Wide-eyed and ready, following the unseen path

(F)un-employment schedule

2011-06-02T18:29:00.000-07:00

So yesterday I heard back from two jobs I have been applying for, and well let's be honest, it feels real good to be wanted. Now I'm faced with a big decision, but the beauty is is that both have really, really good outcomes and options, so it's just deciding. I'm excited to move forward with life, and to start heading in a better direction...But with that being said, (f)un-employment has had some upsides. Here is a little look at my daily schedule:

9:00 AM- Wake up slowly
9:20 AM- Go up stairs and talk with Dam Dog or Mom
9:30 AM- Call potential employers and leave a message
9:32:30 AM- Make breakfast
9:40 AM- Eat Breakfast
9:55-12:00 PM- Watch Sports Center, apply for jobs, catch up on facebook, news, running news, and comedy websites, and generally waste time on the internet, as well as read.
12:00-1:30 PM - Run, do sit ups and push-ups, and shower (normally while listening to a podcast to learn Spanish)
1:30-2:30 PM- Shower and make lunch
2:30-4:00 PM- Go to the local Governor's Ranch pool, where I am the oldest person and actually enjoy adult swim (I know, it's sad)
4:15-4:45 PM- Nap
5:00 PM- Go up stairs
5:02-6:00 PM- Waste time on internet, play guitar, and read
6:00-7:30 PM- Watch Jeopardy, eat dinner with the family, and regroup
7:30-Bed time (between 12-2am)- Either go out with friends or watch movies, glee, or other random nonsense with the fam
repeat.

Goodbye lazy days, let's hope I still know how to work hard!

Mary Tyler Moore; More Than Just a Bombshell

2011-04-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up to an interesting quote by Mary Tyler Moore that said, "You can't be brave if you've only had wonderful things happen to you." I've been really lucky the last few weeks to have a lot of things, as simple as a well-timed quote, pop up to remind me that life's pieces all fall into place like they are supposed to.

This quote was really helpful today because, let's be honest, the last month hasn't been the best I've ever had. Being dubbed lazy, disrespectful, and a person who will lie about the severity of a family member's illness to get time off isn't the biggest self-esteem booster. Though I know this is all libel, and that any organization who will let go of a volunteer mid-event in a random town on the other side of the United States from their home without warning, is probably not a place where I want to donate my time, It's still tough. I truly admire a lot of what Invisible Children does and I've grown a lot through the organization before and after volunteering with them (mixed, of course, with a lovely organization called BeadforLife and the friendships found in Sarah McCall, Erin Fischer, and Chelsea Burns). The thing is though, having experienced my treatment, seeing the same poor treatment happen to a lot of other roadies in poor situations, and IC promoting the mentality that you can basically treat people however you want and get away with it because, "we are ending a war," is not an easy concept to grasp. I do still believe in Jason Russell's undying idealism, Jedidiah Jenkins's relentless love and compassion for every person ever, the truth Lindsay Williams speaks in the Tony film, and the empowerment youth feel when they get involved, but a lot has changed for me. I found that I'm at a point in my life where I need to take a break from IC, and take time to lick my wounds and re-group. There are a lot of great organizations creating economic and educational initiatives in Uganda and the DRC, and though IC has done great work, none of these NPOs are ending this war. They are creating mediums of peace and prosperity in war-torn areas, (which is one huge aspect to ending violence) but the only people going to end this war are governments. It's a sad realization I've come to, because I am much more a believer in grassroots campaings, but soldiers are going to stop soldiers, and governments are going to stop wars (after they milk them for all they are worth). A t-shirt sold isn't going to take a gun out of a rebel's hand, but it is going to help a region rebuild, and that is not something to overlook.

But like I said before, there has been a lot of positive things surrounding me throughout the last month. Besides small omens that remind me of my faith, and huge support from friends and family, one thing that really has helped me keep on keepin on is taking pride in my close friends' achievements, and looking at them as examples of how to progress. One of my best friends, Jason, is a shinning example. He is a person who has pursued his passion in multiple things, taken risks and huge leaps of faith, only to experience huge failure that led him to hightailing down HIS path to His dream. For me, I'm so inspired by his passion, and finding what he is put on earth to do. Each day when I hear new stories about doors opening, and seeing how a path becomes quite illuminated once you find and purse it, I want to keep pushing. I want to find my passion, and most of all, I want to find my purpose. It's been cool to see it happen on the small scale as well, with friends making huge strides in relationships, and realizing their own worth. A good friend of mine from CU, who I've worked with for years and seen her go through some rough relationships, called me on the phone a few nights ago. She told me of what she's learned about lacking aspects in past relationships, and places where she thought she was coming up short, but realized it wasn't the case. It was enlightening and moving for me, and gave perspective on how I need to approach dating and vulnerability with future relationships.

Though these victories for my friends have been a much needed vehicle of hope, do I have a bit of bitterness towards Invisible Children? I'm only human, and it would be a lie to say I don't. I miss the friends I made there, I'm jealous of those who have found family in their entire team, instead of deceit and hurt, and I'm very sad to not be reuniting with those whom I really created solid bonds with. But the thing is, I know myself, and as much as this last month has had some lllloooowwwww (read with a deep, baritone voice) lows, I've also been reminded of my worth, my strengths, and my blessings. I have some amazing friends, an extended family across the US, and a wonderful friend, who is more like a sister, whom I never would have met without this journey. It is definitely an uphill road from here, and my path still lacks lucidity, but daily omens and reminders to keep faith make it a much easier road to traverse.

I said, " Give me a Ben Keesey," and now I look like this.

2011-03-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

I never realized that staying up till three am when you gotta wake up at seven could be so fun, but welp, it is! After seeing an in house Lady Gaga performance from our host brother, then dressing up like hipsters for a photo shoot, this seemed like the logical next step....

24 years and one week

2011-03-03T08:52:00.001-08:00

I know some people dread birthdays and getting older. Let's be honest, I think I'm definitely getting closer to that stage, but at the moment, I really like each passing year. I'm a firm believer in another year older, another year wiser, as well as the best time of your life is always the present. The fact that I am in high schools most weekdays too and being reminded what an awkward period of life that is, welp that's a good reminder that I should be happy to be where I am at.

But regardless of liking growing older or not, it happens, and I know for me I like to reflect on what I've seen in the past year. 23 was a pretty crazy year for me. It saw love, triumphs, travel, and new adventures, juxtaposed by unexpected heartbreak, failure, stagnation, and inaction. I hit a lot of crossroads, which led me to have to overcome barriers that I didn't necessarily want to face. The year saw me gain acceptance to a program which was supposed to catalyze my future, only to lead me to more confusion and a leave me further away from being a grown-ass man. Friends came and went, new relationships where made, I lived at home for 2 months, which before thoroughly enjoying it, I feared for four years in college. and it all chalked up to a my fateful birthday in London, Kentucky where my new friend Ryan proceeded to tell me, "It's your birthday? We needa go to Taco Bell, that's what we do here!." I couldn't think of any better way to wrap up a crazy, wonderful year.

I think what this new year holds for me is re-emergence of desire and a lot of personal growth. College was an interesting time, and for those of you who know me and the experiences I had, you know that my tumultuous 5 years were far from the norm. I've been writing a lot about the type of experiences that come and completely blindside you, sweeping your feet from under you, and removing the ground you once found balance on. What really sticks out to me is that those experiences don't just come and go, they change you. In fact, they rebirth you. It's like rehabbing from an injury that leaves you temporarily disabled, except more in the metaphorical sense, and instead of learning to walk again, your learning to breath again. For me personally, that PT has taken a long time, but it is absolutely starting to pay off. I think, actually, I know this year is going to see such positive change. I've been experiencing it since I left CO, and I'm more focused now than I have been in years. I'm blessed to be in the position I am in now, traveling the country, and working for the organization which fell into my path in the midst of that rebirthing experience 4 years ago. I couldn't think of any place I would rather be, or anything more beneficial. 24 will be a year of growth, change, and progression, that is something I can bank on.

