She Works Hard For Her Money (or lack thereof).

When I first moved to my village I had this master plan about how I was going to interact with my new cooperative. I really thought that by abstaining for doing the real "labor" part, I would be seen as more of an advisor and less as "free" labor. In reality, my plan sucked. I don't know why I thought it would be a great idea, but it isn't, so I started a new plan.

This new plan involves more "doing" and less "watching". This week I have been lucky enough to help out with the production of Argan oil, the pride and joy of the co-op. It is quite a complicated process really. Heres the rundown.

1. Collect the Argan nuts from the trees after the "fruit" part has fallen off or been eaten by the goats.
2. Use two rocks and crack open the hard outer shell.
3. Separate the inside of the nut from the outer hard shell.
4. Collect all of the softer nuts and roast them over a flame for a couple of minutes.
5. Take the roasted nuts and hand-grind them into a paste.
6. Take the paste and manually mix it until the oil separates from the harder molecules.
7. Clump together the harder stuff, squeezing the oil from the paste.
8. Filter the oil.
9. Bottle and package for sale.

The process to make this stuff is so labor intensive, I cannot get over it. Also, they yield is such a small percentage compared to the inital nut. The co-op and I have spent the last 3 full days working on this and we barely even have 10 liters.

The truth is that the women really love being together and making this product. It is not all work and no play, there are numerous tea/ bread breaks and lots of gossip. I have enjoyed spending the time separating nuts, roasting the nuts and even trying to make the paste, but its hard work. It brings a whole new perspective to the term "manual" labor.

To everyone back home, this Argan oil is GREAT for cook and for cosmetic purposes. I will be bringing some home to share with all of you in May, so you can try out this extremely rare oil for yourselves.


One of my co-op ladies cracking the hard outer shell with 2 rocks.


Sorting through the nuts and shells.


The Argan nuts after the "good" part has been picked out.


My favorite little girls. Sometimes I play instead of work, but its okay.

Black Thursday. Like Black Friday, only better.

Flashback to the day after Thanksgiving (Black Friday) 2008. I am working the register at The Bath and Body Works in south county mall and boy do we have a sale. People yelling, lots of excitement, excessive lines and pure chaos occuring all around me.

Flashforward to Thursday, October 7th 2010. I am helping out the women of the co-op as they are making Argan oil, well more watching than helping really. All the sudden I start hearing women talking about bleach. At first I think they need bleach, so I offer, I was wrong. Next they start talking about 5 dirhams, I tell them I have none to give them. This was not what they were after either. Then we head into my house where my friend Aiesha proceeds to tell me that I can use bleach to clean my bathroom. I tell her I cleaned by bathroom yesterday, again, this is not what she was after. After about 20 minutes of confusion, my host mother comes over to me and very slowly tells me there is a man selling bleach for 5 dhs if I want some. Confused and falling for peer pressure, I hand over my 5dh and follow Aiesha outside.

As it turns out this bleach man had caused a village/ co-op uproar. All of the women frantically collecting dirhams, looking for plastic bottles and spreading the good news about the "sale" on bleach thanks to the man and his donkey cart. This is "Black Friday", village style.

After waiting in a bit of a line and bargining to get a plastic container from him (for an extra dirham), I am successful in my black thursday purchase and I am the newest proud owner of 5 liters of bleach.

Granted, I have no idea what i am going to do with 5 liters of bleach, that is after all, a whole bunch of bleach. Even with bleaching my well water (so I dont get some crazy bacteria growing in my tank), using it to do some minor cleaning and donating a bunch to the co-op, I haven't even used 3/4 of a liter since June.

I really have no idea where this bleach came from. I asked the women, they have no idea either. Needless to say, I think I will be continuing to use the regulated/ controlled bleach I purchase at the store for my drinking water and perhaps we will try out the new bleach on my brown socks.

Life is quite different here in the village, but in many ways the same. Instead of running out to get the newest video game or gadget for the lowest price, the women instead find bargins on bleach. Something I don't think many Americans even think about trying to save a few pennies (dirhams in this case) on.

I am thankful for the patience of the women in the co-op for explaining what was happening and even happier now that I have this mystery chemical to clean my bathroom with.

