Going Against What Nature Intended: Surviving Two Winters in the Maghreb

When I first heard from my Peace Corps recruiter that I had the choice of either central Asia or Morocco, I thought, "Hmm, do I want to freeze my butt in a Stan country or toast in the desert of Morocco?"  I decided to go for the heat.

I've never enjoyed the cold other than a day or two in the winter when the snow falls and everything looks squeaky clean with that fresh blanket of snow, but then that image is quickly ruined when a big semi-truck passes turning that fresh coat of white into dark, gray slush.  I also enjoyed creating softball size snowballs and hurling them at family and friends when they least expected it.  Other than that, winter for me has been about hibernating until the depression-inducing, gray overcast skies cede their control to the serotonin-reviving warm sun.  So when I got to Morocco in late August of 2008 and feeling the hot sun on my face, I felt I had made the right decision.  Little did I know what was ahead of me.

Living in Indiana, I endured a number of insane blizzards and temperatures that would make my nostrils freeze every time I would breathe.  Temperature-wise and as far as blizzards are concerned, Morocco pales in comparison.  This year, for example, my town got maybe two light coats of snow that disappeared within a day or two and it only got to about freezing a few times during the course of the entire winter.  However, I must say that this last winter was by far the worst winter I have ever endured.  It was a true test of wills.

Of course other volunteers deep into the Atlas Mountains had it much harder, but perhaps some of my lighter-skinned fellow volunteers of European descent have a genetic disposition that is better able to deal with the cold.  I know for a fact that I'm not made for cold weather.  Both my parents are from Venezuela.  They are descendants of generations and generations of tropical climate dwellers.  Their genes are specifically designed to weather the year-round hot sun and humidity coming from our dense Amazonian jungle forests and the always balmy Caribbean waters.  When my family decided to make the move to El Norte, the grand U.S.A., they did so for economic reasons not because they enjoyed wearing several layers to the point where they resembled the March of Penguins.  When I was born, I lived in the States for a couple of years, but then I returned to my parents' natural habitat.  For 8 years, I thrived in my natural habitat.  My melanin rich milk chocolate skin fended off the harsh sun hardly ever encountering sun burns.  Also, when the heat was stifling, my internal temperature controls turned on the boosters generating more sweat to cool me off.  I was in sync with my environment.

Then, our family decided to move back the good ol' US of A.  We moved to Oklahoma where the winters were relatively mild.  We lived there for a number of years before our family decided to continue the migration northward despite my many objections.  Once again, economic reasons took precedence over my need to live in a warmer habitat.  In Indiana, I endured five long winters.  Not wanting to endure another, I left for the sun-drenched coast of South Florida.  Sometimes I think it was my inner evolutionary survival of the species voice speaking to my subconscious urging me to return to a more favorable environment.

So in August of 2008 fast forwarding to Morocco, my internal temperature controls were functioning in proper form once again in the hot sun of Morocco, but this moment of comfort would soon be a cherished memory.  Our larger training group was divided into smaller sub-groups, which would then leave the urban Azrou valley to smaller rural villages deep into the Middle Atlas Mountains.  The day I arrived to my CBT site it rained.  I thought nothing of it.  Having seen what appeared to be an arid and parched countryside on my way there, I was happy that the rain had come.   Then, little by little the temperatures began to decline, and out of preservation I began to add one layer after another of whatever clothing would restore my body temperature to its homeostasis.  Little did I know, that was the start to what would be some of the toughest months of service.

We were told in training how cold it would get in Morocco, but not how the cold plays out in Morocco.  What do I mean by that?  Well, in the U.S., the temperatures go down and every household spoiled by the comforts of central heating makes a degree adjustment to the thermometer so that it can restore the house temperature to an optimal temperature where you can lounge in your home in a t-shirt as if there was no winter at all.  In Morocco, the realities of winter are ever present.  Your home, which should be your refuge, becomes an ice box because it is generally colder inside than the outside temperature.  In the winter, I turn off my refrigerator because my house is sufficiently cold.  My all-cement walls absorb the moisture of the cold rain and snow and cool my home to a cold-to-the-bone 40-45F.  You may think that 40F is not quite so bad given that I've endured below zero temperatures in Indiana, but I never worked, ate, and slept in 40 degrees day in and day out without any relief in sight.

My body, feeling out of sync with this environment, pleaded for the temporary and necessary comforts of the hammam (Turkish steam bath houses).  During homestay, I frequented the hammam more than the locals.  I was told that I would get sick by going so often.  I did not care.  The hammam transported me to my early childhood in Venezuela where just sitting outside would produce fat beads of sweat from my sweat-drenched head or to my many days laying out on the South Florida beaches and taking in the warm mist of the ocean--I also closed my eyes and reminisced often to avoid having to watch scruffy men scrubbing their privates.  While my host family members went only once or at most twice a week, I went every other day.  The hammam was my savior throughout my first winter in Morocco.