Favorite Songs of the Week: For when I'm home sick, Paper Bird-Colorado and one that makes me happy, Penny and the Quarters - You and Me

A Beautiful Interaction

2011-02-22T06:56:00.000-08:00

I came across the article randomly, but I'm very happy to have found it. I've grown such much as a person through discovering the beauty of different faiths, so the fact people are taking initiative and creating a conference to promote this dialogue makes me :) take a read and enjoy! http://www.huffingtonpost.com/qasim-rashid/a-muslim-a-christian-a-si_b_826157.html

New Favorite Song!

2011-02-19T09:41:00.000-08:00

Please take 4 minutes and click this link, and listen to the song circles. I absolutely adore it! This is my new running/driving/playing at night song when you are far away from City lights, and can't see anything but stars and country :)

Hope you enjoy!

On a random note, here is an interesting tidbit from the organization One . One has done a lot with advocacy for the developing world and US aid, so it's always interesting to hear their perspective.

Keep Ugandan in your thoughts and prayers for a safe and fair election!

On The Road

2011-02-18T13:52:00.001-08:00

It's crazy to think our first five weeks are done at IC, but now starts the even more exciting part! I'm writing now from the back of our IC van as we cruise down I-40 East to Tulsa, OK. We have already had some great experiences thus far, and we haven't even had our first screening yet. We are really starting to get a feel for each other as a team, and we are all excited to start doing what we cam here to do. 2 days down, and already we've experienced a faulty GPS route, an impromptu banjo concert, and a teepee village getting ransacked by a T-rex. I can only imagine what else is in store. Here a a few pictures from the road. Hope you enjoy!

Launch Dinner!

vans getting ready to go!

Entering Arizona!

Our GPS apparently likes Indian Casinos

Our new found friend

Texas Sunset

Texas

Oklahoma

Love and Basketball

2011-02-13T23:53:00.001-08:00

So I found guidance and path validation in another random movie this week. Last night, after an incrediblly entertaining evening, and a really fun concert, I watched the first half of Love and Basketball with three good friends. I'm really not sure if I think the movie is great (though I think the two main characters combine for a very good looking duo!) but it made me really nostalgic for athletics. As I went to bed I was actually a bit sad, and I couldn't put my finger on why until speaking with my Dad this morning. Though I do miss running, training, and competing, what this movie really made me miss was the team aspect of athletics; the community.

I always felt I got cheated out of the college athlete experience. Although I did get to do it for a year and a half, the idea of having your team, the memories, the bonding, the time spent with one another, and the collective action for a single goal, is something I covet. Looking back right now, and thinking about spending all day at a track meet and training for 2-3 hours a day doesn't necessarily get my engines revving, but the idea of doing that with people you care about, and having all the inside jokes, crushes, ups, and downs still resides with me. I know full well that my talent for running is still here, but what is not is the chance to be a NCAA athlete and compete on a team.

I thought about this for awhile today, and what I realized is that life is about progression, we just need to open our eyes and see it. I think the reason I'm so nostalgic about this idea of a sports team is because in high school and the beginning of college, I defined myself as an athlete. It was easy to find friends and a community when my goal was to be in shape, and my title was runner. I had it all figured out. Though I love the direction I'm going in now, and I wouldn't change it for the world, a single definition of who I am is no longer possible. I'm multifaceted and I have a lot of interests, which makes it difficult to sometimes find a nitch and a supportive community. But the fact of the matter is that after I spoke with my Dad, I sat on the porch of a house I share with 60 other kids, and realized I live in a community of individuals with same goals and aspirations. IC is the next step for me in community living. Though this is only for a short time, I am living in one of the most incredible, progressive, caring, and driven communities I've ever seen. We have the friendships, bonds, memories, ups, downs, crushes, heartaches, and the drive. Though we all have different backgrounds and stories, the most important thing we have is a common goal. We are a team (I know very cheesy, but so true), and all the things I thought I lost the chance at are all residing in the roadie experience. It's all here, I just needed perspective.

I am sad to have missed out on 5 full years of athletics, but I can't say that I would have lived my college career any other way. It was the experiences I had after quitting running that led me to BeadforLife, then to CEB, and now to here, and I can only imagine to other great communities in the future.

I dunno if I'll ever finish love and basketball, but I am thankful for the fact that movies, literature, and music will always be a source of guidance and insight into the path that is laid before me.

Kristen Bell vs. The SPLA

2011-02-10T22:12:00.001-08:00

This has been an emotionally draining, tiring, rewarding week at IC. We started coming in the office at 6:45 AM, which for me means waking up at 5 for the morning run, and haven't made it home earlier than 7 PM all week. On top of that, we had some serious trainings, and have been met with some huge goals. It hasn't been an easy one...

But with that being said, the last 2 days have been some of the craziest days I've ever experienced. From 6:45 Wednesday morning until this moment, I heard one of the founders of IC preach his personal philosophy, listened to lieutenant Africano Mande of the SPLA speak with incredible wisdom on what it has, and will continue to take, to build the southern Sudanese state, meet my Ugandan teammate in an immensely ostentatious and emotional greeting at the San Diego airport, and nearly knocked over Mrs. Sarah Marshall herself Kirstin Bell while taking a pee break at work. On top of that I've only slept about 5 hours a night this week, and I got to be honest, I haven't felt this good in a long time.

Hearing Africano speak about the pitfalls of other recently formed states, and the necessity for the freedom fighters to rescind their own power was life altering. It was just so amazing to hear him speak about being a rebel, and born into a fight for his kinsman's land, with such wisdom and grace. Follow that with an emotionally charged, yet philosophically challenging testimony by a person I deeply respect, then experience a love and compassion that transcends boarders, and be able to quote my favorite dick and fart jokes all in a short time frame, it's like this job was created around my interests. Politics, religion, cross-cultural experiences, and dirty humor, I couldn't ask for anything more :)

I'm drained, and yes, at points I'm struggling, but I feel alive. I've never experienced anything like this, and I don't know if I ever will again. But what really matters is I can understand now more so than ever before, why this organization makes the impact that it does. I'm learning the importance of humility, as well as congruence in your actions, work, and values.

Pictorial!

2011-02-08T20:52:00.000-08:00

So I haven't had much time to blog lately. We have been doing 13 hour days at work, and I'm still trying to wake up in the mornings and run, so there hasn't been much time to update. Instead of writing, and getting all deep like, here are some pictures and a video of our lives. This gives a good view into life of a roadie, from inappropriate theme parties, to 60 plus people dinners, driving in vans, and going to the beach. Hope you enjoy!

The video is extremely long for a small pay off, so make sure you start it at around 40 seconds!

Enjoy!

Integrity in your compassion

2011-02-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

Tonight in our trainings, our presenter said to us that, "Demons only have power in the dark, so if we bring them to light, they no longer have a hold on us." I know for me, I have a lot of demons, and one of those will always be pride, and the fear that revolves around my image to other people.

One of the big things I struggle with now is the stigma I think i carry because I quit TFA. It's no secret, and I'm not scared to admit it, but I really struggle with that idea. I'm not one to quit things, and I hate the idea of thinking I failed.

