Heading out to Aroobia ("the country") for the Eid!  The family, Jess (the newest arrival), Stephanie, and I will be heading north via grand taxi (and then donkey) to reach our destination somewhere around Ain Aicha. View Larger Map I'll be posting the adventure!  Stay tuned.Read the original post in all its glory.

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This past weekend the Moroccan-American Commission for Educational & Cultural Exchange hosted the Sixteenth Annual Maghrebi Area Studies Symposium for U.S. Fulbright Grantees at the Tour Hassan Hotel in Rabat, Morocco. Fulbright Scholars and Research Grantees presented their experiences and research to-date here in Morocco.I had the opportunity of closing the program (after a series of food-borne illnesses), and spoke on my proposed research: "Water, Governance, Women, and Empowerment in Morocco's Rural Villages." This research proposal will hopefully give me the opportunity to visit rural communities throughout Morocco in order to gain insight on rural decision-making structures and the roles women have in water and sanitation in rural areas.Here is an excerpt of the paper I submitted to the Symposium:The acquisition and sustainable use of potable water does not begin simply by digging a well. Nor does it end with the safe disposal of waste water. In fact, many intricate factors, such as the role women play in water acquisition, affect the delicate cycle of water-use. Women in many rural Moroccan communities are responsible for health, sanitation, and the acquisition and use of water, but are rarely involved in the decision-making structures that create, implement, and govern water resources. The UN’s Human Development Report 2006 states that proper sanitation in water and facilities has lagged behind because men give less of a preference to sanitation than do women, and this neglect is reflected in current development policies (120). If women’s concerns were more valued in the policy process, the prioritization of spending within development policy would change significantly. Over the course of my Fulbright grant, I will conduct research on the decision-making structure at the rural-community level in Morocco and address the adequacy of input women have on policy relating to the acquisition of water and sanitation. I intend to provide a picture of the cycle of water in the rural Moroccan community -- from the well to waste water -- working with the National Office for Potable Water in Morocco (ONEP) and the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Chair, “Water, Women and Decision Power.” Furthermore, I will address various governance and reporting structures, including the national government, non-governmental organizations, and village councils, and evaluate the influence these entities have over water policy and water use. I intend to show that the empowerment of women in village governance is essential to improving not only the efficiency and sustainability of the water-cycle, but also that the effects will move beyond the realm of water and benefit society as a whole.To view the presentation in its entirety please visit my page on YouTube or subscribe to the Morocco Road podcast.Over the next couple weeks you will see an ever increasing amount of content on Morocco Road, especially concerning my research here -- and not just the trials and tribulations of life in Morocco.Stay tuned for more! And be sure to subscribe to the RSS/Atom feeds to ensure timely updates to Morocco Road.A water source in Essaouira, Morocco.Read the original post in all its glory.