My first winter was easier to manage because not until late January was I responsible for a number of chores.  Most of the winter of 08-09 I was chilling with my host family who took care of washing my clothes and dishes.  I said thank you to my host mother for doing these things for me, but what I should have been doing was kissing her feet in utter gratitude.  I stated in an earlier blog how I plan to incorporate the Moroccan-style one-dish-serves-all tradition into my dining routine in order to rid myself of the burden of washing dishes.  Well, in the winter, washing dishes is the equivalent of dipping your arms and hands repeatedly in a fishing hole in a frozen lake bed.  You could boil water, but then you're using precious buta gas reserved for cooking.

The same applies to washing your clothes.  I remember staring long and hard at the wash bin where my clothes soaked for hours as I procrastinated and procrastinated the task of giving my clothes a few turns and a few swishes in and out of the water that I was told were necessary to ensure a decent wash.  As you can imagine, the swishing and turning became less and less important the colder it got and I began to place more faith in the magical disinfecting, cleaning powers of stationary soaking.  I became a full believer in the Tide commercials that showed how a simple application of the detergent would miraculously whisk away all impurities leaving the fabric white as new.  These two simple chores were put off until there was no option, but to confront it.  I braced myself and let out a few obscenities before digging in and shivering my way through it.

As soon as I learned that I was to be placed in a site at the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains, I immediately called my parents and asked them to send me all my wool, fleece, and UnderArmor that I had left behind.  Last year, October was a two garment month, November three, and December four, January and February 5 or 6 with a coat on, and then gradually in mid-March I began shedding the layers until I was back to one in mid April.  This year, October and November were warm except for a shower or two that would bring a bit of cold, but I was mostly in long sleeves.  Then, December announced the start of winter in the form of a series of  blustery and rainy days, and I'll never forget the howling of the winds made as they  funneled through my makeshift windows and doors.  In January, the rains fell persistently and temperatures plummeted.  February brought little reprieve as it continued to pour and kept my home at a steady 45-50F.  Now in late March, my house sits at a cool 62F.  I still have three layers on, but I feel liberated.


Some interesting things happen at 45-50F that I never saw before in the States.  I could see myself breathing at all times inside my home.  Whenever I decided to torture myself by taking a bucket bath despite the cold emanating from the walls, I could see the warm water evaporating from my skin creating an aura of steam all around me.  I just needed a light behind me and it would have looked like a scene from Close Encounters.  With the temperatures hovering over 40F degrees, it is impossible to dry your clothes unless the sun makes a rare and brief appearance.  At the sign of sun, you lay out your clothes strategically on the clothes line so that the sun's rays can hopefully get your clothes from wet to damp (the picture shows my steaming pants under the sun's rays).

If you suffer from bad circulation to your extremities, the joints to your feet and hands can begin to swell up in response to the cold.  Because my fingers were numbed by the cold, I was unable to type for any extended period of time.  Because the thought of the cold pervaded my mind, my work productivity slowed to a grinding halt at times and then sputtered along just enough to meet the most pressing of deadlines.

I never thought that in coming to Morocco that I would be camping for almost three months out of the year inside my own home.  Granted, I'm not sleeping outside exposed to the elements, but for roughly three months sleeping inside my sleeping bag was the only way to rest in comfort during the long, cold nights.  In the process of going to sleep, you had to master the art of zen meditation both to forget how cold it was and to help you remain completely still because moving an inch in your sleeping bag could potentially lead to the escape of what my bag's manual called convection heat (air that has been warmed inside my bag) that needs to remain trapped in order to preserve any level of comfort.  Trapping convection heat became the task of utmost importance.

When I cooked, I took advantage of the heat generated by the stove by "huddling around fire" and singing kumbaya, placing my hands around pots and pans until they were uncomfortably hot, and even inserting a warm toasting pan within my layers of clothing.  Indoor camping activities were limited to reading and thoughtful film criticism of the best movies of 2007, 2008, and 2009, all five seasons of The Wire, the first two seasons of The Office, and the best documentaries of 2009 just to name a few.

The Hills Come Alive

I felt guilty at first that I was not writing, researching, or meeting my artisans as often as I had done in the past, but when I did go to see my artisans, they too were laid out, wrapped up like mummies catching the latest Mexican soap opera dubbed in darija or chain movie-watching anything that came through their cable movie channels.  My artisan would ask me, "Wes shbeti sta? (Are you full/fed up with the rain?"  To which I responded with a resounding, "Iyeh, kayna sta bzzef ou l-brrd saib (there's a lot of rain and cold is rough)".  When any reference to the rain was made, most Moroccans would say with gusto, "L-hamdullah (thanks be to God)!"