I think part of this reserve comes from the stigma TFA places on the people who quit, regardless of situation or circumstance. I remember sitting with a higher up in TFA when contemplating my decision, and just hearing all this nonsense that made me feel as if I quit, that I would never have any affect on positive change in our country. Though those weren't the exact words, the intent was very clear. When I was really struggling, and needed help, and was asking for some guidance, my emails remained unanswered, and my requests remained unfulfilled. Two weeks before quitting I remember sitting in the TFA office, and in big red letters on a dry/erase board, seeing the names of a few kids who had left the program crossed out followed by a big RIP. Kids still in the program laughed, and the higher ups who manned the board obviously found humor in this.

Tonight we had a roadie leave the program. This is the second person to leave, and with 14 days left before we leave on tour, this is a pretty big deal. But the difference between TFA and IC is simple, IC practices what they preach. Instead of ostracizing the girl who left, or making her feel even worse for her decision, the director of the movement (one of the branches in IC) came in as if someone had passed, addressed all the roadies about our loss, then proceeded not only to speak highly of this girl, but encourage everyone who was friends with her to reach out and support her through this difficult time. He acknowledge that sometimes things don't work out, and praised her for making the decision. We now have to find two new roadies, put them in place, teach them how to book, try to make up for a months worth of relationship building, and leave on the road all in two weeks. But you know what, that is OK. It's Ok because sometimes things don't work out. It's Ok because in this organization people support one another, and seemingly unattainable tasks become much more tolerable because of our supportive community and collective action. IC truly practices what they preach, and even though the mission is to create sustainable peace in Central East Africa, they start with creating peace in the office in San Diego.

Having to quit something you've committed to sucks a big fat one. Living with demons sucks pretty bad too. But one thing is for sure, it's much easier to deal with demons when they are in the light, surrounded by people who want you to succeed.

bang the gong, bang the gong!

2011-02-01T17:40:00.000-08:00

We booked over 70 screenings! Only 15 more to be able to hit the road! We left the cautionary yellow area and moved into the go-ahead-green area! Here's our celebration, gong ring and all!

My First IC Success Story

2011-01-30T12:16:00.000-08:00

So this past week has been a great stride in the right direction at IC. I have met some adversity, but challenged the issue, brought it to light, and defeated it. I haven't felt drive like this for quite some time, and though the work hours are long, and some times very arduous, I understand why this experience can mean so much to so many people.

This past week, I got my first and second screening agreement in. What this means is that I finally called a random school, college, or place of worship, gave a pitch about IC to a person I've never talked to, and convinced them to take time out of their schedules and put together an assembly of at least 200 people for a church or college (500 for a school), where we show our documentary. Ok, so not every person we call is random, and IC does have a ton of contacts, but a lot of the time we are calling random people, or cold calling as we say, and really trying to pitch a foreign concept. This is why in the last post I said I felt like being a telemarketer. But this week one of my screening agreements was very special. A young girl from VA (she's only 15 and crazy mature already), has been trying to host a screening with IC for four semesters. She started in her middle school, and is now a freshmen IB student at her high school. She literally lives and breathes IC, and has already made quite a name for herself within the organization. She has struggled with outside factors in the past, and her administrations have alway put the veto on her hosting our screenings. She has been shut down 3 times, yet still puts in the work each year to try and wear down her administration and push for something she really believes in.

We have a rule here that we don't do evening events at high schools due to past experiences with terrible attendance, but this week, we made an exception. Our young fifteen year old friend did all the work she coul to get us at her high school. She solicited teachers, her IB program coordinator, and finally her principal (whom I spoke with many times on the phone), and got the signatures needed to book her screening. She was elated, and ready to hear us bang the gong (a literal gong in the office) that marks a booked screening, but unfortunately her district would not allow IC to have a merchandise table during school hours. Since we do all our presentations for free, we need these tables to pay for things like our vans, gas, and promotional material, so with no merchandise table, there is no event. She was devastated, yet driven, and was not ready to give up this time. Because she has shown so much perseverance in the past and made such a name for herself, with a little push from myself and a receptionist who as worked with this young girl for two years, we convinced IC to let us host an evening screening at her school.

The reason this was such a win was because this girl has done so much for IC, and has worked incredibly hard to host a screening in her school. She has busted her butt for IC, and the thing is, she has empowered herself through trying to help others. She believes in IC. In high school there are so many places to invest your time and talents, and a plethora of different identities one can take on, but for her, it's not sports, theater, or choir, it is IC (along with academics cuz this girl is smart!). Being able to put her on skype, have the 70 plus people sitting in a room trying to book screenings cheer for her with utmost sincerity, and let her watch the gong ring, was incredibly moving. In fact, this is one of the reasons I love IC. We don't only help Ugandans empower themselves and work on a horizontal level between two cultures, but we empower American youth as well. My Dad always talks about how kids don't protest like the used to, but working for Invisible Children, and having participated in their nationwide events, and seeing youth like this girl completely devote their time, money, and talents to ending a war, I'm starting to question if that sentiment is true.

This was a good good week, and I'm hoping my trip continues in this fashion.

Stay tuned for a video of the gong being banged, which will give a little more incite, and some visuals, of what this actually means!

Testing The Water

2011-01-23T13:52:00.000-08:00

I am now two weeks removed from CO, living at home, personal space and comfort and I'm starting to feel the magnitude, as well as the effects, of this new excursion. Since leaving home I've been in San Diego living with 62 other people, 9 roommates (not housemates), and working from 9-7 for an organization which I'm very fond of. It's been a really interesting process learning how to live in communion with kids whom I also work with and spend every waking hour, but it for the most part has been great.

This past Thursday and Friday were the first times I've meet true adversity and conflict at my new job, and it has made for interesting soul searching in regards to where the conflict arose. I'm a person who can be pretty hard on myself, and sometimes I forget that I know my heart and intentions when I'm targeted by harsh criticism. It's safe to say the last few days have sucked a bit, but thank God weekends include day trips to beautiful parks overlooking the pacific :) The conclusion I've come to, with the help of a training I took seriously last week, is the necessity to overcome device speech and thought. The thing is, although each person in IC has there own beliefs, values, and personality (and man are there some characters here!), this is one time in our life where those things need to come second to a cause. I want to make some good friends here, and I want to have fun, but the fact is I'm here to help try and end a war. This week I was definitely hurt, and I went to a place of introspection, but in this case, harping on my own discomfort is entirely selfish. Though we are all here for personal growth, that can't come at the expense of those whom we are trying to serve. It's been a struggle dealing with this though, because I know I can be selfless, but I also am fully aware of my propensity for selfishness. I have struggled the last few days with dealing with my anger and hurt, while still being a team player, but I know this is going to be good for me. I've talked with a lot of kids here, and this week has seen people really getting into team dynamics, and exiting the honeymoon stage. It is obviously a difficult step, but it's part of the process of working towards a cohesive team. People are getting real, and though it's necessary, it's not easy. I'm just hoping the house doesn't start to look more like a reality TV show...

I'm here to serve, and as our mission states as roadies, "I've dedicated the next four months of my life to sharing the story of this war," and that is what I'm going to do. Even if it means sucking up my pride, learning to be a little more selfless, experiencing life as a telemarketer (which I'll get into later), I am here for a purpose. I want to succeed, and I want to be able to say this was a feat I accomplished in May when my term ends.

