1/9/09 100 Things for Geologists to Do

As many of you know, I was a geologist in my past life, which is to say up until a few years ago. Now I'm just another amateur geonerd. :) This evening, I stumbled across the world of "geoblogs", and found this at paleochick.blogspot.com:

100 Things You've Done Meme: A Geologist's Version

MJC Rocks over at Geotripper has created a wonderful new meme based on the 100 Things You've Done meme that has been going around. Read about how he came up with/adapted this list here.

Bold the ones you have done and tell us some great stories!

1. See an erupting volcano (in Hawai'i National Park)
2. See a glacier (in Alaska, in Glacier Bay and other places)
3. See an active geyser such as those in Yellowstone, New Zealand or the type locality of Iceland
4. Visit the Cretaceous/Tertiary (KT) Boundary. Possible locations include Gubbio, Italy, Stevns Klint, Denmark, the Red Deer River Valley near Drumheller, Alberta.
5. Observe (from a safe distance) a river whose discharge is above bankful stage (I lived on the Mississippi during the Flood of '93 and the Flood of '95. Plus, this fall had massive flooding on every creek and rivulet in the northern half of Morocco.)
6. Explore a limestone cave. Try Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, Lehman Caves in Great Basin National Park, or the caves of Kentucky or TAG (Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia)
7. Tour an open pit mine, such as those in Butte, Montana, Bingham Canyon, Utah, Summitville, Colorado, Globe or Morenci, Arizona, or Chuquicamata, Chile.
8. Explore a subsurface mine.
9. See an ophiolite, such as the ophiolite complex in Oman or the Troodos complex on the Island Cyprus (if on a budget, try the Coast Ranges or Klamath Mountains of California).
10. An anorthosite complex, such as those in Labrador, the Adirondacks, and Niger (there's some anorthosite in southern California too).
11. A slot canyon. Many of these amazing canyons are less than 3 feet wide and over 100 feet deep. They reside on the Colorado Plateau. Among the best are Antelope Canyon, Brimstone Canyon, Spooky Gulch and the Round Valley Draw. (The Siq in Petra, Jordan. Remember the final scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when they're approaching the temple with the Holy Grail? Yeah, that slot canyon.)
12. Varves, whether you see the type section in Sweden or examples elsewhere.
13. An exfoliation dome, such as those in the Sierra Nevada.
14. A layered igneous intrusion, such as the Stillwater complex in Montana or the Skaergaard Complex in Eastern Greenland. (Yup, Stillwater. Where I nearly started an avalanche.)
15. Coastlines along the leading and trailing edge of a tectonic plate
16. A ginkgo tree, which is the lone survivor of an ancient group of softwoods that covered much of the Northern Hemisphere in the Mesozoic.
17. Living and fossilized stromatolites (Glacier National Park is a great place to see fossil stromatolites, while Shark Bay in Australia is the place to see living ones)
18. A field of glacial erratics (in Wyoming and Massachusetts)
19. A caldera (in Hawai'i as well as the Yellowstone Caldera, plus I mapped part of the Olympus Mons caldera on Mars - not in person, though!)
20. A sand dune more than 200 feet high (Does mapping them on Mars count?)
21. A fjord (in Alaska)
22. A recently formed fault scarp (In Washington State)
23. A megabreccia
24. An actively accreting river delta
25. A natural bridge (Zion National Park)
26. A large sinkhole
27. A glacial outwash plain
28. A sea stack
29. A house-sized glacial erratic
30. An underground lake or river
31. The continental divide
32. Fluorescent and phosphorescent minerals
33. Petrified trees
34. Lava tubes (Walked a few miles through one in Hawai'i. Amazing features inside.)
35. The Grand Canyon. All the way down. And back. (I've only done the rim, sorry!)
36. Meteor Crater, Arizona, also known as the Barringer Crater, to see an impact crater on a scale that is comprehensible (Walked all the way around it with my Impact Physics class. Collected samples, too. Yay for profs who pull strings!)
37. The Great Barrier Reef, northeastern Australia, to see the largest coral reef in the world.