This praise to God for the rain took me by surprise at first.  In the states, we seem to look down on rainy days.  They can be such an inconvenience and forget all the bumper to bumper traffic that is bound to come up.  However, in a country that is at the edge of the Sahara trying to prevent the expansion of that barren wilderness, the rain is welcomed and greeted with praises.  So on those rainy and cold days, people hunker down.  Acting in a culturally-sensitive manner not wanting to alter my artisan's routine, I joined her family in watching the latest prime time Mexican soap opera, Margarita, and gladly drank their mint tea.

Back in the states, I took for granted the central heating that was everywhere.  Sometimes I would only wear a t-shirt under my coat because some places would jack their thermometer well over 80F.  In Morocco, the saying goes that the only thing that is kept warm in the winter and cold in the summer is money.  Hearing this, I, from time to time, visited a few local banks, picked up a number to be able to speak to one of the bank consultants, would befriend some people by offering them my soon-to-be-called number for their number so I could continue to chill in the lobby basking in the central heating, and then when the security staff became suspicious, I always remembered that I needed to go somewhere else or acted lost and confused.  The bank was the only place that was humming with productivity.  Until that point, I never really gave much thought to how much the infrastructure of central heating can affect an economy.

Heating thyself

I could have made it easier on myself by purchasing a heating device that would fall under the generous 800DH($100) Peace Corps offers as reimbursement.  Looking back, I still have mixed feelings about getting a heater.  The two options available in Morocco are your electric radiator type or the butane gas heated ceramic plates type.  The butane gas heater is the cheapest, but also the most dangerous.  As you know, in order to have any sort of combustion, you need oxygen in the mix.  In the winter, in order to prevent the cold winds from invading your home, you naturally close all your windows firmly.  As soon as you turn on the butane gas heater though, the fire begins to eat up the oxygen in the room.  If you are not careful about ventilating the room by say opening a window, you could suffocate from a lack of oxygen.  Because a number of deaths are attributed to these heaters every year, several Moroccan TV stations run public service announcements every winter reminding citizens to ventilate the room and not to fall asleep while the heater is in operation .  The second option is the much safer electric radiator heater, which uses a kilowatt of energy a minute.  My former site mate told me that he once received a bill for nearly 500DH (a little over $60).  This may not be a lot in dollar terms, but in Peace Corps salary terms, 500DH is a quarter of our paycheck.  Preferring to forgo the risk of asphyxiation and to save my dirhams for future travel, I decided to tough it out.

If I could do it all over again, I think I would buy that heater and buy myself a water heater as well.  It is an investment in your sanity.  Some volunteers and some of the Moroccans I work with have asked me if I have considered extending my service for another year to which I reply, "No, because I would for sure go insane."  Some think that I'm referring to how difficult it may be living in Morocco, but I'm mainly thinking about how much I miss the warm sun and humidity of the tropics and how staying in Morocco would simply be going against what nature intended.      

Three Meals Later

I would say that the Balti proverb illustrated in the Gregg Mortenson book "Three Cups of Tea" runs true in some parts of Morocco.  In some instances when I've been invited to dine in someone else's home, the first dinner is with the men of the family only.  On that initial visit, I don't even get to greet, meet, or for that matter see the wife or the women of the home.  It's utterly strange to me and I almost feel like I am inconveniencing the women and the kids who then eat their dinner in a separate dining room or in the confines of a small kitchen.  On the second visit, some of the kids have been allowed to eat with me and by the third or fourth meal, the entire family joins the dinner table. 

I have asked some Moroccan families to explain this custom to me and some have said that it has to do with protection from strangers and some of the women have said that they would rather leave the men alone to speak about whatever they feel like and would prefer to congregate with other women.  I would add that in all instances the food has been fantastic, which has served to minimize my concern about the absence of women at the dinner table during the course of the meal, but then the guilty feelings resurface when the food settles.

"It's not you; it's me"

Before I make any blanket statements about other cultures, I like to do a little introspection.  Perhaps, it's not them, but who I am that is prompting them to behave in that particular way.  Maybe, it's not that I am a man, but rather a very strange man.  Luckily, not too long ago, Joy and I received a dinner invitation from a female friend Joy had met at Amina's coop boutique on one of her first visits to the shamal(north).  I was really curious about this dinner.  Would Joy be asked to eat with the women and I with the men?  Would everyone dine together since it wasn't just this strange man as the guest, but also a very amicable and not Moroccan-looking Peace Corps volunteer?  (On one occasion I visited a family who upon entering the home said to their son, "But, I thought you said he was American?")

We arrived and were seated in their large dining salon.  It was a splendid salon with beautifully tiled walls, large Persian-style carpets on the floor, and Andalusian-styled, artisan designed furniture.  We both greeted the entire family.  For Joy, it was her second or third time there so she gave lots of hugs and kisses to all the women and kids.  Since this was a large crowd, my greeting is the customary handshake that I equate to a quick down-low high-five slap of the hands that is then proceeded by a left chest slap to one's heart that I now reciprocate without even thinking.  Some folks kiss the hand that was slapped, but I have yet to incorporate that in my greetings for personal OCD reasons. 