Week One in the Books

2011-01-17T22:35:00.000-08:00

It's amazing to think I've already been here a week, as well as thinking it's only been a week. Time somehow has managed to fly and move like molasses simultaneously. Much like this conundrum time has left me in, I feel like spiritually, emotionally, physically, and mentally, I am pretty torn as well. Working with IC so far truly has been a dream. For those of you who don't know, seeing Invisible Children's Rough Cut was one of the most pivotal moments in my life. It introduced me to some life long friends (Ms. Fisher, McCall, Burns, Peters, and Stambouli) as well as gave my life a sense of purpose it had never really known. Running had introduced me to drive, sacrifice, and commitment, but IC illuminated things like compassion, purpose, and awareness. But with all the good I've seen so far, and how amazing I've felt, last night and today were a bit of a struggle. I'm drained. The work has been hard yes, but I think a lot finally caught up with me last night. IC is very intent on personal growth. To be honest, though I believe in what we are doing, and the direction we are going now as an organization, I do feel like I'm attending personal growth camp right now, instead of working at an NGO. Everyone here is so nice, encouraging, and thoughtful, and as crazy and ridiculous as that sounds, 90% of the time it's wonderful, but 10% of the time I just feel bogged down by it. I'm in a situation where I am CONSTANTLY surrounded by people, 62 others in the same house to be exact, and working like crazy. When we aren't at the office, we are studying, going over our introductions and conclusions, or speaking about a lot of personal stuff to get to know one another intimately in a short amount of time. The environment is quite conducive for deep conversation, and like I said before, 90% of the time that is fantastic, but when I get to that other 10%, I find myself wanting to be selfish, or have alone time, or not wanting space from the person whom I'm supposed to be giving and getting space from back home, because I want the comfort of someone who knows me for faults as well as why IC hired me. It's just a bizarre feeling to be so astounded by an organization, their work, their philosophies, and the humility they instill in you, and still be struggling... but I guess that is human nature. Change is the only constant, but it's something we as humans struggle with and fear the most.

BUT, after writing that, I do want to place some emphasis on how much I love this organization. One super duper awesome positive about working for IC, besides the great community they supply you with, is the emphasis they place on relationships and personal growth. Tonight, after working from 9-5, we stopped first to watch a clip of an MLK speech (which made me very happy), then had a session titled "Investing in Others." The leader of the session was a dude named Jedidiah, whom is the paragon of how to invest in others and create meaningful relationships. In this session we talked about intrinsic and extrinsic goals, watched a documentary about happiness,which spanned multiple continents to find a definition, and dove right into insecurities that harden our hearts and make lasting relationships less attainable. It was absolutely phenomenal, and the fact that this, for some of those lucky enough to be paid, is what work looks like, gives me hope for the future.

The one thing that stuck out to me most, and my ending point, is a question that Jed asked the audience. When you walk into a room of unknown faces, do you think to yourself that you don't belong and maybe your not worthy to be there, or do you see a room full of potential friends with interesting stories, views, and ideas? For me, I'm actively trying to see the later.

Much love and I miss you all back in CO!

1 day down, wow!

2011-01-11T21:25:00.000-08:00

So, seeing as everyone who has ever held this position says that free time is a highly coveted asset while on the road, I've decided that instead of blogging and then doing an individual journal, I'm going to put them together. With that being said, this blog A.) does not reflect the opinions of IC, and B.) is going to be very very raw. I can't promise everything will be concise or to the point, but i can promise my inchoate ideas or thoughts will be a true reflection on what I am actually feeling at this time.

It blows my mind to think I've only been here for about 36 hours. The Target trip I went on yesterday, and watching the national championship game feels like it happened weeks ago, but really, it was only a mere 24 hours prior to now. Between getting off a plane, relocating into a house with 50 some other kids (no exaggeration), picking the lower bunk in a room that houses 10 guys total, and ditching 3 degree weather for a balmy 65, my head is spinning. And all this happened before I got to the Invisible Children offices.

Today was a crazy mixture of feeling excitement, fatigue, and encountering an overwhelming load of information. We got to the office at 8:30, went through a whirlwind of different introductions and trainings, some of which were definitely better than others (the sexual harassment training was literally one of the worst hours of my life) then ended the night by seeing a sneak peak of the video we will be showing on our tour. It was crazy to see so many faces which I have seen in videos over the last 5 years actually come and speak to me in person. I saw where the graphics were designed, where pictures of merch were taken, where the tours were booked, and actually sat down and chatted with a roadie (who is still roadieing) that came and spoke at CU when I booked the tour for our campus in 2007.

There were a few things that definitely popped out at me today that I think will be a reoccurring themes over the next 5 weeks. First, there were 327 applicants that applied for the 50 some roadie positions that IC had for this semester. Granted that this is a higher percent of applicants that are accepted than in TFA, when I hear Jason and Laren speak about our importance, compared to what I heard and saw in STL, it seems much more authentic. Having seen how dispensable we were, or seemed to be, in STL, I just feel better out here. From this idea, I realize the comparisons between IC and TFA is something I will be struggling with along the way. I also saw a great speech about cultural competency that was so down to earth,and so real, that it made the diversity sessions at TFA institute seem ridiculous. But more comparisons are to come later.

Second, and I think this is the most important theme, is the idea of humility and learning from mistakes within the NGO. Since I began working with NGOs in college, the question of whether or not relief and aid work does more hurt than help has always haunted me. There are many scholars, critics, and educated people who have a lot of valid arguments denouncing western humanitarianism, and there are a lot of days that pass when I don't think they are wrong. I've looked at my own progression, and seeing how so often I was wrong about opinions or initiatives I backed, I wonder how many NGOs or relief workers are doing harm abroad. It makes me scared for development, aid, or relief work, and the mistakes that, if I continue on this path, will inevitably make. But that is the beauty of what I saw today. The creators of IC, Laren, Bobby, and Jason, admit to their mistakes. In fact, they have documented them, made them public, and have completely shaped their NGO around what was learned during these mishaps. They have made sure that they learn from each mistake, and actually serve the populations with which they are trying to provide aid for with more efficacy. This site really made me reflect on my own qualms with humanitarianism, and their humility and ability to critically think about what their work actually does within Uganda and Congo opened my eyes. I think for me I am just scared to make the mistakes. I'm pretty hard on myself sometimes, and mistakes I make that negatively affect other people are not easily forgotten. But, seeing what I saw tonight, and hearing how mistakes can be turned into something positive, I'm feeling re-energized, and ready to keep pushing in a good direction.

It's been a crazy few hours already. I'm overwhelmed, I'm flustered, I have no idea what to think, but what I do know is I'm excited. I feel like I'm in the right place, and I can't wait to see how this experience unfolds.

sorry for the word vomit, hopefully next post will be more directed!

All packed and Ready to Go!

2011-01-10T08:35:00.000-08:00

As I sit here in the airport, after being molested by TSA, and braving a very long and icy ride to get here (thanks Mom and Dad!) I am a mixture of nervous, excited, heartbroken, ecstatic, and anything else I could fathom at the moment. I've had an interesting 8 months since graduating, and I can't be more happy for what has occurred. From getting into TFA, to quitting TFA, to having a mediocre GRE, to having a good showing at GRE, to snowboarding, working as a buser for a whole 10 days, seeing old friends, figuring out how the next steps of a relationship will go, and packing up and leaving, I'm still a bit in awe. Right now though, I know I want to thank everyone who donated to my fund for IC, as well as everyone who has supported me mentally, physically, and spiritually along the way. These last couple months have been interesting, and it is safe to say the transition out of college has be rough for me, but I've been so blessed and fortunate to have such a great support system. Thank you guys all so much. I am a very very fortunate young man. I'll keep updating as much as possible, and hopefully will post some pictures soon! I had a silly picture I tried to add, but DIA won't let me :/

Keep checking in!

Mid-Atlantic Region!

2010-12-28T18:38:00.001-08:00

Hello All!