38. The Bay of Fundy, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, Canada, to see the highest tides in the world (up to 16m)
39. The Waterpocket Fold, Utah, to see well exposed folds on a massive scale.
40. The Banded Iron Formation, Michigan, to better appreciate the air you breathe.
41. The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
42. Lake Baikal, Siberia, to see the deepest lake in the world (1,620 m) with 20 percent of the Earth's fresh water.
43. Ayers Rock (known now by the Aboriginal name of Uluru), Australia. This inselberg of nearly vertical Precambrian strata is about 2.5 kilometers long and more than 350 meters high
44. Devil's Tower, northeastern Wyoming, to see a classic example of columnar jointing (Isn't Devil's Tower in South Dakota? Anyway, I've seen it twice and hiked through the boulder-y base once.)
45. The Alps.
46. Telescope Peak, in Death Valley National Park. From this spectacular summit you can look down onto the floor of Death Valley - 11,330 feet below.
47. The Li River, China, to see the fantastic tower karst that appears in much Chinese art
48. The Dalmation Coast of Croatia, to see the original Karst.
49. The Gorge of Bhagirathi, one of the sacred headwaters of the Ganges, in the Indian Himalayas, where the river flows from an ice tunnel beneath the Gangatori Glacier into a deep gorge.
50. The Goosenecks of the San Juan River, Utah, an impressive series of entrenched meanders.
51. Shiprock, New Mexico, to see a large volcanic neck
52. Land's End, Cornwall, Great Britain, for fractured granites that have feldspar crystals bigger than your fist.
53. Tierra del Fuego, Chile and Argentina, to see the Straights of Magellan and the southernmost tip of South America.
54. Mount St. Helens, Washington, to see the results of recent explosive volcanism.
55. The Giant's Causeway and the Antrim Plateau, Northern Ireland, to see polygonally fractured basaltic flows.
56. The Great Rift Valley in Africa.
57. The Matterhorn, along the Swiss/Italian border, to see the classic "horn".
58. The Carolina Bays, along the Carolinian and Georgian coastal plain
59. The Mima Mounds near Olympia, Washington
60. Siccar Point, Berwickshire, Scotland, where James Hutton (the "father" of modern geology) observed the classic unconformity
61. The moving rocks of Racetrack Playa in Death Valley
62. Yosemite Valley
63. Landscape Arch (or Delicate Arch) in Utah
64. The Burgess Shale in British Columbia
65. The Channeled Scablands of central Washington
66. Bryce Canyon
67. Grand Prismatic Spring at Yellowstone
68. Monument Valley
69. The San Andreas fault (Half my extended family lives on it)
70. The dinosaur footprints in La Rioja, Spain
71. The volcanic landscapes of the Canary Islands
72. The Pyrennees Mountains
73. The Lime Caves at Karamea on the West Coast of New Zealand
74. Denali (an orogeny in progress)
75. A catastrophic mass wasting event
76. The giant crossbeds visible at Zion National Park
77. The black sand beaches in Hawaii (or the green sand-olivine beaches) (both!)
78. Barton Springs in Texas
79. Hells Canyon in Idaho
80. The Black Canyon of the Gunnison in Colorado
81. The Tunguska Impact site in Siberia
82. Feel an earthquake with a magnitude greater than 5.0.
83. Find dinosaur footprints in situ
84. Find a trilobite (or a dinosaur bone or any other fossil)
85. Find gold, however small the flake
86. Find a meteorite fragment
87. Experience a volcanic ashfall
88. Experience a sandstorm (This summer - I think I wrote a blog entry about it!)
89. See a tsunami
90. Witness a total solar eclipse
91. Witness a tornado firsthand. (Important rules of this game). (The sky turns *green*!)
92. Witness a meteor storm, a term used to describe a particularly intense (1000+ per minute) meteor shower
93. View Saturn and its moons through a respectable telescope.
94. See the Aurora borealis, otherwise known as the northern lights. (Just weakly, from my parents' front yard in Illinois)
95. View a great naked-eye comet, an opportunity which occurs only a few times per century (Hale-Bopp and Hyukatake)
96. See a lunar eclipse
97. View a distant galaxy through a large telescope
98. Experience a hurricane (only the outer edges, lhumdullah, in Houston)
99. See noctilucent clouds
100. See the green flash (Was in position and watching for it, but didn't see it.)