When we were seated in the large dining room, Joy and I were in the company of all the men in the house, which included the father, brothers, and close cousins, with the exception of Joy's friend who would join the conversation from time to time.  We spoke about a number of issues even the taboo subjects of politics were discussed.  Her friend then brought the dinner courses one after another, but did not dine with us.  We pigged out in traditional Peace Corps volunteer fashion.  (Generally, my goal for cooking is to make something edible and worth eating a second time as leftovers so the treat of a professionally cooked Moroccan meal is consumed to the maximum capacity available, which is often tested to its very limit on these rare occasions.)  Joy and I ate and conversed with the men all night while all the ladies ate in separate yet equal in size dining room with all the kids and the television. 

I was somewhat relieved that the hosts treated Joy and me equally and it wasn't just me or my strange ways altering their routine.  I will continue to ponder this.  I gotta say though that I’m not really fond of having to eat with just the men.  Don’t get me wrong.  The conversations are great, but I still feel like I'm more of nuisance than an honored guest.  Well, there is only one way to solve the ordeal.  No, I’m not going to tell them how I feel about their “three meals gets you into the circle of trust” tradition.  I am going to proceed graciously and gladly to my second and third meals.  

Assimilated Routines - The Family Platter

Dig in! Wait, did you wash your hands?

When I talk about the family platter, I'm not referring to the generous value size portions you can get at various American restaurants.  I'm talking about the tradition in which an entire Moroccan family typically eats from one giant dish.  At first, I found this practice a bit strange and unhygienic, but with time I have begun to see the logic in the custom and if proper protocol is followed as many Moroccans often do, you can easily make this routine as hygienic as eating from your individual plates and stainless steal silverware. 

In the U.S. every Thanksgiving many of us gather around a grand table and "ooh and aahh" as the house chefs bring out a series of platters of all sorts of steamed veggies, both sweet and tangy sauces, and creamy gravies all placed in what often looks like an ceremonial altar awaiting the arrival of the dish of all dishes, the properly dressed and painstakingly marinated baked turkey (makes me hungry just writing about it).  So large is the feast at times that it requires a collaborative effort to pass down or to serve everyone a portion of each dish.  Everyone has their own plate, silverware, glass, and napkin.  Drinks are served.  Then, the chowing begins.

Leid Kbir, bismillah and slice

In Morocco, I have had both humble and extravagant meals.  For the most part however, the tradition of the giant family platter is applied to both settings.  The equivalent of Thanksgiving in Morocco is Leid Kbir, a holiday in the Muslim calendar that commemorates the test of faith Abraham underwent when God asked him to sacrifice his first-born son.  The offering of an unblemished lamb was offered in its place.  Every Muslim family must in a sense do the same.  Many families slaughter a sheep and then go about dressing the entire animal.  This ritual produces a tremendous amount of meat that is then eaten over the course of three to four days.  In addition to the meat, families prepare salads and other vegetables as well.  Every meal that I have eaten during this time is grand even for those of meager resources.

Leid Kbir Morocco indoor grilling tradition

We all huddle around a small table no more than a square meter wide, which means that in some cases you are shoulder to shoulder with your host family, and then wait in anticipation as the different platters are retrieved from the smoked-out kitchens.  Smoked-out because most people engage in the still-odd-to-me custom of indoor grilling.  Some places are well ventilated, but others simply let the smoke permeate the entire house.  There's often a haze in the house, but kids go about playing their games and adults watching their television shows despite the tears swelling in their eyes.  Safe to say that everyone smells like barbecue for three to four days straight.

Let bread be thy fork...

Every platter is like your typical serving dish, but there are no individual plates.  A vegetable tray is often served first, which can include lettuce, radishes, carrots, tomatoes, and other seasonal fare.  Everyone is given a fork or spoon and then everyone begins the assault.  Sometimes small dishes of olives or sauces circle the main dish.  After the salad comes the meat, a giant serving of slow-cooked tender chunks of sheep meat resting on a pool of oil and spices served on another large serving dish.  With the arrival of the meat comes the breaking of the bread--a moment that always makes me think about the Last Supper and perhaps this is why I devote so much time to savoring every meal.  Most of the time people begin by dipping and dabbing the bread in the oils and spices and then once the moat surrounding the meat has reached a certain level, folks move on to the meat.  Your bits of bread serve as your edible glove that has permission to dig into and rip apart meat from bone.  No forks, spoons, and no individual plates are necessary.  You rip and dip and stuff your face.

For most of the holiday meals prior to any dipping and dabbing, someone is responsible for ensuring everyone has clean hands.  A basin is passed from one person to the other and the person in charge pours warm water over your hands.  For other meals, you hope and pray everyone took the time to wash.

The meals are then capped with a tray of fruit from which everyone grabs a bit of each type of fruit.  All peels and seeds are put on the table along with some of the meat bones.  Someone then brings out a dust pan (not the same one used with the sweeper) and rounds up all the scraps.  A soapy sponge then cleans the plastic table mat signaling the end to the feast.