Water, Governance, Women, and Empowerment in Morocco's Rural Communities

As a Fulbright, I can not live without certain necessities. The top three:The stipend. Shelter.Interweb (commonly referred to as ‘the internet’). Food? Debatable, especially considering my culinary abilities. Clothing? How cold can Morocco get? Right?The stipend and shelter come easily.To access our monthly stipend, all I do is enter a 14-digit alphanumeric code into my top-secret Fulbright decryptor ring to uncover another 48-digit alphanumeric code, which I deliver to the ‘banker,’ at a predetermined time and location. I then exchange a ‘challenge’ and ‘password,’ confirming my identity and giving me access to a key that self-destructs within 24-hours unless I unlock a door hidden deep within the quaint and charming medina of Fes. Then I get my money.As for shelter, I usually hedge my bets on the fact that there is at least one other Fulbright out there who has his or her respective housing arrangement in order. Right now, I am lucky enough to be one of them. Plus, Moroccans are extremely hospitable.The internet, however, is by far the most inaccessible, unreliable, and intangible of life’s necessities here in Morocco.The Interweb ComethTo acquire the interweb here in Rabat, the numerous Maroc Telecom salespersons I dealt with required me to furnish:My residency permit (the receipt, in my case).A copy of my housing contract.My precious time. If you too desire the internet from Maroc Telecom, you might also be required to furnish, on top of the latter requirements:Your passport -- because one form of identification is never enough.Two passport size photos -- because they may need copies of your beautiful face.A copy of your grandmother’s birth certificate -- just because it would be practically impossible to get this document in a reasonable amount of time. (And hey, why not?).After I established myself as a suitable and legitimate client, my housemate, Ryan, and I  browsed the various Maroc Telecom interweb plans. We decided on a speed of 2 Mb, or as we say, “Jouge mega.” (With emphasis, please). Some of the other Fulbrighters settled on 1 Mb (wahid mega), or even 512k like our friend, Sam... please.Ryan and I require raw internet power to navigate that galaxy out there, and we will not be cruising at 512k in a world without speed limits. Unfortunately, we could not afford 100 Mb (mia mega). “But let’s be serious here,” Ryan and I wondered, “is 100 Mb even possible?” We doubted the fact that we would even receive 2 Mb.Realizing our significant purse constraints, Ryan and I decided on the economical -- yet practical -- 2 Mb. And following a series of negotiations at various Maroc Telecom offices across the city of Rabat (because what else did we have to do except take taxis around Rabat all day, dragging my friend Jon with me on his first visit to Morocco), we acquired the internet.To emphasize the importance of this moment, I will simply write it again, in caps.WE ACQUIRED THE INTERNET.But even then, that world beyond the misty shores of Morocco remained inaccessible. We had the means -- we had acquired the internet -- but we had yet to harness its awesome power.Still waiting for the cometh part...So there we were... waiting. Sorry I can not paint a more elaborate picture in prose, but there was not much to our house yet aside from the mold or broood growing on the walls, and lets face it -- we could not decipher the interweb.It might be helpful to think of our situation in terms of ‘The Matrix.’ Ryan and I, respectively were some version of Neo. We needed our Morpheus to teach us the ways of the Matrix. Maroc Telecom -- the Agents.Our Morpheus appeared in the form of a chatty Maroc Telecom technician. He, in fact, was a sub-contractor, so do not confuse him with an Agent. Our loquacious friend simply dragged a line off the roof and shoved it through our window. After that maneuver, we were supposed to have internet.“It will come in three days,” he said.Contemplating the biblical significance of this prophesy, I waited, staring at the light indicators on the XAVI X8822R+ router. And in three days -- nothing. Not even a blip. Why would there be? It would not be that easy we gathered. So we were forced to decode the mysterious blinking lights on our router. Of course, the manual was in French, and I could not track down one single hit on Google referencing "setting up a XAVI X8822R+."Ryan and I joke now, but we considered our struggles to acquire internet a gift. In fact, Maroc Telecom should consider a new advertising strategy:Sign-up now for a 1-year subscription to the interweb, and get 2-weeks of French lessons free... as you attempt to set-up the interweb with our crack tech-support staff.Then one day, the interweb came. I had finally decoded the blinking lights using an alien artifact I had uncovered in some Roman ruins nearby. The key was in opposites. Apparently, green on the XAVI means: “Le lien ADSL n’est pas prêt.” or “Sorry, no interwebs.” Red, on the other hand, signifies: “ADSL ON et PPP ON” or “Inerweb, go!” Let’s not try this with traffic lights.And then it goeth (as in: it goeth away)For awhile (two weeks max), Ryan and I were cruising in internet paradise. I was staying on top of emails, reading the news, downloading episodes of ‘The Office’ and ’24,’ and Skyping my family (especially my father, Michael, who has always dreamed about being included in one of my blog entries) and Blythe. We even stopped bumming internet off of our friends. Now we stopped by solely for the enjoyable conversation. Yes, yes. Life was good. That is, until the rains came.With the rains, came static in our lines. And when the static cometh, the interweb goeth. No amount of pleading with Maroc Telecom could change our situation. For awhile, we tried to deal with it, thinking maybe, just maybe, some sort of thing would click at some sort of place critical to the internet infrastructure and our internet would marche -- to borrow from a French lesson -- once more.So we waited. And waited. Kain, in Darija, meaning “there is,” and Mkainsh, meaning “there is not,” came to signify the status of our network connection. At one point, we even attempted a séance to call forth the internet. But we only conjured the specters of some Corsairs --think the real Capt. Jack Sparrow.The Séance. Pictured here: Apple's Time Capsule. Thank you Mr. Jobs.Sometimes, Ryan liked to joke. Or sometimes Ryan, the luddite, misinterpreted his connection status and would shout: “Kain, kain, kain! For the love of all that is good and beautiful in this world: KAIN!”I did not appreciate this. There was no interweb. Mkainsh interweb. And there was no hope. Mkainsh hope.Then one day, after the week of rain had subsided, I went to the roof, where I noticed something quite disconcerting. The line that carried our internet and phone connection had been spliced at various locations. At these splice points I noticed that whomever had spliced, had failed to weather-proof the lines. There, on our roof, lay bare and unprotected copper wires, green and cracked with oxidation.Ryan, with an improved understanding of the French language, called Maroc Telecom that day. And within two days consisting of technician door tag, a not-so-chatty gentleman arrived at our door:“L’oxydation,” he deduced grimly.“Is there hope, sidi?” Ryan asked.“Do you have scotch?” the technician replied.We looked at him suspiciously. But then he began the operation with the white masking tape I handed him.And cometh againI travelled down to a section of the medina later that day. Ryan and I call it ‘Home Depot.’ I purchased ‘scotch électrique’ for 6 dirhams and redressed the wounds of our recovering patient.Frankenstein. It's alive! It's alive!Later that night, I sat in my bed watching ‘The Office.’ “After all of this,” I thought, “we have finally harnessed the power of the interweb galaxy. Alhamdulillah.”"Mkainsh...."Read the original post in all its glory.