Let Us Strive For That Which is Honorable, Beautiful and Highest.

Tonight I got the unparalled and amazing opportunity to Skype the Epsilon Iota Chapter of Kappa Delta. I am having a difficult time using words to express my emotions about this event.

Kappa Delta and my time involved with those women was the defining moment of my life. I learned leadership, cooperation and the meaning of true friendship. To be honest, I owe everything I am to those women. Being given the opportunity to share some of my Peace Corps wisdom with them is what makes this opportunity so great.

I am constantly impressed with technology and the things we are able to do with it. I got an opportuntiy to address 200 women in an auditorium in Columbia, Missouri, thousands of miles away from my little hotel room in Tiznit, Morocco. That is pretty cool.

Thank you for allowing me the opportuntiy to share a little of Morocco with you, Kappa Delta. It was truly an honor. I miss all of you greatly and look forward to our epic reunion come May!

The Tale of the Careless American Girl.

This story is also about 2 weeks late, I am sorry for that, but it quite a good tale.

I would like to preface this by saying I have been in Morocco 7 1/2 months now and I feel quite comfortable in my surroundings. Basically, I don't feel like a tourist anymore, especially in places I travel to a lot like Agadir, Tiznit and even Sidi Ifni. The problem being that I still look like a tourist with my backpack almost eternally attached to my back and my western clothing. Despite my comfort, I am still a target and sometimes I forget.

A couple of weeks ago I was en route to pick up my friend Jancy from the Airport and had a little bit of extra time so I met Sami, Dave and Steven for some lunch at the English Pub in Agadir. After a pretty disappointing lunch, but good company, I hopped into a petit cab and headed to the Taxi Stand. I talked to the cab driver a little bit, we chatted about some villages in my area and my time in Morocco and before I knew it, we were right in the midst of the chaos of the Agadir Taxi Stand. I have been to this taxi stand a couple of dozen times at least, but I am always overwhelmed by the choas surrounding it. Regardless of the time of day or the weather, there is always hundreds and hundreds of people around. It is insane.

The cab driver pulled over next to where I needed to catch my next cab, I pulled out my wallet, paid him and then put my wallet back into my purse. I then hopped out of the cab and reached back in to grab my backpack. In the 5 steps I took from grabbing my backpack to walking towards the next cab, I looked down and realized my purse looked emptier than it normally did. Instinct, I guess. I immediately realized my wallet was gone and turned around, walked back to the cab and asked the driver if I left my wallet in the cab. At this point, he took off in a flat out sprint. I guess the petit cab driver realized that some man had stolen my wallet and he went after him. I was so confused, I started following him but he was fast and I had my backpack, so I stopped in the middle of this street and just stood there. The people in this chaos realized what had happened and were all looking at me, confused, and looking down the street to the place where my cab driver had taken off running.

As it turns out, in the 2 seconds it took me to grab my backpack from the car, a man had walked up behind me, grabbed my wallet out of my purse and took off. I had no idea it had even happened.

After what seemed like forever, but was only a minute or two, my cab driver returned to the spot in the middle of the street where I was standing, wallet in hand. I was so shocked and confused, I muttered out "do you want some money, thank you, thank you, heres some money" in Tashlheet, but he refused it. He just walked back to his petit cab and drove off. Immedately, these three old Moroccan women come over to me yelling at me for not keeping my purse zipped and not being more careful, I just laughed. I was so overwhelmed that I walked into this little shop just to get out of the street, where everyone was staring at me. I was trying to speak Tash, but I just couldn't, my brain was so confused. Luckily the shop owner spoke English so I explained to him what happened and he was so shocked that the cab driver took off after the thief. I bought a candy bar, he asked me if I needed help finding my cab, I told him I was okay and headed off. I just couldn't get over what had just happened.

In retrospect, I am unbelievably grateful to the cab driver for taking justice into his own hands for a couple of reasons. First, the thought of having to go to the police to file a report makes me want to vomit and cry at the same time and second, I had EVERYTHING in that wallet including my rent money, about 500 additional travel dirhams, my passport, carte de sejour for Morocco and a bunch of contacts I needed. When I first moved to Morocco, I used to break up my money and valuables so that in case something got taken, I would still have some stuff I needed. Over the months I had become lazier with that, opting to just throw everything in one wallet. This is where my "comfort" in country is causing me problems.