Looks like I've done 46 out of 100. Clearly, I need to do more traveling. :D

1/8 Conversation Confusion

Walking back from my sitemate's house, I got into a perfectly normal Moroccan street conversation. Where I kinda made an idiot of myself. I'll use [***] to mean "a word Kawtar didn't understand." Watch and enjoy...

Moroccan Girl: Hi!
Kawtar: Hi! How are you?
Moroccan Girl: Good, and you?
Kawtar: Good, thanks be to God.
MG: Thanks be to God. Are you cold?
K: Yes, a little.
MG: Do you understand Tamazight?
K: Yes, a little. I'm learning it.
MG, seeing my handful of snapshots: Do you have photos?
She looks through them, commenting on each one, identifying people she recognizes...
MG: Where is your community?
K: Where am I from?
MG: Yeah.
K: America.
At this point I'm expecting "Is it this cold in America?" or "Do you get snow in America?", which are the two most common questions I've gotten the past few months.
MG: How long [***] America?
K: How long till I return to America? Two years.
MG: No, you didn't understand me.
K: I'm sorry! I'm still learning. Again, please?
MG: How long [***] community?
K: How long have I lived here? Ten months.
MG, laughing: No, no, you're not understanding me.
K: I'm so sorry!
At this point, she tries another three or four times, including using the phrase for "what time is it?", which only confuses me further. Lhumdullah, a mutual friend walks up. I kiss her cheeks and run through the greeting phrases with her. She works a lot with my sitemate, so she's used to Americans and our funny accents and limited vocabulary.
MG, to Friend: I said 'How long [***] America, and she said 10 months! Hahahahaha!"
Friend, to me: She said to you, how long does it take to travel to America?
K: Hahahaha! I'm sorry. To go from Berberville to America?
MG: Yeah.
K: Well, it takes about a day to get to Casablanca, and then you take an airplane for another day to get to America. Two days.
MG: Only two days? Is Casablanca that close to America?
It occurs to me that to this village girl, Casablanca and America are just about equally fantastical and remote. I also realize that she's probably never seen an airplane in her life.
K: In an airplane, it only takes a little time. Airplanes go very fast.
Thinking back on this conversation, it occurs to me that the word for airplane, Ta'a3ra, usually pronounced tyara here, is also the word everyone used when the helicopter came a couple weeks ago. So she's probably imagining me taking a helicopter across the Atlantic - if she even has any idea that there's an ocean between our countries. We move on to more familiar topics.
MG: Are you married?
The word for married, tawl, sounds a lot like the word for photo, tsawl, so I get confused.
K: Sorry, these are all the pictures I have.
MG: Hahahaha. You didn't understand.
K: Sorry.
MG: Are you married? Do you have a man?
The same word is used for "man" and "husband", so I'm not sure whether she's asking if I'm dating. Regardless...
K: Oh, no. I don't have a man.
MG: Really?
K: Nope, not yet.
MG: [***] girl?
K: No, I don't have any children yet. Because I don't have a man.
MG: No, no, ARE you a girl? Or are you a woman?
I realize that she's asking me if I'm a virgin. Not a topic I'd bring up the first time I met a stranger, but...
K: Of course I'm a girl! I don't have a husband!
MG: Like me! I don't have a man, either.
We all smile at each other.
Friend, to me: Aren't you cold?
K: Yes, I'm cold. I'm going home, where I have a buta heater.
MG: OK, then.
K: Goodbye!
MG: Goodbye.

Just another day in the life of a Peace Corps Volunteer...

1/8 Recipe: Lentils

I'm not sure I ever had lentils before coming to Morocco. Not as their own dish. I had a lentil soup - called Moroccan Lentil Soup, in fact - nearly every Tuesday at a sandwich shop called Cosi. I'd go to Cosi on Tuesdays just for the soup.

But lentils not in soup? Lentils as a dish? This was unknown to me.

Then I came to Morocco, and looked for Moroccan Lentil Soup...and could not find it. I was sad.

Then I was assigned to Berberville. In SouqTown, there's a little sandwich place that makes l3ds - lentils. I ordered a plate of l3ds nearly every time I visited SouqTown. (...and there was great rejoicing.)

During Ramadan, though, the chef/owner stopped making l3ds. It's not a Ramadan dish. (...and there was great sadness.) So I flipped through the Peace Corps Cookbook and found a lentils recipe. I didn't have all the ingredients it called for, so I improvised some. The result? Amaaaaazing lentils.

After Ramadan, I went back to SouqTown for l3ds, and was startled to discover that, as good as his lentils are, mine are better. :)

I still get a plate of l3ds nearly every trip, because they're cheap and delicious, but every month or so, I turn on the magic in my kitchen, and there is great rejoicing. ;)

NOTE: The vegetables and spices are all optional, really. This is how I make it. If you don't like zucchini, or if you're cooking for someone who doesn't eat tomatoes, or if black pepper makes you sneeze, feel free to adjust at will. Lentils are very forgiving. Also, this makes a ton of lentils. Since I live in a fridge, I leave the pot on the stove and eat out of it for days, reheating whenever I'm hungry. If you're cooking for only one or two, please cut the recipe.

