Lafia, Lafia!

So I went to my first fire here in Morocco the other day. Pretty fun and highly entertaining. I’d just returned home from town (Jerada), when my older host brother bursts into the room yelling lafia, lafia, yella, yella (fire, fire, lets go, lets go). Thinking this may be my chance to prove that I may actually be of some use here, I quickly change clothes and throw a bag of water, food, extra clothes, etc together. My brother and I then had off to the road where we are to wait for our ride up to the fire. At this point you could begin to see brown smoke accumulating on the ridge above the village.

After sitting next to the road for awhile (10-15 minutes) and watching the smoke continue to build, and with no ride in site, we head back to the house. My brother then instructs me to look through the collection of rusted, broken shovels and pick out my tool. I select the least pathetic of the bunch. At this point more men are gathering and the decision is made to have tea. “Well of course we should have tea!” After shot-gunning the obligatory two glasses of scalding hot, super sugary tea and shoving some bread in my mouth, we all load up in the Mitsubishi Galloper II and head up the hill. After about 5 minutes of driving 90 mph up the steep slope the Galloper II begins to overheat and slows to a trot and then dies altogether.

Sitting in the middle of the road, an argument breaks out that I don’t understand but then we are saved when the city fire department shows up and we all load up into their structure engine. I know a few of the structure guys from the cafe that I frequent and one of them looks at me and jokes that, unlike America, there will be no helicopters today and this fire will be fought with all muscle. “Good deal.” After much argument as to the best way to get to the fire, we finally arrive.

Pulling into the “staging area” I may have laughed out loud a bit. It seems that all the men of all ages in my village were there. First thing I see is a fairly overweight man in a black 3-piece suit running around in the 90 degree temps. Arguments have broken out everywhere around me as to (I assume with my rudimentary language skills) what are the best tactics to fight this fire. A pissing match has ensued between the city and forest firefighters and nobody really seems to be in charge. Actually......now that I think about it.......not that much different from fire in the states? Haha.....

Quickly assessing my tool options between my broken shovel with homemade handle and a flapper, I grab the flapper and proceed to go to work. Flapping away I look to the fellow on my left who is wearing a polyester adidas warm-up/leisure suit while the gentleman to my right is sporting a dapper-looking sweater vest. Then I look down and realize I’m fighting a fire in running shoes and carharts and chuckle to myself. At one point I came across a group of teenagers with bladder bags who were all wearing shorts and soccer jerseys. Communication solely consisted of cell phones and a whole lot of yelling. I wish I could have taken some pictures.

With the exception of the choice of attire, at times it really didn’t seem that much different. Almost felt like I was back on the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. Hot, steep, and dry. Even had similar fuel types.

After an hour or so, the wind calms down, evening set in and fire behavior decreased significantly. It also helped that the area is horribly overgrazed by sheep and goat herders so fires here seem to be short-lived. A decision is made to abandon the perimeter tactics and focus on hotspots. Shortly thereafter everyone begins to just walk around the perimeter not really doing much of anything. Kind of like being back on the Fire Use Module (just kidding FUM kids:).

So I don’t know if I exactly wowed the Moroccans with my firefighting skills. A few times I tried to make some suggestions but then thought better of it as my language skills are that of a 5 year old. I don’t quite know how to translate “Anchor, Flank er’, spank er” into Moroccan Arabic. So instead I just decided to shut-up and go to work (a change from my modus operandi I know). All in all though I think they were impressed by the fact that the “Merikan” had shown up and worked alongside them. It was fun to get dirty again and all the more satisfying when I realized that for my day of hard work and sweat I’d made the equivalent of $10.