I just wanted to send a quick update on what is happening with Invisible Children, and the days before moving to San Diego. I got an email over Christmas Break, and I found out I will be in a van with two American women, and one Ugandan male, and we will be traveling through the Mid-Atlantic region of the US. This includes DC, Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and Kentucky. I was really hoping to get the deep south, BUT I'm pretty content with these states :) If you are in any of these states and know of any place that wants to host a screening, let me know. Also, if you are in one of these states, and want to hang out, let me know as well! I'll post our tour dates up when I know them.

As far as fundraising goes, I am 1/3 of the way there. I am honestly super blown away by everybody's generosity. Some people have been WAY WAY to nice, and I am very grateful for all the donations. If you are still interested in donating, here is the link!

Along with my placement, I also got an email about pre-arrival work. I'm actually really excited about what we need to do, because I think what we will learn will make a huge affect on our ability to speak on the LRA's involvement in Uganda, Sudan, and the DRC . IC wants us to do a small history lesson in the conflict, as well as IC's involvement, and to read the book King Leopold's Ghost. This is a book about Belgium's negative history in the Congo, and the problems that still persist today. I've read excerpts in school, and it is truly eye-opening. Very sad, but I think knowing the history of King Leopold will give a lot of incite into modern day Congo.

Along with the reading, we also have to do blogposts, write a bio, and answer fun questions about ourselves, which I'm assuming will all be posted somewhere. So to sign off, I'll leave you with the song I said represents my life best. The song is called Road Song by Steel Train. Pardon the bootleggyness, but hope you enjoy!

hugs and kisses!

I'm going to be a Roadie for Invisible Children!

2010-12-15T09:47:00.000-08:00

Hello Friends,

This post has two main functions. First, I would like to give everyone an update on life, and second, ask for your support. I would like to let you all know that from January 10th until May 13th, I am going to be volunteering as a Roadie for the NGO Invisible Children. What this means for me is that I will move to San Diego for 5 weeks, take a crash course in Roadieism, then spend three months living in a van showing a new Invisible Children documentary twice a day at high schools, colleges, and places of worship. I don't know which region I will be traveling in, but either way I'm very excited!

For those of you who aren't familiar with Invisible Children, what it is, is an American NGO that works with people in the Acholi region of Uganda, as well as Southern Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo. For the last 20 + years, a rebel group known as the the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) has been terrorizing Northern Uganda, and more recently Sudan and the DRC. The group says it has a spiritual backing and its purpose is to overthrow the current government in Uganda, but is notorious for ethnic cleansing of the Acholi people, as well as abducting children and using them as child soldiers and sex slaves. Here is a small profile about the group and the conflict.

Invisible Children is an NGO created by 3 southern California kids, which works to educate the US on what is occurring in Uganda, Sudan, and DRC. IC also builds schools in Northern Uganda, creates rehabilitation centers for formerly abducted children, and fosters a sustainable market for those affected by the war by selling jewelry and clothes made by Ugandans. The original documentary was first screened in 2003. Here is the link for the IC website

As a roadie, I will be volunteering from January 10th to May 13th! IC hooks us up with housing, but the rest, including transportation and food, is on me. So with that being said, IC has given all roadies a goal to fundraise $1,500.00 to pay for food for the next 4 months. I think this goal is very attainable, and I'm hoping that my friends and family will help me reach my fundraising goal. Granted I have over 1,000 facebook friends (all very close friends lol), if each of them gave one dollar, I would be well on my way to my to raising 1,500 big ones. This probably won't happen, but what I am getting at is every little bit counts. I mean that. If you have a dollar you can give, please do. This can be your holiday charity donation, your tithe, your zakat, anything! It will all be greatly appreciated! Here is the link to my fundraising page.

To give some context to what this position means to me, it was a group of roadies who came to CU in 2006 that introduced me to IC, social justice, and a world outside me own. Ever since I saw the documentary in October that year (I even remember the room, and am still very very close with the people showing it) my life has been radically changed, and much more driven. I know this roadie position is something that can be life changing, and can effect a plethora of people, both Ugandans and American youth alike. Becoming a roadie for IC has been a goal of mine since I saw the documentary, and having the opportunity to do so now is something I am so grateful for. Everything just fell into place, and I know I am supposed to do this. The donated money won't go directly to Ugandans, but will be used to make sure that the voices and stories of affected children will be heard. We have already spoken loud enough for the US congress to pass a bill! So please if you are interested, or know someone who may be interested in donating, click on my link, or send my link to those who are. Thank you so much for your support, and I promise to keep updating as much as possible to the blog!

If you have any questions, want to know more, want to get involved, or just catch up, email me at mulvanyc@gmail.com. if you want to talk on the phone, email me your number (if I don't have it) and we can chat!

Thank you all sooo sooo much! Happy Holidays!

Christianity, Homosexuality, and living in harmony

2010-12-12T18:45:00.000-08:00

So recently, the topics of Christianity and homosexuality have both been on my plate. Between the mumbo jumbo about Don't ask Don't tell, explaining my tattoo to all my new work friends, and just the constant debates in our country, I feel like it is never ending. I'm a person of faith, and recently, having quit TFA, started exercising, writing, reading, and hanging out with people I love again, I feel closer to a higher being than ever before. With that being said, I've also been blessed to have great spiritual influences surrounding me. Ranging from recent ex-lovers, to my parents, my sister, and my parents' pastor, I'm surrounded by people whom I respect in so many regards. The reason I bring these things up is because I just finished listening to a three part sermon on sexuality and homosexuality in the bible. These three stuck out to me so much because it not only exposed me to my own ignorance of the meaning behind certain biblical references, but it also exudes the possibility for liberal thought and choice in Christianity. Because of problematic rhetoric in Christianity, I chose to shed my label as a Christian, but I still find myself defending its good aspects. I know faith can do great things for people, and lots of time religion is that medium, even if it leads to more confusion down the road. But this sermon series, this man, these ideas, these are why I still think that Christianity can be a good thing in peoples' lives. It may not be my personal religion, but I think there is a lot of good in certain churches. This sermon also touches on the fact that our government is unfortunately a theocracy, and the separation between church and state doesn't exist... which appeals to my radical side : )

I'm only attaching the final sermon, but I encourage you all to visit Columbine United Church's podcast page on itunes. It's free and it's very moving! If you are confused, interested, just looking for a spiritual medium, or want to learn about a different religion than your own, I feel like this is a good place to start.

http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/sermon-for-august-22-2004/id204893120?i=11959387

A Piece of Writing

2010-12-08T18:46:00.000-08:00

So I wrote this piece for a class called "Travel Writing." It is totally fictional, and based on a pseudo-out of body experience I had while in Morocco, and a friends description to me about the time he tried mushrooms. I showed it to my Dad for proofreading, and it made him blush a little bit. It definitely has a sexual side, and uses language that I don't think is to graphic, but who knows. It is up for each person's interpretation. For me it was about faith and understanding, but I won't deny the sexual undertone. So fair warning! Hope you enjoy!