What I have since realized is that while I don't feel like a tourist, I still look like one, making me a tourist. No amount of language can stop that.

Ironically enough, on the same day, Jessie was sitting on the train on her way to Rabat and a man got on the train at a stop, stole her IPod out of her hands and got off the train, just in time for the train to pull away. Further proof that we are still targets for petty theft.

The funniest thing is that I would NEVER chase down a thief in America. Why, you might ask, well because in America we have guns, and lots of them. No amount of stuff is worth getting shot. This is not a problem in Morocco so thankfully I had a diligent cab driver who just wanted to do the right thing.

In summary, all I can say is Humdullah! (Thanks be to God).

Ramadan. Very much a love/ hate relationship.

Oh Ramadan. I am not really even sure where to begin explaining to everyone back home about the month of Ramadan. I know that I am a little less than a month late on this, but I figured better late than never.

Essentially it is the holiest Islamic month where muslims prove their respect to God by fasting and abstaining from vices (ie smoking, sexual activities, ect) from sun-up to sundown. Each year this holy month moves up exactly 11 days, in accordance with the Islamic calendar and the phases of the moon. This year Ramadan occupied most of the month of August.

I would like to also say that August average temperatures in my village and surrounding cities are in the 110s to 120s. People in absurance of fast also cannot drink water from sun-up to sun down.

To an outside like me, the month is an interruption to my normal schedule. Since I am not fasting and everyone else is, it means keeping all my eating to secret places like my home and having to put a lot of extra thought into travel. If I were just planning on spending the month at home, in my village, it would be no issue. The problem comes with traveling.

As many of you know, I have terrible to non-existent access to the internet in my village meaning at least once a week I make the hour and a half journey to Tiznit to check my emails and figure out what's happening in the world. This means packing lots of snacks and hiding my bottle of water. This also means sneaking into bathrooms/ back-rooms to eat a little something before a long journey. To be honest, I didn't mind this shady behavior one bit. The devotion and friendship I saw amongst friends a families made it all worth it.

Mind you, the general mood of the population is pretty crabby and unpleasant because well, its hot and they are not eating or drinking.

The cool part happens about an hour before sunset. The town comes alive. Kids venture outside. People head to the market and general excitement fills the air.

I broke fast the entire month with my counterpart and her family. It was amazing how welcoming and excited they were to share their fast-breaking food with me. The fast breaking occurs right at the call to prayer, signifying the sun has set. It always starts with a bowl of soup, usually Harira (Moroccan-chili-ish) and a date. From there we eat hard boiled eggs, lots of sweet pastries and fresh juice. The first breaking fast meal ends with a cup of coffee or some Moroccan mint tea.

It was quite cool to be a part of watching people devour food, before the call to prayer was even finished. I broke fast with this family the first 5 nights in a row, then I was starting to feel guilty, like I was impeding on some family time by being a repeat guest, so the 6th night, I stayed at home. About 2 minutes before the call to prayer, little 3 year old Shaema comes knocking on my door telling me to hurry up or I was going to miss breakfast. Okay, so maybe they did want me to come.

That 7th night, I stayed in my house and no one came to get me. I figured it was good to give the family a break from me eating all their food. That next morning they were knocking on my door and asking if I was sick. I tried to explain to them that it was rude to go over there every night and eat their food, that in America, that would be considered rude. They just laughed and laughed calling me crazy and telling me it wasn't rude at all. Just another example of how my culture interacts with Moroccan culture, often times confusing the Moroccans I live around.

The 8th night I made scones and brought them over, just so I felt like I was contributing. They really liked it.

The truth is that to an outsider like me, Ramadan is a month of inconvenience and less than friendly people but when I took the opportunity to look past the obvious, I saw a lot of devotion to God, a lot of 'family' bonding time and lots of generosity. I am sure Moroccans would have the same observations if they were to come to America and observe the holy month of retail Christmas.

All-in-all it was a complicated month filled with lots of frustrations but also a lot of love. I don't know if I will do nearly as much traveling during Ramadan next year, maybe just commit myself to my home for those dreaded graduate school applications. Inshalla.