Just returned home from a trip to the hanut. The hanuts here are like small corner/country stores that seem to stock everything. Well....most everything. Thereص actually 3 hanuts in tiny Al Aouinat and my favorite one is Omarصs which is only about a 5 minute walk. This particular hanut is also a cafe/coffee shop and seems to be the favorite gathering spot for the men of the community. On this visit I noticed that there on the hanut counter was an espresso machine, the remnants of a butchered chicken, and parts from a motorcycle carburetor sitting out. The best was that nobody but me thought this odd nor humorous. I guess you can add motorcycle repair shop to that previous list?
So I recently discovered these little sour apple candies that you can buy 10 for a dirham (about 1.5 cents). I thought it would be the ridiculously sweet tea (forced upon me 10 times a day) that would be the source of my tooth decay but I guess itصs gonna be the sour apple sweets. Note: Add toothbrushes, toothpaste, and floss to that wish list.
Just spent the last weekend on Fes. Amazing! Other than the taxi driver who tried to rip me off (Oh-Ho!) I love that city. The old Medina (old part of the city) is incredible. Thereصs supposedly 9,000 different alleys and passageways there. Some are so narrow that I felt like I was in a slot canyon in Utah. All matter of humanity is navigating these passageways. From donkeys, to tourists, to Moroccans just going about there everyday business. Really, really cool and like a 1,000 years old. Many of the buildings have these braces between them keeping them from falling into each other. Not the place Iصd want to be in an earthquake but a great place to wander and get lost. Picked up a pretty sweet leather briefcase (aka man purse) there.
The highlight though may have been the Sushi. Donصt get me wrong, tagine and couscous are great but everyday gets a little repetitive. At the hotel we met 4 current Peace Corps volunteers from Gambia who are in Morocco on vacation and decided to treat ourselves. I probably blew a week of my PC stipend but it was well worth it. At one point one of the Gambia volunteers was just giggling uncontrollably. زAnother dragon roll, Afek.س

So today I went on my first run here at my site. There's a dirt road that heads out from
my backyard that accesses the Sibe Chekar (the protected area I'll be working with). Its
a bit of a steep slog to the top but once you're there it seems that you can run as far as
you like. Up near the top of the ridge there's a spring so I asked a young goat herder
who was tending his flock nearby if the water was good to drink. He said it was and
then we engaged in a conversation that involved using Darija (Moroccan Arabic), a little
Spanish, some English, and a few words in French for good measure. Of course it also
included a healthy amount of dramatic arm motions and gestures. It was great! Talk
about a cross-cultural exchange!

So I really need to stop saying yes to things that I don't understand. This has proven to
be a consistent problem as its happened in travels in the past. Because of this
tendency to agree to things when I have no idea what I'm agreeing to, I oftentimes find
myself with food that I don't want, places that I don't want to be at, or in awkward
situations that i don't want to be in. Yesterday I accidentally said yes when somebody
asked me if I was my host sisters husband. Needless to say that it caused some
embarrassment. Mostly for her I think.

Speaking of awkward situations, the other day I was walking back to my host
families house from Jerada (a fairly pleasant 4km stroll) when a car pulled over in front
of me and a man I didn.t recognize began yelling “Mustapha, Mustapha” and gesturing
me towards the car. I should note that I have taken the Moroccan name Mustapha as
my own because its easier for people here to pronounce and I like it because it sounds
like Mufasa. Unfortunately, it also happens to be a fairly common name here probably
2nd only among males to Mohammed. I think it may be required that every Moroccan
family have at least one son named Mohammed? Anyway.........now a situation like this
may be alarming in the US but here it.s fairly common. I was hot and tired of walking so
I began jogging towards the car excited about the lift. The fact that I didn't recognize
the fellow didn.t cause much concern as I've met a whole lot of new people here who I
didn.t recognize later on. So while jogging along the roadside it wasn.t until another
man passed me who was also on his way to the car. That.s when it dawned on me that
his name was probably also Mustapha and thats who the man in the car was offering
the ride to. Oh? So I gave the man a shrug as he ran by and continued my walk home
while giggling to myself. I wonder what he would have done if I'd just climbed into the
car?