The glittering reflection of the night sky on moving water is a dreamer’s paradise. I gaze at the running abyss, as the cool night air kisses my cheek forcefully. “Something is so surreal about water at night,” I think to myself. Though the creek’s depth only measures up to my ankle, watching the shimmering black glide by makes me feel so small, so humbled. Yet, its murky appearance also leaves me with a sense of hope, reinforcing heavily my belief that life exists far beyond what appears on the surface. What resides beneath that glimmering outer shell? What…
My thoughts are stopped by the feeling of human touch. Her fingers mesh themselves into mine, and I’m awoken from my existential daze. I almost forgot I wasn’t alone on this walk. Perhaps it’s the mix of the intoxicants with the morning’s looming departure, but the added scenery felt as if it was the last ingredient needed in a recipe for an out of body experience. I guess at some point I need to interject to remind her I’m listening.
“ I could just be drunk, but this path, with the trees hanging over the sidewalk, and the creek to our side like guide. Its kind of nice at night,” she said
I guess great minds do think alike, or maybe I truly had met a perfect counterpart. She was always so talented with matching her words to the mood of the moment. Those words, mmm! Those words always meant so much to me.
“That’s funny, I was just having a similar thought,” I said, belittling the semi-spiritual moment the path had rendered me.
She turned and kissed me, like so many times before, but this kiss, unexpectedly, was different. I guess it could be the result of our late night walk, or maybe the alcohol, or even more likely the uncharted venture which the morning will bring, but tears began to fill her eyes. I squeezed her hand a little tighter, kissed her forehead, and continued to bask in the path’s divine trance. This made it easier to neglect the destined encounter with feelings a far.
“You know, this... This is a big deal.” She said, searching for the words to paint her point. “This place is your home. Your family is here. Your friends are here. I…I’m here,” she paused, quickly rekindling her composure. “ Wherever you go, don’t forget that. You’ll always be someone’s brother, son, friend or lover. It all ties back to here.”
I replied with an embrace, since her words had occupied my thoughts. “Home. Ha! That’s a funny concept,” I thought to myself. Maybe this place holds memories and destinations which spark a nostalgic flame, but family? Friends? Love? These things aren’t set in one place, they transcend physical boarders.
Surrounded by a mystic air I responded, “ Maybe these things, this home, you, all my loved ones. Maybe these all are bigger than physical area. Maybe it’s all interconnected. Do you really see this place, these streets, this path, as your home? Or is it that your home is just a sense of belonging, regardless of physical area. You know what they say, home is where the heart is,” I say with a cheesy smile and a nudge to the chest.
She hits me on the arm, but having dealt with my sarcasm for the last year, she’s good at extracting the meaning from what I fail to say. Her eyes find mine, and I continue to rant.
“My tie to this place has never come from the physical area, it comes from the people, or the emotion,” I say with a serious tone. “It comes from things which are only tied to this place because of proximity. Maybe all these things are just reflections of something bigger, like a glimpse of the after life that awaits us. Maybe we are just exiles here on earth, and our real home, well we’ll be reunited with it having left this earth.”
She pushes me against the guardrail, and kisses me with authority. My hand finds the back of her head, and as my fingers slowly inch through her hair, I pull her in closer with my other arm. Our lips stay united as we continue down the path, embracing, tripping over one another, guided by the rail separating us from the black abyss of the creek.
Like clockwork, our unconscious steps turn left at 23rd, forgoing our watery guide, and docking at my house in the middle of the alley. Still engulfed in one another, I feel for my keys, and unlock the door. We make our way up the stairs and into the room on the right, where only a single mattress lay unpacked in a stripped room. She softly kisses my neck, and I feel her delicate fingers make their way up my back and tug my shirt over my head. I spin her so we’re no longer facing and pull her close. As I begin to kiss her neck, my hands follow the lead of her’s, and slowly pull her shirt over her head.
Without reason or warning, my bare room takes on a new form. My already blurred vision begins to resemble the frames of an old black and white movie, and it seems as if all the feeling in the room constricts and embodies only me. I embrace the sensation, yet keep moving in true course.
As we continue down the path of two lovers behind closed doors, my actions begin to take form on their own. I see my arms wrap themselves around her, and our bodies tumble onto the bed, but I’m no longer in control. As if it was a suit of armor, my thoughts, my being, feel as if they are no longer a part of my body at all, but enclosed within. Encompassed in a blanket of warmth, our bodies continue to go through the motions of making love. I can no longer feel my extremities, but they continue to act in the same manor in which I had instructed them. My being slowly constricts into a pulsating ball within my chest, and through clouded vision, I no longer look down at her beneath me, but at both our bodies swaying in beat with one another.
I’m floating, yet fully stable. The awareness I normally possess of my surroundings is blocked by my own essence of being. It engulfs the intangible soul soaring above the two bodies on the bed. I’m hit with a warmth unlike any I’ve ever experienced. It is similar only to that of warm water on skin, yet I have nothing which can be touched, and I feel no wetness. I still watch as my light arms wrap around her dark skin. It seems as if my tangible body has almost become one with her’s. Our bodies continue to sway in one motion, connected and unified.
Without choice or intention, the intangible essence of my being floats higher and higher, leaving the room where our bodies continue to sway. I see my neighborhood appear below me. The world continues to function, and I watch it do so, knowing full well this experience exists far beyond time and space. The rays of light fleeting from cars continue to break through the hold of darkness on the earth, and the drunks continue to stumble down the street.
Like a balloon slipped through the hands of a child, I continue to drift towards the night sky. Though I exist in this tangible universe, my essence is impenetrable to the elements. As I pass into the stars, the warmth continues to surround me. Space seems endless, yet I keep drifting higher and higher, starring with vision blurred by ecstasy; not out of focus, yet lacking clarity.
Though it is indiscernible, it seems like hours have passed since my body lay under me. I continue to float. My soul becomes one with the stars. I no longer feel an extension of myself beyond where I’m floating, yet I know I still exist. At this moment, the stars of the night sky vanish; I’m struck with the sensation of all emotions occurring at once in equilibrium. It’s like feeling nothing. No love. No hate. No fear. But even so, I feel completely satisfied. Want does not exist.
Vision has become obsolete now, with my surroundings matching that of a blank white page, like I’ve run off the director’s reel, but my existence continues. It’s become clear that the sensation of warmth that surrounds me, and the loss of my tangible extension, is the result of becoming one with the maker. Nothing outside of me exists because I’ve become what is outside. I’m part of the earth, of the stars, and the people within. I am the energy which fashions their tangible being. I am He who calls himself I am.
In this state, nothing is known nor unknown. The mysteries of earth don’t concern this existence, because it is here where they are created. As I bask, the forgotten concept of time passes, and with each moment, the intensity of feeling ultimate balance grows stronger, ever stronger...

With the speed of lighting ripping through dark clouds, individual emotions return to me. Immediately, I feel myself wanting. “I never want to stop feeling this. Ever.” I think to myself. And with that thought, descent begins.
Vision once again becomes apparent, and I see the night sky begin to re-form. I sink faster and faster, and the stars become brighter exponentially. The tiny lights of buildings grow larger, and I can see my alley take shape. Cars continue to pass, and the drunks on the street still walk towards their night’s destinations.
As I transcend my roof, the inexplicable warmth begins to fade. I see the two lovers reaching climax; their bodies still in synchronization with one another. I sink lower and lower, and before I can react, I see only one face in front of mine, wearing a look which could resemble either pleasure or pain. As I hurtle into my body, and regain control of my extremities, I feel the sensation of skin on skin, as she lays her hand on my bare chest. Panting and vulnerable, we lay embracing, trying to recover from the experience which has just passed.
Her outstretched arm over my torso grazes my bicep lightly. For a split second, I feel remnants of the unparalleled warmth, and begin to understand the dichotomy of human existence; our souls and our bodies.
As the sensation finally passes, I regain full control of my tangible extension, and like salvaging feeling after extreme cold, my fingers actions are once again are the product of my will. I lay baffled by what I had just felt, until the warmth of her cheek pressed against my chest ties together the meta-physical with the present. Our existence is not a mistake. We are extensions of the energy which created us, and will return to it once our stint on earth has passed. For the will of the creator was to make man, therefore the will of man is the extension of the creator. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Her body begins to tremble, and I pull the comforter over our tangled masses. She continues to shake, but to a lesser extent, and the warmth from her cheek is laced with drops of wetness. I press my lips to the top of her head, then do the same to her ear. Before drifting off to sleep, I whisper, “ I love you,” and, “home will always be here.”

