Silver Lining?

My sink leaked to the point where it flooded half of the house whilst I was occupied. Luckily, it's so infernally hot out that the whole place dried in an hour.

Rejected SPA Grant Proposals

So for those of you who don't know, SPA (or Small Projects Assistance) is one kind of grant that a PCV can apply for to get funds for various projects or whatnot. The following are the titles of some (fake) submissions that were promptly rejected.

Book-It!: A Bible Themed Reading Race

Bribing Your Way to the Middle: A career skills development workshop aimed at preparing youths for being cogs in the bureaucratic machine.

"Don't 'Bounjour' me you little asshole!" : A Youth Education Campaign

(Alternate title: "No I don't have a fucking stylo!")

U!S!A! All the Way!: An American Culture Seminar

(note: Attendants will dine enjoy a Southern style pig pickin' while listening to Satanic death metal and watching a presentation on how Twilight is, in fact, for girls)

"I give you special price!": A how-to workshop for improved tourist scamming techniques in Marrakesh.

Unleashing Your Inner Racist :A content-based seminar for PCVs stressing the importance of full integration

Marche Maroc Boumia: Bringing modern marketing techniques to the world's oldest profession.

Quick Thoughts

You know 'el Clasico' is a big deal when Al Jazeera channels 1-9 are all showing some angle of the same game. Either that or maybe nothing else is really going on in the Arab world. Oh, wait.

Inclined to take extra care of her foreign tenant, my landlady often feeds me cookies, tea, milk or leftover intestines whenever I go over to pay the rent. The most recent of such trips was made upon my return from Tetouan (really friggin far away) and so she felt that the usual bit of incessant instance on having more bread was not enough. As I was about to leave, she sprayed me a sold 10 times with her favorite, and most expensive cologne. Have an old lady make you smell like a French prostitute, check it off the bucket list.

Fake Yet Sadly True Headlines:

Local Children Throw Rocks, Ask for Money, Throw Rocks

Lazy PCVs Secretly Hope Kesh Bombings Prompt Evacuation

Barca Victory Facilitates the Development of Youths' Ability to Take Verbal Beatdowns

Wedding Season

On the surface, Moroccan weddings share many common traits with their US (or even Colombian) counterparts. Mad peeps gather to eat expensive food, chill and greet the bride and groom as a married couple for the first time. There is much traditional music, joy and a whole shit ton of dancing. There is also, however, one major difference. No booze.

The more one thinks about it, the more it astonishes how a simple absence could make such a significant difference. Without any hooch, all of the tiny irritants that come along with the ceremony are exacerbated and all one can do is wonder if it will ever end. I mean, sans sweet nectar, who could possibly put up with up to 10 (seriously) hours of rhythmic chanting set to atonal violin jabs and slightly irregular drumbeats? There are many things I love about this country, but weddings simply aren't among them.

Keeping this in mind, it is not surprising that I had been dreading this year's wedding season (mid-Spring) more than Arab heads of state dread fair elections . With invites typically flying in from all directions (everyone is, after all, curious to see if the white dude can dance) this can be a difficult time to retain both one's sanity and public image intact.

Enter the mudir. When his younger brother finally decided to stop spending money on hookers and weed for a few months in order to save money and get married, I knew I was in for some awful times. Being a close friend of the family, there would be no excuse to miss such an event. No excuse, save for the complete unpredictability of the mudir.

As it turns out, he hates weddings too. In a rare moment of cunning, he walked with me to the ceremony and brazenly explained that I, as a foreigner, was much too feint of spirit to withstand a night full of people yelling at me to dance and eat more chicken, beef and prunes. Stunned, when his confused siblings looked to me for clarification, the only response I could muster was "yea, what he said." And so I was saved. They fed us individually and then granted us our freedom.

All in all, we spent a total of 39 minutes at the locale. I have not yet heard back from the people at Guinness but am reasonably sure that this will soundly crush the previous record for "shortest stay at a Moroccan wedding that included a full meal." God Bless the mudir.

Ways I Have Seen My First Name Spelled

Juan

Wan

Won

Jaun

Khouan

Khwan

Khouane

Djon

Jean

Djohn

Jon

John

Brahim

Memories of a French Presence

To anyone who has even the most casual knowledge about Morocco, it is an obvious fact that France's colonial presence in the 20th century had vast and deep consequences on the social, political and economic structural development of the country. Today, these various effects are looked at with skepticism and feel bittersweet to the palates of many ordinary Moroccans. While some of the results of the European power's rule (investments in infrastructure and education) are acknowledged as beneficial, the legacies of colonialism have still left a sour mark on the consciousness of the average Moroccan.