The Interweb cometh. And then it goeth. And then it cometh again.

A collection of photos from a lazy Sunday on the beach. Or, when spring happened.Read the original post in all its glory.

Lazy Sunday

Shwia bi shwia—the progression of life here in Morocco. It seems that some days have their ups and others have their downs. I have had a couple down days recently, but the days are trending up. The dar (house) is a reflection of my roots here in Morocco. It was the same back in the States. When my room was a mess, or I lacked clean clothes or food to eat, my days tended to be tougher. When I return home, I need a safe place, a retreat—a fortress of solitude. And for awhile, I did not have too much of a fortress, and I lacked the appreciation of solitude. Upon entering my dar, you might notice that there is not much too it. At first, it came completely unfurnished, aside from a gray table and two crate-like supports for a mattress. These were the tough days. But I did have running water, and it became hot when I needed to take a shower, that is, if I succeeded in not blowing myself up first, trying to light the heater. Yet gradually, the furnishing process has come along. I have had the good fortune of having a tutor, Lala Assia, who has helped me acquire three Moroccan couches and a cabinet for my stove. I also have acquired a mattress, a refrigerator, and an assortment of kitchenware and other necessary knick-knacks. And this past Monday, with the added expertise of my friend Stephanie in the kitchen, I was able to host my first dinner party—a lot of good food and fantastic company. And although we basically planned it at the last moment, dinner went off without a hitch. Although, there was plenty of opportunity for mishap, including the uncertainty of the stove and butagaz connection, which I completed. And while purchasing the meat for the Ragu we were making, I almost bought one kilo of horse meat, before the gentleman I was ordering from kindly pointed to the large painted horse on the sign above his shop, and the unmistakable French word: “cheval.” I still wonder what horse meat would have tasted like. This past Wednesday night, with the recipes from a cookbook my grandmother and grandfather provided me, I made the best tomato bisque I have ever had in my life. I am basically cooking every meal now, which is really cheap since vegetables are so inexpensive here. And little by little—the dar is coming together. I am securing and furnishing my fortress, as well as establishing a sense of peace that comes with solitude.  And getting work done, of course. A Much Appreciated Package After recounting to my mother one afternoon on the struggles of acquiring cheap, yet comfortable sheets and towels here in Morocco, I receive a care package in the mail containing an assortment of sheets and towels for my dar. I pick up the package and immediately return home, lugging the bulky brown broken box into my bedroom, ripping ravenously at the tape. Although of the ordinary, the contents surprise me. I am not expecting a load of sheets, and the thought of my family sending me sheets from America makes me laugh. One of the hidden gems in the package—something that my family failed to claim in customs—is the smell that accompanies the linens. When I open the box, I have the impression that I have just released something magical into the air. Something—a smell, a fragrance—that is not immediately distinguishable, but conjures memories in my mind. I feel the toxins of home and I am already infected. I quickly grab the big white blanket that my mother has enclosed, and shove my face into it, almost suffocating in the odor. Through the fabric softener and the detergent I catch a glimpse of it all. My grandmother toiling over the laundry. The sun refracting through the bay windows in the kitchen. The neatly pressed sheets and towels on tables and chairs. It is all there before me as I push my face even deeper into the blanket, feeling the stitching imprint the tattoo of an afternoon nap on my cheeks. I breathe in deeper, taking in the air from home. I suspend time. I am home again. Then I need to exhale, having expanded my Morocco ravaged lungs to their capacity. I let the air out. Exhaling slowly. And I am back in Morocco. I take the usual extra care that I have acquired making beds for a month at Fort Knox two summers ago. Carefully piling each sheet, folding the corners into each other, I tightly mold the fabric to the bed. Sometimes I succeed at performing this task so well that my feet fall asleep near base of the bed where the folds are the tightest. When I finish, I look at the bed. The neatly folded sheets overlapping each other and bound tightly.  One of the more perfect jobs I have completed in awhile, I think. I have plied all I that I have into this bed, hiding the mysteriously uncomfortable Moroccan mattress.  But it still feels incomplete. I am missing a critical step. I take another deep breath, and look at the bed. Then I realize—there is one more step—but this step was never mine. Blythe, having been in a relationship with me for a year, undoubtedly had seen me complete this chore countless times, always humorously watching me enamored in my task. And always, after I had completed the makings of a perfect bed, she would look at the bed, look at me—then like a little kid amassing the force and velocity to complete the perfect cannonball, she would spryly launch her attack on my masterpiece, catapulting herself into the folds of the bed, releasing the tension that the sheets held, messing the pillows, and perfecting the perfection. I look at the bed, close my eyes, and dive in. It is imperfect, but I am happy. And for the first night in Morocco, I sleep soundly until the call to prayer, content and reminded of friends, family, and home.  Read the original post in all its glory.