Without further ado:

Kawtar's Spiced Lentils
3 C lentils
2 L water or stock**
generous pinch of salt (~1-2 T)
3-4 T olive oil
3 onions, chopped
1/2 a head of garlic, peeled and minced
3 large carrots, chopped
2 large peppers, chopped
2 zucchini, chopped
3 medium tomatoes, chopped
3 T cinnamon
1 T ground cloves
2 T ginger
1 T black pepper
5 bay leaves
1 T cumin
1/2 T minced chili peppers
1 T worchestershire sauce
2 T soy sauce

Put lentils in large pot with water and salt; bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer. While that cooks, heat olive oil in a skillet. Saute the onions and garlic until the onion begins to color. Add carrots, peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes, all chopped to thumbnail size. Add cinnamon, cloves, ginger, pepper, bay leaves, cumin, and chilis. Stir over low heat for 5 minutes. **If you are making this as a dish, not a soup, pour off most of the water at this point. You want enough to cover the lentils and another 1/2 inch or so of water above that.** Stir sauted mixture into lentils. Let it simmer until the lentils are completely soft, about 30 minutes to an hour. Taste-test it. If it's too spicy, add more cinnamon to cut the bite. If it's not spicy enough, add more of everything else. Remove bay leaves and serve.

Because of the spices, this only gets better with waiting. Feel free to make it hours or a day in advance, and just reheat it before serving.

**To make this a soup, just serve it in bowls. To make it a dish, scoop it with a slotted spoon and serve it on plates. It's fantastic over mashed potatoes.

1/7/09 The King Is Coming....?

Ever since I first visited Berberville last April, I've been told that The King Is Coming. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Definitely before Ramadan. OK, definitely after Ramadan. Absolutely before the end of the year.

The preparations for His Majesty's arrival crescendoed steadily throughout the year. First everybody had to paint their houses red, then the roads were getting repaired, then the schools and post offices and gendarmarie and all other official buildings got a facelift or a major rebuilding, then the street was lined with red and green flags, and then the school canceled all extracurriculars (including the club we have been trying to start) in order to prepare for him.

But on the day he was scheduled to arrive, nothing happened. And then nothing a week later. And now that the situation with Israel and Gaza* ... is what it is ... his attention has turned from our little town to affairs of state.

Some have joked that he learned just how cold Berberville gets in the winter. Others said that he went to France for Christmas. Rumors are rampant, but all anyone knows for certain is that he never came, and that he's too busy to come any time soon. Current speculation says that he may come in April. But honestly, whether or not he ever comes, I'm glad he said he would. The very fact that he announced he would come has meant tremendous improvements for Berberville and the surrounding countryside. The road to SouqTown, one lane since it was first paved 10 years ago, has been widened to two lanes for almost its entire 140 km length. There's room for more students in the schools. Teachers no longer have to share classrooms, thanks to the new school buildings. Hillary Clinton's staff once refered to her as a "One-woman public works project", because so many improvements were made in areas she visited. Our King is similarly bringing good things to communities all across his country. :)

* We've been issued a strict gag order. No discussing it, no theorizing about it, and definitely no attending the protest rallies springing up across the country. So this is me, not talking about it. Not commenting on the Al Jezeera news footage. Not describing the images being beamed into every home and cafe. Nope, not a single word.

12/25 Christmas Day

We woke up in the monastery bunkhouse around 9:30, then went over to have breakfast in the main building. After a continental breakfast, we trooped to the 11am Christmas Morning mass in the same sweet chapel/church we'd left less than 10 hours earlier.

The service was only an hour, and included many hymns and psalms, including a few Christmas carols I recognized. 'O Come All Ye Faithful" was one of the first; I sang it in English instead of French, but I don't think anyone minded. "Go Tell it on the Mountain" was another; I sang the three or four lines I know in English, but read the rest of the lyrics off of the little half-sheet that had been passed out before the service.

The French family, with their phenomenally good singing voices, had left in the early morning, but the little church was still filled by European ex-pats from all over northern Morocco, as well as the same nuns who had joined us last night.

One of the monks had asked us to sing an American carol after the Eucharist. After a little discussion, we had decided on Silent Night. There was a little confusion when we got the nod - were we supposed to go up to the front or stay put? - but we stood up and sang it. It was warmly received, with big smiles and even a few people joining in, in French and German.

Not long afterwards, we exchanged the "kiss of peace". Some said "Peace be with you", some said "Joyeux Noel", some said "Merry Christmas", but everyone was generous and loving. After embracing nearly everyone in the church, I felt a warm glow that made me not only not miss being with my American family, but genuinely grateful to be exactly where I was, surrounded by my Peace Corps family and this loving group of Christians.

After the service was lunch, which was more European than last night's dinner (taharirt and shlatta with mashed potatoes) had been. It featured olives, pickles, pate, baguettes, and several kinds of wine. This is a French order of monks, after all. :)

I sat between the oldest member of the monastery - the last survivor of the Algerian massacre - and a younger monk. Both were fun to talk to. Sharing my table were a few other volunteers and some French women, including one who had lost her husband recently. She was as grateful as I was to have this beautiful community to spend Christmas with.