For napkins, a medium-size towel is passed around and for drinks sometimes individual glasses are available when one is treated to a soda or juice.  When not, there's the ubiquitous community cup with a liter of the city's punch available for the thirsty.

Who needs plates and for that matter forks?

At first, I found the practice a little odd, but slowly I began to see its practicality although I doubt that's the sole purpose for its existence.  As a kid, I hated washing dishes.  It has got to be one of the most boring activities out there.  I was overjoyed when my parents would decide from time to time to use paper plates.  It made whatever meal I ate on those plates even that more delicious.

Dinner with host family

Eating from serving dishes has a lot of benefits.  Ecologically, without the dish washing, you're conserving energy from not using hot water, using less water in general, and using less soap.  Financially, you save on the use of water and electricity.  Without such a vast amount of plates to clean, you probably do not need a dishwasher or the vast amount of plates.

If you hate washing all together, replace the fork with the bread.  In Morocco, bread is the equivalent of the fork.  I remember one time during my home-stay my host father felt bad that the family had to leave for the weekend leaving me in their home all alone.  I told him not to worry and that I could cook for myself, which prompted him to ask, "Well, can I get you some bread?".  To which I responded, "No thanks, I don't need any bread right now."  He then gave me a bewildered look and asked me, "But how will you eat?" gesturing the motion of using bread to grab your food.  I smiled and said that I would use a fork.  He said, "Ah, waxa (Oh, okay)."  They only had a couple of forks and during my time there I never ate with one so it was natural to be perplexed by these bread-free meals.

I'm still leery of the community cup so I think in that regard I will continue to add individual glasses to my table for water and soda.

I gotta say though that I kind of like the towel idea as opposed to paper napkins or even individual cloth napkins as long as people don't abuse it.  There have been flagrant abusers who use the entire towel to wipe their face and hands leaving no part of it unsoiled.  I think rules can be spelled out prior to its use.

All in all this new adaptation of the family platter and family dining is a win-win for me and the environment.  I'll gain more free-time, use less energy and resources, and end up happier with less dishes to wash.  Don't worry, when you come to eat, I'll make sure everyone washes their hands before we dig in.

Development As Freedom, Illiteracy in Morocco, Hope in Tech, and Persistence

Not too long ago I finished a book titled Development as Freedom written by Nobel Prize winning economist Amartya Sen. It was a gift from a dear friend and mentor prior to my departure from Washington, DC. I didn't touch the book for about a year until I found out that I was headed to Morocco with the Peace Corps. I thought it might be pertinent to have more of an idea of what it is like to work in the developing world, as it is commonly referred to, and to understand some of the challenges that have hindered its progress; so I picked up the book and began reading it during my visit to Venezuela last summer.

At first, the book starts off with technical descriptions perhaps to fend off some of the criticism on the holistic approach to development that the author is proposing. He talks about how too often many high planning committees within leading organizations like the World Bank, Inter-American Development Bank, IMF, and governments take a somewhat narrow view to development considering very a small set of data before engaging in massive development schemes.

For instance, many committees focus on increasing GDP and per capita income, but sometimes in doing so neglect large segments of the population, which may never benefit from the influx of money directed to various income-generating projects. Per capita income for example takes the income of a country and simply divides the number by the estimated population. It is widely believed that a rise in per capita translates to a rise in the standard of living for that country, but this assumption often does not reflect reality as much of a country's new wealth may be concentrated only in urban centers or among a small segment of the population of wealthy individuals. Some development schemes intended to increase the wealth of a country come through in terms of raising GDP and per capita income, but at the same time exacerbate poverty and widen the wealth disparity.

This book is a must read for all those thinking about entering the international development world and plan to seek change through changes in public policy. It contrasts the policies of India, China, and a host of other countries to demonstrate how integrated public policy initiatives that focus on increasing the opportunities to participate in the electoral process, changing policies that perpetuate gender inequalities, improving the quality and outreach of education, and limiting the role of government with regards to trade have the potential to stave off widespread starvation and pandemics and gives most everyone in that country the ability to benefit from economic expansion.

Sometimes while reading the book, I felt that the author was imploring some of the countries with crumbling infrastructures to take action by showing them that, for instance, holding on to power and limiting the electoral process may be more harmful in the long run because as communication between the people and its government is suppressed so is the information needed for governments to take action to avert any crisis. Not educating the populace, which some governments do with the short-sighted intention of keeping their people docile to remain in power, has the effect of creating a populace that will not be able to compete in the global marketplace and as a result will lose its ability to trade their brain power, a country's most valuable asset, for the commodities and materials needed to sustain their economy.