Shwia bi Shwia: Life in the Oudayas

I haven't posted in awhile, but certainly not due to lack of content. Fez has been an amazing experience, and I am almost sorry to say that I will be leaving soon for Rabat, where I will begin what I have deemed "Stage Two" of my adventure here in Morocco. A Quick Update Stephanie, Jess, and I didn’t make it to Aroobiya, unfortunately. We had a number of complications regarding transportation, and a lot of the routes were shut down for Eid. We ended up going to Rabat, where we spent most of the post-Ramadan vacation. Check out the pictures. I am in the process of looking for a guitar so I can jam out. So far it's been a challenge. You could probably purchase anything you have ever dreamed about in the Fez Medina, but you just have to know where to look and whom to ask. In the case of guitars, oddly enough, it seems as though you can go to just about any seller of carpets or trinkets, and they are bound to have a few in the back. I have come across two varieties: Moroccan and Spanish. But still nothing that can hold a tune. So I'll take my search to Rabat, where apparently I will have better luck. The Scranton Connection Fez has taught me many lessons about my limited experience of Moroccan culture and the eerie Truman Show-esque aspect of life in Morocco. It never ceases to amaze me how many different people I meet, and how we always have something strangely in common. On a tour of the medina early into my stay here I happened upon a carpet shop where artisans were crafting an assortment of fabrics. I had just arrived with a group of Fulbrighters, when I started making small chat with another gentleman in the shop. He was in the process of taking a study-abroad group through the Medina, and he asked what the composition of our group entailed. I responded that we were mostly composed of Fulbrighters, and others learning Arabic in Fez. Here's a summation of our conversation: Tour guide: I was a Fulbrighter too! Chris: Oh really. That’s pretty crazy. But this coincidence doesn't really phase me. And at this point too, I think maybe this seemingly harmless tour guide might be one of Fez's notorious faux guides, who have concocted their own elaborate back-stories to lure tourists or wayward travelers into some commissionable service. Tour guide: Yeah, but I had my Fulbright in the United States. Chris: Great! Where was it? This is where the really store can come out. The chance to find the wrinkle in a false background. Tour guide: Believe it or not… Of all places, Scranton! Chris: … I quickly glance over myself, looking for some revealing piece of evidence. The shirt I am wearing maybe… No. Maybe a bag tag… None. And so with a apprehensive grin, I continue. Haha. Really. That's unbelievable! I just graduated from Scranton. The University of Scranton. I took Arabic there as well. Tour guide: Yeah, I taught Arabic there! And it turns out, he was not lying. My friend, in fact, had a Fulbright grant to the States, where he taught Arabic at The University of Scranton. I just wasn't studying Arabic at the time. It's funny how no matter where I go, or who I meet, every day, there are constant reminders of home and of Scranton. The Office is probably the biggest culprit. I have resorted to purchasing a season's pass on iTunes, and downloading a new episode every week. For the season premier, I even arranged to have a Skype session with my friend Kristen, who is currently working for FEMA in the Midwest. But something about a state of emergency kept her from joining the session at 1 o'clock in the morning, Moroccan time. But The Office has kept me in touch with a lot of friends, both here and back in the States. And I have definitely made use of the ol' "That's what she said!" on a number of occasions. Too many. Stephanie, to me via text, after I missed her puttanesca, a spicy Italian pasta staple: Wow my puttanesca kicked ass. Spicy enough to make your lips tingle and so savory you'd beg for more. … Need I say more. The election has also been a favorite topic of discussion. I was quick to inform everyone here on the importance of Scranton in this election cycle, especially it's key to winning the Keystone State. Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden are also natives of Scranton. I can't believe you didn't know this! Read the original post in all its glory.

Going Up the Country

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