After lunch, we walked around the grounds a bit, and then we PCVs left to join other friends. We made a chicken and mashed potato Christmas feast, then did a White Elephant - slash - Bad Santa - slash - Yankee Swap gift exchange. I offered up the coffee press I'd inherited from the previous volunteer in my site, and got a Mexican leather change purse.

Around midnight, I tried to call my family, 8 hours and 10,000 miles away in California, but couldn't get through. Apparently, every other American expat on the planet was also trying to call the US, and the circuits were flooded. But I tried again the next morning, and was able to talk to my folks. (It meant waking them up in the middle of the night, but they swore they didn't mind. :) )

Christmas in Morocco, 2008.

...and there was great rejoicing. :D

1/5 Worlds Collide...

Setting: the tranzit into SouqTown yesterday.

The driver (butranzit) doesn't have an assistant today, which means he needs to collect the fares himself. He pulls the tranzit over a mile shy of SouqTown. He climbs down out of the driver's seat and comes around to the back. The side door doesn't work, so everyone boards and exits the tranzit through the back door. He works his way through the aisle, collecting cash from each of us. The guy behind me hands him a 200Dh note for his 20Dh ride. Butranzit makes a face, and tells him he'll need to wait a bit to get his change. I give him a 100Dh note for my 25Dh ride (I live further out), and apologize for not having the correct change. "Makkain mushkil," he reassures me. No problem. He immediately hands my 100Dh to the guy behind me.

While waiting for my own change, I keep watching him. I've never been cheated by a driver, but others have, and I don't mind being attentive for a few minutes. I notice the woman kittykorner back from me. She's holding out a handful of coins which she jingles at butranzit, but he ignores her and moves further forward in the tranzit. The woman is wearing the traditional garb of our region - a white, loose-fitting garment gathered at the shoulders, reminiscent of ancient Rome, overtopped with an aHandir, a black cloak woven with tribe-specific patterns. From the clothes and her wide eyes, I deduce that she leaves her bled village rarely if ever. Many Berber women are moving confidently into the 21st century, but some, like this old Mahallu (granny), are firmly rooted in the last millenium - or maybe one of the ones before that. She lives an agrarian life, growing the food her family eats and cooking it over an open wood fire. Her brown, wrinkled face reminds me of a dried-apple doll I once made for a school project.

After butranzit has collected fares from everyone else, and given all of us our change, he returns his attention to this Mahallu. He looks down at the hand still proffering change. There are coins worth 5Dh and even 10Dh, so I'd initially thought that she was holding some of them. The frustration on his face suggests that the palmful of coins are all worth 1Dh or less. He grumbles a phrase I missed, but whose tone said, "Are you kidding me?" Mahallu waves her other hand down at the plastic bags by her feet. In a staunch voice she announces, "I have vegetables in the bag. Do you want to take some of them?"

And suddenly this tiny vignette is a metaphor for the entire Berberville-SouqTown region. Mahallu, with her shriveled-apple face and bag of vegetables, represents the traditional, agrarian economy, based on agriculture and barter. Butranzit, with his fistful of dirhams, represents the modern, service-oriented, cash-based economy. And there they stood, facing off squarely, separated by millenia while less than a foot apart.

He finally shrugged, mumbled something, and climbed out through the back door. He didn't take the woman's few coins or her vegetables, but instead reminded himself that acts of charity are one of the pillars of Islam, and will weigh against sins on the day of judgment.

1/4 Happy Orbit Day

Today I completed another lap around the sun. :)

There is no tradition of birthday celebrations in Morocco. I'm not sure whether this is a cultural or a religious thing; the phrase "Happy Birthday" does exist (3id Milad Sa3id) but this is in Classical Arabic, which bears the same relationship to Moroccan Arabic as Latin does to English: it's the origin, and really-well-educated or super-religious people will recognize it, but it's foreign to the illiterate women I spend most of my time with.

My PCV friends more than made up for this, though; I was in SouqTown, and I got birthday hugs from Ilham, Brahim, 3dam, Forbes, LaHcen, Sku, and Halima, plus a homemade chocolate cake (with icing and sprinkles!) from Jamila, and a present from RaHma. Only the out-of-town PCVs missed it, and they posted Happy Birthday messages on my Facebook page (where their messages joined those of tons of PCVs from my stage from all across the country, and more from non-Peace Corps friends!). Plus I got Happy Birthday text messages from lots of PCV buds. In fact, today might hold the record for the number of Happy Day wishes I've ever received. :D

And LaHcen, the PCV who lives closest to SouqTown, told everyone that it was my 3id Milad. Imagine my surprise when I picked up a soda from the buHanoot near the hotel and heard a hearty, "3id Milad, Kawtar!"