Why am I writing all this? Nope, I am not getting into the business of book reviews and neither am I arguing for any public policy agenda. I am glad that I read this book because it makes me reflect upon the many instances in which public policy in Morocco, Venezuela, and even in the U.S. has prevented people from being able to live the life they wish to live

Development moving shwiya b shwiya(little by little)

In the case of Morocco, the number one issue that I feel is impeding a rapid development of its economy is the high illiteracy rate. For all my life, I've lived in countries where illiteracy was not a main issue so I rarely considered how crippling it could be. It is still hard for me to fathom that nearly 50% of the country cannot read.  Back in 2007, Magharebia reported on the results of a government survey that showed that the rate of illiteracy had come down from 43% to 38.5%, but bear in mind that this is the national average.  Within the community I work with of artisans and primarily older, rural women, the figure is still above 60%.

The situation is complicated even further as Morocco, a land that has been conquered and ruled by various dynasties and empires from both East and West, is still pulled from every corner making it necessary for its populace to be fluent in French, Spanish, Standard Arabic, and now to some degree English in order participate in the global marketplace. Other countries are in similar situations; however, when nearly half of the population cannot read the country's official language of Arabic, it just means that it has a long road to travel.

One Perspective on Why

Just to put things in context for a second, Abdelkader Ezzaki from the Faculté des Sciences de l'Education of Université Mohammed V presenting a speech at the World Congress on Reading in 1988 wrote that the French Protectorate looking to further its political and economic interests took strict control of the curriculum, made French the "superior language of literacy", and demoted Arabic to a second language in French-run schools.  Furthermore, he adds that the French established "a highly selective educational system whereby the educational opportunities were severely limited and distributed on the basis of social class."  He notes that upon Morocco gaining its independence in 1956 the general illiteracy rate stood at nearly 90%.  Crazy! Therefore, considering how far the country has come since then, some may argue rather slowly, the efforts nonetheless have made a huge difference.

Tech illiteracy presents another barrier to growth. As a number of countries in Europe, Asia, and in the Americas are devising ways to manage the information overload, the majority of the population outside of the major urban centers of the developing world are just getting the skills to create content. While many buyers have taken advantage of the low-cost online shopping alternative and sellers have capitalized on an opportunity to sell directly to customers oceans apart, only a few options of that sort exist in Morocco.

At the mercy of the bazzarist

As a small business development volunteer, illiteracy is a major challenge. When conversing with a number of artisans, most expressed the need for a broader market, namely the foreign market. One would think, well, this is doable. We create some marketing materials, identify some potential partners, and then begin reaching out. Unfortunately, due to the high rate of illiteracy, opening up new markets becomes a long-term project. If the objective is to make it sustainable, engaging in this initiative raises a number of questions and challenging scenarios.

For example:

1) I can create the initial marketing materials, but will they be able to maintain them? Are they willing to learn some of the programs and techniques to create their own? Or are they willing to pay someone else to produce and maintain them?

2) Are they willing to devote some time to learning how to type and how to use various web search tools to prospect opportunities? Or will they need to pay someone else to do this for them?

3) On customer service management, how can you contact vendors in France if your artisan cannot speak French? Is the artisan willing to learn or will he/she be willing to pay someone to translate?

Moroccan artisana is some of the finest in the world. It is highly sought after, but in most cases those who produce it rarely receive a fair compensation for their hard labor. Why? One of the main issues is illiteracy. The vast number of bazzarists that exist today are around because they have acquired a foreign language --in some cases just mastery of the spoken Moroccan Arabic dialect as some women artisans deep in the Middle Atlas region only speak a regional Amazigh dialect-- or have some technical skills that allow them to serve as the link between the buyer and the artisan. These conduits are filling a vacuum and naturally making a profit. Consequently, because most bazzarists are located in large urban centers that draw tourists or help facilitate exports, the profit for the most part stays in the urban centers further fueling their growth while the small mountain village where the artisan resides is still unable to gather sufficient capital to cover basic necessities.

It's mind blowing to see how the inability to read and write plays out in the artisan community. As long as people remain illiterate, they will be at the mercy of others. Another book I read called Export Marketing for a Small Handicraft Business by Edward Millard through Oxfam Press points out how critical the communication between customers and producers is for the producer. In Morocco, because bazzarists have direct interaction with customers, they have a better idea of what the trends are and what customers want. Sometimes a bazzarist will pass the information to a cooperative, but in most cases he will go to another cooperative to get what his customers need. Without direct contact, most producers continue to produce what they know without little to no modifications.

Hope

The situation may seem dire, but new developments in technology and government policy may improve the prospectus. Recently the Kingdom of Morocco announced an increase in funding for more literacy programs that will hopefully ameliorate the situation.  Just a few days ago in celebration of International Literacy Day on Sept. 8th, Magharebia wrote about the success of an initiative where women associations across Morocco are receiving funds to conduct Arabic language classes --  some volunteers work with some of these associations.  Additionally, they have also invested more funds as part of an emergency package to make it possible for rural children to attend school and to enforce a new compulsory education age requirement raising it to fifteen years of age.