Brazil!!!!

2010-12-03T19:44:00.001-08:00

Here are some pictures from my Dad and I's trip to Brazil. We spent six days on the Amazon with a medical crew, and 6 days surfing in Salvador de Bahia. It was a great introduction to South America!

Some boats we saw in an inlet off of the amazon

Us walking our supplies down to the boat, which was our home for six days

What 3,000 condoms look like in a duffle bag!

Looking tough

A picture inside one of our clinics

Dam Dog and our awesome translator Bruno

One of the houses we saw in the village

A massive suspension bridge linking two villages

A picture of a village from the boat

A man from the village showing me he knows how to use condoms lol

Another translator named Raquel and I

The largest rodent in the world! (check out the webbed feet!)

The docs heading back after a long day

The view from the shower

Dam Dog showing off his roots

The walk down to the baby beach

Graffiti in the city in Salvador

graffiti number 2

Dam Dog and I outside of an opera house

What a typical Thursday night in Salvador looks like

I apparently own a hotel in Brazil

I didn't get to eat here, bit I wish I would have!

My faith and spirituality/How I get down!

2010-12-02T10:59:00.000-08:00

So if you know me, or if you've read this blog before, it's obvious I can find belief, faith, and God in just about anything. It can range from philosophical books to trashy movies to deep conversation. But regardless, I have a pretty uncanny ability to find deeper meaning in media, even if it is about as deep as the baby pool. So last night, when I finally got to see Inception for the first time, it was a pretty safe bet to think I would find something in a movie with that much philosophy. But what made it so fun for me was its premise was the exact opposite philosophy of what I have been discovering (re-discovering) since the idea to leave TFA first came into my head. Inception was all about multiple layers of reality, and determining whether or not what you are physically doing at the moment is real or jut a dream. Very matrix-esque and definitely a fun debate, but for me, I've been honing in on the idea that this is my life. My actions are not pre-determined, and though I believe in a path and purpose, the sheer power of making your own decisions, and guiding your own path has been, like crack to me. I remember driving home from STL, and switching lanes, and deciding to stop at random "points of interest," and just realizing that my life shouldn't be dependent on others' ideas, thoughts, and notions. So having been focused on that, Inception just blew my mind.

But with that being said, the last few days I've found a lot of great mediums that explain what I believe. Here are a few selections of what has been guiding my spirituality:

First is a sermon from Columbine United Church. It talks about reverence, unity, and love. In the past couple years I've decided to leave the Christian church, but I think the pastor at my parents church is an amazing man. He has so much knowledge and love, and realizes that Christianity is more of a bridge to faith than a means for and end. (kinda long, but most people can find 18 minutes in their day)

http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/sermon-for-october-3-2010/id204893120?i=87934424

Next, a slam poet named Tre G, and his piece is called reflection. The file is like 8 minutes long, but the poem is only about 2 1/2 or 3 minutes. It gives a really good description of humanity, and our struggle with the idea of a God

http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/tre-g-reflections/id120373332?i=87480136

and finally, not about faith, but the intro to this poem has a beautiful description of "winning" at life, and the poem makes me :) Once again, long file, but the Poem is at the beginning and you don't need to listen to the rest if you don't want!

http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/buddy-wakefield-horsehead/id120373332?i=87056030

Hope you enjoy!

(sorry for the pasted links, I'm not sure A.) how to do the thing where you have a button that looks better then a link, and B.) add a music file. Mine is only letting me do video. So if you know how ot fix this, please let me know)

Things You Learn While Unemployed

2010-11-30T22:02:00.000-08:00

After having left St. Louis about 2 months ago, and having gone from 10-14 hour days (Final two years in college --> TFA) to unemployed, I find myself with a lot of extra time in my head. Even when busy I find a lot of time to spend in my head, but now, since I have so much time for reflection, my inheadedness is culminating into something more tangible. I think the shock of being home for the first time in five years, as well as not having any structure for the first time in five years, probably adds to the pseudo soul-searching. But, alas, here is what I have discovered in the two months I've been at home:

1.) Unemployed sports fans must love life because the best sports shows are on during the work day

2.) Unemployed sports fans must hear the same thing over and over due to the fact each show talks about the same games and highlights, just with different anecdotes.

3.) It's amazing how busy a person with absolutely no responsibility can stay. I some how can go days without knocking out anything on my to-do list

4.) "surfing" the web is the bane of my existence

5.) Hundreds of people send emails to the same craigslist job I am sending an email to. Even if it says don't call, I think I should probably call

6.) Without a dog with a lot of personality around the house, I think my sanity would falter. Henry apparently speaks Spanish, calls my Mom Patti, and doesn't have much to contribute to conversations about Wii or a choice between casual or business attire

7.) I love playing video games

8.) I love reading

9.) I love playing guitar

10.) I love a lot of things, and when I have free time in my day, instead of 14 hour work days, it's amazing how fast I remember what it feels like to enjoy doing things I love

11.) I have a tendency to become a little self-involved if I am stressing about finding jobs or grad school programs. I was lucky to come across a Joel Osteen email (love him or hate him, that shit is positive!) which reminded me how important it is to embrace each day, and realize that you can only do so much while applying for jobs. Stressing about them after you call, send resumes, and network, is a waste of time. That time can be spent doing things you love and don't always have time for. (I'm half way through Mario for the Wii!)

12.) The Wii + unemployment = not getting very far on the to-do list

13.) Fantasy Basketball is very addicting...especially when your team has the most overall points! Boo yah

14.) My hatred for the lakers may actually make me a Spurs fan...but my hatred for Manu may actually stop me from being a Spurs fan

15.) I like winning more than I hate Manu. He's on my fantasy team and ripping it up

16.) I actually like watching and being knowledgeable about sports. Weird?

17.) Though I dreaded it for half of college, it's amazing how happy I am to be living back at home with my fam. I may still despise Littleton, but after some rough experiences, a little TLC is much appreciated.

18.) Sometimes it is nice to say thoughts out loud, instead of letting them swirl around in the old noggin for hours. I can no longer say I don't talk to myself

19.) I'm extremely blessed to have the privilege to not only quit something, but also have a great family, friends, and support system to fall back on. Meg and I went to dinner tonight, and just being able to go out to a cheap Chinese restaurant when things aren't going so well is a privilege not everyone has. This is something I need to remember when things seem to look a bit bleak

Ok so not the most profound of thoughts have popped into my head recently, but I gotta do something to occupy my day right? Maybe tomorrow will bring some new exciting thoughts to blog about. Until next time!

Quick update: Currently in the running for two part-time jobs working with at-risk youth. Keep your fingers crossed...or if you have any connection to Urban Peak, put in a good word for me!

Seeing God

2010-09-06T08:30:00.000-07:00

I've always been really susceptible to overt emotion, be it in song, literature, or TV and film. I will watch something that most viewers find pretty cheesy, but for me, it seems to open up emotions that I struggle with in real life. I attest this to living a few moments behind the present, and needing to think about a situation, sometimes minutes or sometimes hours, to realize what the correct emotional response should be. This can have it's upsides, but none the less, it seems to be the culprit for my boarder line unhealthy emotional investment in pop culture. I guess with TV, the emotion comes easy because the characters' faces and words paint the picture, and if that isn't a hint enough, the accompanying music and light will fill in the missing blanks. Reading is the same, with the crystal clear depictions written by a famed author, tied with the fact that I'm already locked up in my head, soaking in every word. I joked with my friends about how I needed a few days to recover after watching the last episode of Dexter, but having just found a profound description of the causes of modern day terrorism through dialogue between vampires in True Blood, I don't think it is much of a joke.