12/24 Christmas Eve

Many PCVs go back to America for the holidays; others go to London or Amsterdam or other European cities. But some set of us - maybe half, I'd guess? - stay in Morocco. We don't get it as a holiday. We get Moroccan holidays, but not American ones.* So I used my vacation time to gather with Christians for Christmas. :)

I've planned for months to go to the nearby Monastery for Christmas Eve and/or Christmas Day. As I told people about this, lots expressed interest in joining in. Trying to confirm plans with a group of PCVs is a lot like herding cats; many of us don't have dependable cell phone coverage, let alone internet access, so we're a hard gang to be in communication with.

But I did what I could, and ended up making reservations for the monastery's guesthouse for Christmas Eve dinner, guest rooms, and Christmas Day lunch. I had to guess as to the number who would be coming, but it turned out not to matter; only two one-person rooms were available, so the rest of us would be on the floor anyway. The kind people on the phone spoke Spanish and a bit of French, where I speak English and a bit of French; our languages didn't overlap quite enough to work everything out, but when we showed up - including more than had told me they were coming - they went ahead and opened up a bunkhouse for visiting pilgrims. The guesthouse was mostly filled by a French family. They had planned their entire vacation around being at the monastery for midnight mass. Over dinner, the mom and I discussed the difficulties of transportation in and around Morocco, swapping stories.

The monks had set two tables for dinner. Knowing that some brothers spoke French and some Spanish - none spoke much English - we PCVs divided ourselves by those language groups. Fortunately, nearly all of us had studied one or the other, at least a little. The dinner was simple but good, and showcased traditional Moroccan food. In the morning, we discovered that the cook was Berber, and in fact grew up not far from Berberville. :)

Dinner was at 6:45, and lasted probably an hour or so. That left us with a few hours to fill before midnight mass, which actually started at 10:45. Most of us went to visit the memorial to the martyred monks (see my post from August) and then to the church itself. I brought my camera, so that I could take pictures well before the service started. I may be an inveterate shutterbug, but I know better than to disturb a mass! The church is lovely, plus it had a buta heater, so several of us ended up staying in there for the whole time until the service.

The mass was conducted in French, but I found an English missal in the back, and, with help from a Catholic friend who explained what it was, was able to find the directions for the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass and therefore follow along throughout the service.

The service began with psalms, sung in plainchant as they have been for a over a millenium. The psalm numbers were posted, and psalmistries distributed to us all. This lasted until midnight, when the Midnight Mass actually began. The designated passages were read by monks, nuns from the nearby convent, and members of the visiting French family.

Of the five permanent residents of the monastery, four are actually priests; only one is technically a brother. The eucharist section of the mass was therefore a rather crowded affair, with four men jointly invoking the holy rituals over the wafers and wine. Only two of the PCVs there were (are) Catholic; the rest of us did not take communion, but were still welcomed.

At one point, the littlest boy in the large French family was given the task of carrying the small wooden figure of Christ child in, and placing him in the gorgeous nativity scene arranged under the alter. I hadn't even noticed his absence when I'd looked at it earlier, but it does make sense that Jesus isn't there before Christmas technically begins, at midnight. :)

The service continued until about 1:15. (I don't think any of us had expected it to run a full two and a half hours!) Afterwards, there were cocoa and pastries for us all, in the small dining room. We finally went to bed around 2:30am Christmas morning.

I've been trying not to editorialize, because I was a guest and not a critic, but I do want to say that the service was lovely, and that I'm very grateful I got to attend. :D

As we walked back to the bunkhouse, more than one of us said, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!"

* On getting Moroccan holidays instead of American ones: There's actually some discussion starting up within Peace Corps Morocco about that; different Peace Corps countries handle holidays in different ways, and some of us think that it would make more sense to get American holidays off. Most of us choose to spend Moroccan holidays with our host families anyway, so we don't really get them as out-of-site vacation

1/2/09 Phone-y Friend

Not long ago, during my holiday travels, I had a conversation with a young Moroccan man. He was friendly and helpful, and eager to practice his English. We had a mutual friend, we discovered. The conversation didn't last long - maybe fifteen or twenty minutes - but he did me a favor (he helped me find my route), and I left him with good feelings. As we were parting, he offered me his phone number, in case I was ever in his neighborhood and in need of more directions. I was grateful, and accepted his number. He then asked for mine. I could have used the standard disclaimer, "This phone is only for work, and I can't give out the number," but that seemed chintzy in light of his generous nature. So I gave him my number, and we shook hands, and I didn't give any of it another thought.