Fortunately, advances in technology are also helping people overcome some of the literacy and tech barriers. Not too long ago, I installed Skype in several of the artisana complex computers and in the PC of one of my artisans. Doing so has allowed her and others to video conference directly with some prospective clients in France and even with some in the U.S. all for free. Where there is a language barrier, online translators are now helping people get the gist of a message enough to carry out orders.  Information that was once only available in hardback books in the aisles of various libraries is now being uploaded to the web.  Some universities in the states are now collaborating on a project where one can even take peer reviewed university level courses on the net for free (Check it out http://academicearth.org).  I hope these new development continue to grow and expand and will hopefully catch on eventually in the Maghreb.  The technology is certainly there as 3G coverage continues to expand exponentially every year.  Lastly, freeware is giving people software to learn to type, learn foreign languages, and to use popular document creation programs.

Is this bus going to .....?

I am actually in the same struggle that many Moroccans are in. I'm also illiterate to some degree. If it wasn't for the French that is posted in most urban centers and in some official document sources and the media, I would be completely lost. The other day I was traveling back to my site from a remote location and I was waiting for my bus back home. The bus as usual was not on time, but all the while buses from all sorts of different destinations going to the far reaches of Morocco where arriving and departing. I just started practicing Arabic script so at the present moment I still confuse a lot of the letters and read basic words as if I was a tape player on its last bits of battery life. Sounding out these words around people reinforces the idea that I may have mental issues and that therefore I should get first dibs on a seat and that I need to be spoken to loudly and slowly. I have no problems with this perception. I still need to hear Arabic loud and clear and I don't mind getting escorted to a seat instead of having to stiff arm someone else for it. This and many other experiences make you feel powerless because you have to rely on someone else to help you get back to your own home. I've never been in that situation and it frustrated me so much that it motivated me to tackle script with a little more diligence.

Persistence

I only hope that some illiterate Moroccans feel the same frustration, but I can see how many have simply adapted to a certain lifestyle.  Last month, I was visiting with a cooperative president, Amina Yabis, who was urging some of her members to take advantage of the Arabic literacy classes offered at the high schools. Sadly, I saw in some of the members' faces the same fear, low self-esteem, and a bit of apathy that I saw in some of the recently migrated students when I was working for the ESL department at my old high school. Even some of the responses were the same: that's not for me; I don't think I can; I'm too old; I'm doing just fine without it; or I don't have the time and so on. It's unfortunate that my Arabic was not at a point where I could have given them some sort of reality check or motivational speech like I often did with my former students. The good thing was that the cooperative president was persistent asking them several times and even visiting their homes occasionally to follow up on their progress. That persistence, I think, may just be the thing that will bring about change.

Literacy Agents

Getting back to the book review, Mr. Sen summarizes that an improvement in literacy is linked with a decrease in infant mortality, birthrate, an increase in life expectancy, economic activity, and will likely result in a more representative government. How come? Because people would be able to get the information they need to manage their lives better, the increased communication fuels trade, women who are literate may enter the workforce or put off childbearing until later, and more rural literate people would be able to have their voices heard.

While it would be ideal for a government to launch a campaign to eradicate illiteracy, NGOs and organizations like the Peace Corps can aid in the process.  Sometimes a lot of volunteers feel as if some of their work produces little result because perhaps there are may be no tangible results like a new building going up, a playground being laid out, or new equipment being delivered for income-generating activities.  While I think that these tangible results are noteworthy, I think the exchange of information may be just as critical.  Granted for the first year of service this can be extremely difficult when you're trying to speak a language so different from your own.  However, once you have a reasonable level down and have some feel for the culture, the exchange can be invaluable.  Being shown some best practices in reducing infant mortality, safeguarding the environment, or managing one's business can be just the thing that may help an individual or community grow and live more comfortably and preserve or enhance their surroundings.

At the end of the day, the work most of us do has to do with literacy in all sorts of different fronts. By no means do I or fellow volunteers assume to have all the answers.  Sometimes some of our ideas are completely inapplicable in the current setting and the locals may have a more practical way to go about doing things.  Information is exchanged nonetheless.

I don't necessarily think that providing information is imposing one's culture or values.  The exchange is what is important.  Some people may like an idea while others may consider it strange.  Prior to that idea being exchanged, perhaps there were very few ideas on the table or anything substantially different.  The information is presented, but ultimately it is up to individuals to apply the knowledge in their everyday lives.

Before I go off on another tangent speaking about the benefits of improving literacy, I think instead that I'll get back to ameliorating my own illiteracy.  Thanks for reading and I'll be sure keep you posted on my progress.

Making Couscous

Every Friday in Morocco families gather to celebrate their most revered day of the week. Often extended family comes to munch on a delicious serving of couscous usually topped with chicken, beef, or lamb and veggies doused with a tasty broth.

