit the back of the net actually stung a bit. Slovenia hit pay dirt again before half and I was a mess. Who the fuck is Slovenia? I wanted to punch all two million inhabitants in their ballsacks. At least, my confusion would be over and the revilement of USA soccer that was status quo would be allowed return with the team's exit.

Then Donovan scored. Then Bradley scored. The US was back in it and my head was a mess. All sorts of qualification scenarios began to be thrown around just as Edu touched in a free kick from Donovan. Game over, US wins 3-2. Then came Mali's own, whistle happy Stevie Wonder and nullified the goal for some unspecified reason. The group was now a mess, and it would be anybody's game in the final matchups after a 0-0 Algeria-England draw.

The days that followed were entirely characterized by people telling me the US had no chance against Algeria. How could the North Americans possibly defeat the juggernaut that had managed to score exactly zero goals in the first two games? So constant was the barrage of "one, two, three, viva Algerie" and various other inane chants, that the defiant in me rose up. I would root for the US to win, but not because I was a fan or anything, but because I am a giant asshole and this would be great to rub in everyone's face. Yup, totally cause of the f-u effect.

Game 3 USA-Algeria

When Algeria's shot hit off the crossbar 15 minutes in I almost punched the guy next to me in the face. There was no way I could put up with the incessant taunting if the parade of wannabes in red, white and blue didn't pull this one through. We got through half and nothing had happened, USA was slated to fade away into elimination in as quiet a way as possible.

Then came a series of US advances, one could sense a goal coming, but then again one could also sense a cascade of wide shots and missed opportunities in the future. As you all know, the game appeared to be over when Donovan touched in a rebound from within the six and pandemonium broke loose on the field. I tried to convince myself that the same was happening all throughout the US but knew it to be false.

USA would advance, first in its group, and congratulations flew my way for the next few hours. I was happy but weary of feeling so. These were the same people that had brought down Colombian football a decade and a half ago and yet I was treating people to soda** on behalf of their victory. Even worse, were the US to win the next match, they would be closer to the cup than Colombia has ever been (Roger fuckin Milla) and I would have to toast even more people.

I don't know where this train wreck of a post is going, but then again, I don't know where my emotions on this team are going. We'll just have to watch the next game and take it one step at a time. I will admit one thing though, when some kid shouted congratulations at me after the game, my response was "eight, nine, ten, viva mirikan."

peace.

*It is generally not allowed for women to sit at cafes, it is purely an all dude's affair.

** The national high school exam results had come out the previous day, people who pass celebrate by buying others soda and cookies. This is the general custom of celebration.

Things I Just Learned Will Happen to You After Eating Pork

- your body will sprout boils
- you will become adulterous
- you will become apathetic
- you will not care if your spouse cheats on you (sexually specialized apathy)
- your cholesterol will rise


I would like to point out that the final item was billed as a secondary effect with less probability of occuring and little overall significance considering the primary conditions.

So yea, apparently pork is some crazy, demonic hybrid of weed, viagra and the plague.

Rabat

So, about six months into service, we's all gots ta go to Rabat to have a week-long conference meant to provide additional training. Here are some of the highlights:

- England-USA game. The last night in town, we went to a British pub in town hoping there would be some opposing fans at which to yell crap like "No taxation without representation" and "1812." Sadly, the place was packed with neutral Moroccans and other idiots who had the same thought process as we did. Apparently, it never occurred to us that any legit, die-hard Brit who would indulge in infantile screaming matches with us would not be caught dead in a country with few pubs and no ties to the World Cup during his team's opener. Still, screaming at nobody is kinda fun.

- 20 minute discussion about lotion. During a medical session with one of the new doctors, it was revealed that due to a change in shipping restrictions concerning liquids, we as PCVs would no longer be allowed to ask for free lotion to fulfill our medical needs. The fact that we were initially permitted to do this was news to me but the heated discussion that followed was even more ludicrous. It was during this period that one of the all time greatest interrupters (we shall call this person K) shone through with a brilliant performance. Combatant, alienating, and irrational, K displayed exactly why there is a drinking game based on his/her number of irrelevant outbursts. I mean, lets ignore the fact that the person being vented on is a trained medical professional with many years experience working in developing countries, how can K possibly be expected to continue service without a steady supply of imported lotion courtesy of US tax dollars? Towards the end of the rambling, I heard someone behind me mumble "Forget dryness, 'hey lady, what the heck am I supposed to jerk off with?'" Finally, someone was addressing the issues.

- Party at the Marine house. Having been assigned the sweetest gig of all time, several Marines live in an absolutely pimped out house in Rabat and regularly throw parties featuring subsidized, high quality booze. I feel like there is no need to explain why drinking Guinness, playing hoops and eating free food all at one party was notable.

- Prom. Yes, we threw a prom. Yes, it was awesome.

- Trip to visit an Association called Humanity without Borders. This was interesting and informative but the whole endeavor was overshadowed by the grafiti we noticed about 5 seconds into the visit. Like most major cities, Sale (next to Rabat) has a football team, one which abbreviates its name into a three letter acronym. Also like most clubs, Association Sportive de Sale has a group of supporters who feel the need to call themselves something. For example, all three dozen of the U.S. national team's ardent fans refer to themselves as Sam's Army. Sale's passionate bunch chose the moniker Pirates. So everywhere in this neighborhood, shakily scrawled on walls, was the phrase "ASS Pirates." Just thought that was worth mentioning.

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.