A few days ago, I got a text message in French from a name I didn't recognize. I ignored it, figuring it was a wrong number. Then I got a longer message, in garbled English, from the same name. Since I didn't recognize the name, I figured they must be typing the name into the message. (I'm using "they" because I couldn't tell if it was a male or female name.) I still didn't give it much thought, until they started calling. That was when I realized that I *had* the name in my phone. I couldn't figure out who it could be, let alone when or why I'd entered their contact information. The name resembles that of one of my cousins, which led me down the wrong trail for a while.

Last night, I finally put the pieces together, and remembered the chance encounter with the young man. And now I'm in a pickle. I've ignored his calls and messages for several days, on the assumption that it was a wrong number and/or a crank caller; now that I know it's someone who lives over 100km away and who knew me for a total of 20 minutes or less, I'm even less sure how to respond. The messages have all been polite and friendly - not like a PCV friend who was getting explicit sex offers texted to her. Ignoring the calls and messages seems safest, though unkind. But I can't see how fostering a long-distance connection with him will lead anywhere good. Or am I underestimating a potential friend?

1/1/09 Mealtime misery

I have a problem.

It's my problem, and creates further problems that are entirely my fault.

But I can't figure out how to change my behavior.

Here's the thing: I'm nice.

Too nice.

When I'm playing around with friends, I can be, y'know, normal, but under anything resembling formal circumstances, I default to being...nice.

And one of the effects of this is that I'm incapable of delivering a harsh truth. If I'm really backed up against a wall, I'll tapdance around the issue and hint at the truth...but my Tamazight is barely up to conversational, let alone the Fred Astaire-like moves I'd need to softshoe tonight's debacle.

Let me set the scene.

Yesterday, I went over to Ama's house for lunch. The food was wonderful, and I got to see Xalti, who now lives an hour down the road, and play with Mumu (my four-month old cousin). It was a great visit. As I was leaving, Ama said, "Why don't you come for lunch tomorrow? We'll be having corn couscous." My smile faded a bit. She continued, "You remember, we had it the day I went ifsi-gathering." I did indeed remember. It was the one and only time I've eaten a meal of Ama's that I genuinely disliked. Really disliked. Hated wouldn't be too strong a word. "So come over for lunch, or maybe dinner, whatever," she concluded.

"OK, I'll see you tomorrow," I hedged. As I left, I couldn't help remembering the corn couscous. Unlike regular couscous, which is good, or Ama's couscous, which is creamy and delicious, "corn couscous" - ksuksu win dr3a - has a mealy, gritty texture and rancid taste. I was able to force down a few bites, but focused on the potatoes and carrots Ama had put on top of the couscous. Those, like everything else Ama makes, were delicious.

I genuinely believe that my host mom is the best Moroccan cook I've met. Her food is fabulous. She has a deft hand with spices, and manages to make even ordinary meals, like tagine and taharirt, delectable. Whenever I introduce people to Ama, I tell them that she's the "Numero wahed mukuzina g l-Maghreb." The best cook in Morocco.

But I can't stand her corn couscous. Just can't stand it. So I figured I'd go over for dinner, not lunch, and hopefully get something besides the corn couscous.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, I'd misunderstood her. I truly believed that she'd said "lunch or dinner", but apparently she just said "lunch". Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.

At lunchtime today, I thought about going over, but my stomach whimpered at the thought of the corn couscous, so I didn't. I felt bad, but salved my conscience with the promise of heading over at 6 for dinner.

Then, at 5, I heard knocking on my door. I ran down and discovered Xalti. I invited her up, though my house was in no fit state for company (contents of recently-received packages had, um, kind of exploded all over my living room). I reflexively offered her tea and bread; as I heard the words coming out of my mouth, I cringed, because I had neither available. I could have made tea, but it would have taken at least 10 minutes. Bread would have been harder to fake. Fortunately, she refused them. She immediately launched into her reason for coming over. "Where were you at lunchtime? Twelve o'clock came and went, and no Kawtar!"

I was honestly confused. I hadn't thought the lunch invitation was that firm. "I thought Ama said lunch or dinner. I was going to go over at 6." I checked my watch. "In an hour," I added lamely.

"Dinner? Why would you come for dinner? You were invited for lunch! We even saved lunch for you." I apologized, feeling like a jerk. "Do you want to come over now?" I hastily agreed. I threw on a jacket, double-checked that I had my keys, and we walked up the hill.