In one of my Dances with Wolves moments, I decided to find out the source of this scrumptious meal. I wondered, "Does couscous grow on trees? Does it rain from heaven like mana?"  I needed to know. Thankfully, one of our fellow volunteers knew the path to the origins of couscous. I and several other never-miss-a-couscous Friday convert took the pilgrimage to Khoukhate, a small village near Zaida that had begun teaching the steps to reaching a culinary nirvana of couscous making.

Khoukhate is a small valley of green with nothing but an arid wilderness to one side and towering desert plateaus to the other. When climbing onto the plateaus surrounding the village, it appears as if the ground level plane suddenly collapsed and the spring that gives this village its life carved out a beautiful and bountiful oasis. So bountiful, according to the locals, that the village for the most part is self-sustaining producing its own fruits, vegetables, and staple cereals like corn and wheat. Both the men and women labor in the fields, but when it comes to preparing the labor-intensive, time-consuming, but utterly gratifying couscous, the women take over.

There are many pre-packaged couscous varieties at the market that can be put immediately onto a couscoussiére, steamed, and served within a couple of hours. Couscous being such a central part of Moroccan tradition, I felt I needed to learn how to make it from scratch. Back in my home-stay, my host family gave me a five-minute step-by-step guide to make couscous, but I was not able to practice partly because I would have been the only guy with a roomful of older ladies toiling away on the flour. Not that I mind hanging out with older ladies, but at that particular point I was just getting to know my family and trying to understand the nuances of Moroccan culture and gender roles; so instead, I went out in typical Moroccan fashion with my younger host brother to a café to pass the time people watching until it was time to eat.

Whenever we would get back, I would pig out on the couscous as usual sometimes forgoing the meat that everyone sought out for more couscous. Sometimes I felt that I was in a couscous eating contest, but I wasn’t doing it to win any prize; it was pure self-motivation. To make things worse, when the family saw me slowing down, they aided and abetted my gluttony by adding more broth to my couscous so that it could go down easier and then offering the customary bssHa(To your health) as I stuffed my face.

Needless to say, I’m a fan. Back in the states, I purchased the 5-minute pre-steamed variety to spur things up a bit as a substitute for rice. I enjoyed it then; however now that I’ve had the real thing cooked Moroccan style, I’m hooked. Not wanting to revert back to the 5-minute boxed couscous, I went out to Khokuhate to learn the craft of couscous making alongside other couscous fans.

A group of fellow PCVs got together at the Association Ennahda for our couscous making class. The women's association with the help of a PCV is looking to draw tourists and study abroad groups interested in learning about Moroccan culture and experiencing it first-hand.

The association hosts the cooking classes, sells a whole wheat herb-infused couscous, zmita, and different types of jams. To learn more about the association, please click on the associations link above.

The association's president, who was going to lead the class, had already gathered the pots, pans, sifter, meats, veggies, spices, and Khoukhate's own milled whole wheat flour.

She poured the flour onto the ceramic couscous serving dish. Then slowly began sprinkling a bit of warm semi-salty water throughout swirling the flour with her other hand as it began to clump up.

Once there were enough clumps, she got sifter to separate the clumps from the flour. The clumps were then dumped onto several water reed baskets, which we all began pressing and rolling in

classic Karate Kid 'wax on, wax off' style adding a bit of flour from time to time so the granules would not stick together.

Then when the clumps were pretty much

gone, we dumped our baskets onto a sifter so that the sifter could filter out the right size couscous granules.

We repeated the process until we felt we had enough for a couscous feast.

Then, all the rolled and sifted couscous was put into a couscoussiére, kind of a two-tier type pot where chicken and veggies are boiled in the bottom pot while the couscous rests on the top tier pot, which is designed to allow the steam to seep in through its perforated base making it possible for the couscous granules to get nice a steam bath.

After 30 or so minutes, there was a gap between the couscous and all around the edge of the pot, which meant that it was time to fluff it out. The couscous was dumped onto the ceramic serving dish. After a thorough hand wash, I dug in and began to fluff the couscous.

The purpose of the fluff, of course, is to loosen the couscous so it doesn't become one big massive pasta ball and to move it around so all the couscous granules can get a better steam bath. This process was repeated three times.

Once the couscous was done, the chicken and veggies were cooked through, and the broth was ready, a little saffron was added to the couscous and then placed on the large ceramic couscous serving dish(I'm sure it has a name, but I can't recall it at the moment). The chicken came next, then the veggies, and finally a bit of broth was poured all around.

We quickly said our grace, which in Morocco is a simple Bismillah (In the name of God), and then dug in. A few of us tried to pick up the traditional way of eating couscous, which involves grabbing a bit and moving it and rotating it around to create a small couscous ball that you then pop into your mouth or use to start a couscous fight.

As usual I stuffed myself, but was outdone by fellow PCV Steven who claimed the title of last man standing. All in all it was a great learning experience. My hope is to replicate it in the States Inshallah (God willing) so y'all can partake of what I plan to make a tradition of mine: couscous stuffing Fridays.