What follows is merely some of the paraphrased stories of the only friend of mine who was old enough during the time of protectorate to have been affected by it first hand. None of this claims to offer any sort of conclusions or analysis on the (de?)merits of the era. It doesn't even claim to be entirely historically accurate. What it is, is simply a set of memories as they are remembered by someone who has since forgotten his age and place of birth, but not the eye color of the French commandant who was in charge of the local post in Azilal. They were blue.

______________________________________________

Suddenly it seemed as if they were all around, and always had been. Often they would show up in our town and play with us kids by the river-no one would say a thing. They set up shooting ranges and training facilities at the edges of town and we couldn't help but look in with unyielding curiosity. As we were quite young at the time, most of us not yet even 13, they let us come and go as we pleased. No shooting session was ever complete without a small band of kids gathering up the recently emptied shells, still hot, to play with back in town. This is how I first met the French.

______________________________________________

During the second World War the French, much like all parties involved, grew desperate for additional manpower. Before their fall, they used to drive large trucks into the center of Marrakesh and offer anyone willing to jump aboard a job in the fight against Hitler. Two of my brothers were among those who hopped in to be driven away to some makeshift training facility. With hunger and unemployment hanging over the people, there was much lure in a guaranteed post in a foreign developed country, even if it was fast becoming little more than rubbles and ashes. As is probably not tough to believe, however, many of those who signed up were gravely unqualified for full combat duty. I was always told that one day the training officers set up a classic obstacle course, prefaced by a wall with only a single rope dangling from the center, and lined up the recruits for their test. A capable trainee would presumably be able to climb up and over, jumping down on the other side ready to complete whatever the next textbook task happened to be.

My brother was not a capable trainee. Apparently overburdened by the physical stress of the climb, he tripped on the top and landed chest first on the other side, breaking several ribs. Not a week into training and he was already in the hospital, collecting paychecks to lay in bed and be tended to by foreign nurses. My other brother wasn't so lucky.

______________________________________________

When it came to controlling the country, the French had a lot more difficulty subsiding the Berbers, who tended to live in barely accessible mountainous areas. This last point would quickly become a source of countless frustrations for Them. I still remember hearing the accounts of battles at Tilouguite from friends of mine who had been recruited to fight. The supposed simple capture of a meaningless town had become drawn out as French soldiers had started getting picked off through attrition. I can't really recall who won or lost but I can clearly see my friend's face as he relayed the occupier's eventual tactics. To cut down on vital losses, the army began to march with an exclusively local front. That is, everyone on the front line was a recruited Moroccan, fighting either for the pay or to suck up to Them. It was a human shield.

______________________________________________

As a child, I used to work for the French commandante in the regional hub of Azilal. Early on, they had tested my honesty by haphazardly leaving large sums of money under rugs and couches and then instructed my to clean the room. With each time I returned the wad of bills in full, the commandante grew trust me more. Soon after, I became the most relied on assistant at the military's office, a job that came with plenty of monetary benefits. This last part was crucial, the family didn't have much money and the little we were earning all seemed to be coming from the French in one way or another. Whatever the means, we were getting by.

One day in the 1950s, when the political climate changed and the French were on their way out, the commandante called me into his office and made me an offer. If I so chose, I could join his staff in returning to France and start a family while continuing to work for him. When you think about all the people, both then and now, who would do near anything for such an opportunity, it may seem shocking that I didn't think it over much. I couldn't leave- Morocco is my country. Plus, I would have missed my mom.

List of Favorite Shirts I Have Seen Over the Past Year or So

1. F.B.I.

Firm Believer In

Jesus

Explaining this shirt to a Moroccan could probably get me deported. Am I joking?

2. Rhinos

[picture of gray rhino with green ass and orange five-o'clock shadow]

Patrol

Urban Survival Squad

I don't know what one has to drink/smoke/inject to cause anal/facial discoloration, but I don't want it.

3. [Shawn Kemp Sonics jersey]

By the sheer laws of probability, it is a fifty-fifty chance that Shawn Kemp is the illegitimate father of the person I saw wearing that shirt.

4. Real Eyes

Real Lies

Real Lize

Respect.

5. Miss Thick Animals

[Picture of a dragon]

Would be better if the dragon was packing a badonkadonk.

6. [Bright pink collared shirt with Messi in the center. He is holding a sunflower.]

This one is gold cause you can tell that in the real picture he was initially holding a trophy.

7. Enjoy the beach and the fun with

Friends Baby Team

Enjoy it!!!

The funniest babies team

The mudir's son wears this pup at least once a week.

8. 19-0 The Perfect Season

New England Patriots

Super Bowl XLII Champions

Ok, so I've actually never seen this one...but it's on my wish list.