As I came in, I repeated my excuse, which sounded lame even to me. "I thought you said dinner; I'm so sorry."

Gracious as ever, Ama said, "It's no problem at all." Then she added, "At twelve o'clock we looked for you, but you didn't come. One o'clock, still no Kawtar. At 1:30, we went ahead and ate, since you clearly weren't coming." I felt like an inconsiderate buffoon. I apologized again. "No, it's fine," she insisted, "we just saved food for you and your friend." (She knew that fellow PCV Jamila comes to town on Thursdays.)

As she was speaking, Xalti brought out the table, instantly converting the living room into the dining room. In the middle of the table was the giant platter which doubles as a bread-kneading pan. It was more than half full of corn couscous. "Here's what we saved for you and Jamila," she said.

Eyeing the mountain of food, I felt a little ill.

And this is where the problem with being too nice comes in. If I'd been honest the first time I'd eaten corn couscous, and said, "Ama, I think you're the best cook in Morocco, but I don't like this," she'd never have served it to me again. But I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I'd said nothing.

And now I was facing enough couscous to serve four people, with no way out.

I starting taking tiny bites. Every time I took a spoonful, I pushed outwards on the couscous, trying to widen the hole I was making. My goal was to make it look like I'd eaten a broad chunk of it, while actually choking down only a few bites. And I'm not hyperbolizing when I say choking down. Every mouthful, my throat closed up, trying to fight off the food.

Then Ama said, "Would you like to take some back with you, for Jamila?" I jumped on this, thinking that if I packaged up 90% of it, saying that I'd eat it with my friend later, I'd only have to eat 10% now. So Xalti brought out a dish and started scooping food into it. She portioned out half of Mount Couscous, explaining, "This is for Jamila." The other half, which was literally the size of a football, "is for you," she explained. "And you'd better eat it all," she said, as she took Jamila's back into the kitchen to wrap up.

Ama softened that, saying, "No, you just eat what you want. Don't force yourself." One unexpected benefit of having been sick most of the summer is that Ama is convinced that I have the most delicate digestion on the planet. Tonight, that worked for me.

I was continuing to pick at it while feigning enthusiasm. Ama accepted this, but Xalti makes for a tougher crowd; she leaned towards Ama, saying, "She doesn't like it." Even to be nice, I wouldn't have lied, but I could pretend not to understand. I still miss a lot of what's said, so it's an easy pretence to maintain. Ama retorted something about me never eating much. In a slightly apologetic tone, Xalti said to me, "If you're done - if you're stuffed - that's OK."

Ama echoed this, and I accepted the way out. After another bite, I lay down my spoon. I'd pushed the food around enough that it looked like I'd eaten about four times as much as I really had; I doubt they were fooled, as conscious as they are of portion size, but it let us all save a little face. "I'm stuffed," I said. "Djiwngh. Thank you so much for everything," I continued, using the ritual phrases, "but I've been blessed enough. May God replenish your generosity."

I accepted the post-meal tea, grateful for the opportunity to rinse the taste out of my mouth, but refused the offer of bread, reiterating how stuffed I was. Maybe that added to its plausibility.

I played with the baby a little longer, chatted a bit about my work, and then made my exit.

I still feel like a heel for missing lunch, and feel worse that they went to the effort to save me a portion of what, to their mind, is a delicacy. (At least it's not sheep eyeball.) I wish I had the courage to say, gently and graciously, "I love your cooking, but would prefer not to eat this particular dish in the future." But I can't. It's not even a cross-cultural problem, though that exacerbates it. My American mom is a similarly great cook, but also makes one dish that I just can't stand...but I'll never tell her. (If you're reading this, Mom, sorry! You really are an awesome mukuzina.)

As the icing on the inedible cake, I also made a couple of language fumbles in the course of the conversation. Ama asked me when I'd gone to bed last night. I thought she'd asked if I'd be spending another night in Berberville before leaving town, and answered that question. Whoops. She asked again, "Did you go to sleep at 12? 1?" I realized she was asking if I'd stayed up to ring in the New Year, and that time answered correctly. A little later, Xalti asked me for the pictures of when Mumu was a newborn. The word "picture" (tsawal) sounds almost exactly like the word "speak" (tsawl), so I thought she was asking me to talk to the baby. Which I did...and which made Ama shake her head in resignation, then rephrase the question, this time working in the word "foto" (photo). I promised to bring printed pictures asap.

In all, not my best Moroccan mealtime. Probably in the bottom five, actually. But bless Ama for her unfailing generosity of spirit, as well as her more literal generosity. This may not have been the best note to start the year on...but it means that I'm guaranteed to end the year on a better one, right? Sigh. Onward and upward. :)