Since a life changing trip to Uganda in 2007, where I found a book that has forever changed my life and discovered how seeing the 5th Harry Potter movie in theaters could spark a strong spiritual revelation, I've always been a firm believer that God, Allah, or which ever deity you choose to follow, speaks to each person through their own individual medium. For some people, that is the more traditional route. This happens with differing texts for the differing religions, as well as places of worship and ritual. But for me, as silly as it sounds, it has always been through hidden (or fabricated) messages I find in books, TV, song, or simple conversation.

Since June 12th, I have devoted my life, health, well-being, free time, and any other aspect of my life to a program called Teach For America. I'll be brutally honest in the fact that TFA is by far the hardest thing I have ever done. To be part of this program you have to pick up and leave everything you know, move to a new state for a week, find friends to move in with, then spend 5 weeks in a DIFFERENT state sleeping 5 hours a night or less learning how to teach lesson plans, only to find out all your students pass regardless of the work they put in. Then, you come back to the place where you had first been moved to and start fixing your house with kids you barely know. All the while, you are hoping you get placed in a school before the semester starts. From this point, you are put in front of a classroom with little to no teaching experience, left to figure out what resources, textbooks, curriculum, and other necessary supplies you have, where your kids are at with reading and math, what your administration expects, what your grade level expects, what TFA expects, and what the district expects. This is all on top of getting used to a new area, having children yell in your face, trying to find a balance in your personal life, and realizing how unprepared you really are. TFA is no walk in the park, and I will be the first to admit that, not only am I unprepared on the teaching front, but I really had no idea what I was getting myself into when I signed the two year contract.

I wish I could do the first 2.5 months of the program justice, but when 2 months seems more like 2 years, and I realize that this week will ONLY mark a month of teaching in St. Louis, I don't think any words can really describe the experience. But what I can say is this; for me, the only way I can get through these next two years is with a strong support system, a belief in a higher power, and finding reasons for what I see each day. I've been blessed with a great family, supportive friends, a great girlfriend, and in my region, 2 really really supportive roommates and a solid group of friends to cope with. But without a strong faith and a learned medium to discover that faith, I don't think I could survive. My first 2 weeks were really hard because I had never struggled like this. I have never felt so weak before, and have never needed so much. But until I acknowledged this weakness, and realized I needed to find positive ways to cope, life was unbearable. I know not everyone has the same belief in a higher being that I do, but regardless, finding one's own medium to understanding is essential. My Dad has always talked about the importance of faith, family, and friends, and though faith for me has always meant a God (whatever he, she, it may look like) faith doesn't have to be otherworldly. Faith can be a belief in those friends or family you surround yourself with. It can be a belief in the idea of nothing being connected, or that everything is connected, or that everything happens by chance. Faith can be anything. Really, anything at all. But the only thing I can say I know with 100% certainty is that for me, unless there is something in which I feel real comfortable betting all my chips on, life seems pretty bleak.

I'm sure many people would like to hear more about the TFA experience (which will come cuz i'm gonna update a lot now!), but this has been the culmination of the days between June 12th and now for me. I'm alive and decently healthy, and I'm learning what it takes to fit math, reading, science, social studies, writing, handwriting, and spelling into a 5th grade class each day.

apparently we can't post pictures of students :/

2010-06-04T04:31:00.000-07:00

ugh...two nights in less than a week with only two hours of sleep. i guess when i'm up i'm up. I think this upcoming move may be the culprit...

The Next Chapter

2010-02-28T21:40:00.000-08:00

So, It has finally become apparent that through failed attempts to change locations, or delay starting TFA, I will be moving from Colorado in June to Chicago for the summer, then to St. Louis for two years. I'm really excited to do Teach for America, and St. Louis was my # 2 choice, but it is always hard to pack up and leave, especially for two years. But I'm on my way!

So, with this being said, here are a few of the things I'm going to miss about CO come June...

My Wonderful Family

My Lovely Girlfriend

Friends!

More Friends!

The Views from Campus

3860

Hiking

Good decisions

Going to Denver

But on the plus side, here are some things I'm not going to have to miss anymore http://3boysundermyroof.blogspot.com/

Apathetic to Politics

2010-02-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

I saw a debate between Howard Dean and Karl Rove tonight. It was everything that one would expect from a debate between two opposed forces. The student group did a great job of putting on the event. The politicians did not. They avoided questions. They made jokes about serious issues in our country that need to be addressed. They knocked the present and past administrations without trying to find an answer. It reminded me of why I am apathetic towards politics, and so behind grassroots and social movements.

I had the opportunity to go to a reception after the debate. I was coming straight from class dressed in jeans, a polo t-shirt, and sneakers. Karl Rove was dressed in a suite. I walked in, introduced myself, and thanked Mr. Rove for coming to campus. He thanked me for dressing up for the event. I proceeded to the food with a fake smile, all the while thinking, "thanks for the 1 trillion dollar deficit and masterminding one of the worst regimes in American history." Too bad I was representing my student body and CEB, because that sentiment would have been vocalized had I not been...

More like my Dad than I thought

2010-01-26T23:11:00.000-08:00

Since I've been old enough to stay up past 10 pm, I've known my Dad isn't the best at sleeping, and unfortunately with this, I follow in his footsteps. I go through short stints where sleep comes easy, but right now that doesn't seem to be the case. Maybe the looming decisions about the future add to this inability to calm my thoughts and drift into vivid dreams, but either way, I guess it's time for an update.

As many of you know, I got accepted into Teach For America last week. This is a great opportunity, and I'm very excited and honored I was accepted, but that also means by next Wednesday I need to make a decision about moving to St. Louis for the next two years to teach to underprivileged children. Maybe this is the world's way of evening itself out because not to long ago my Mom used to teach elementary education to underprivileged children in St. Louis. Maybe I'm supposed to pick up where she left off!

Along with finishing up school, and working with a great organization called Cultural Events Board, I also started running again. Last season was my first year back to racing in over three years and it turned out pretty well. I got up to about 70 miles a week, ran with one of my best friends, and hit three new PRs (15:00 5k, 24:51 8k, 31:44 10k). I won a few smaller races, and even got ostracized by an angry man from Missouri about running too fast in a turkey trot! All in all a good year.

I turn 23 in February, I graduate in May, and following my last days on the CU campus, life is a mystery. I do love a good schedule, but there is something kind of fun about not knowing what is coming next.

I'm gonna start writing again consistently, so keep checking it! Hope all is well!

A Moral Dilemma

2009-08-26T23:33:00.000-07:00

Tonight I witnessed a horrific ordeal. Though no one was injured, my own action, or rather inaction, leaves me morally confused, and lacking the ability to sleep.

After a tough loss at the Rockies game, I thought a calming bus ride home was what I was in store for. I was wrong. I made sure we went to the right station so we could actually get seats, but to my dismay, my reading, even before the ride started, was disrupted by five rows of obnoxiously drunk kids yelling obscenities. It was nothing worse then what I would normally hear at CU game at first, but that wasn't where the problem was derived. What set me off was when the asshole in the back of the bus, riding on the false confidence of alcohol and a group 10 plus friends, began verbally harassing a girl who wouldn't sit by them. This led to her two guy friends trying to stand up, and being met with multiple comments all laced with the words "gay," "faggot," or "queer." As the bus ride continued, one of the guys walked back and tried to silence the kids by acting as if he were gay. It did help a little, but finally it ended up sparking more comments. When we pulled to our first stop, which was a 20 minute ride, the bus driver finally came to see what was happening, and it turns out one of the guys being harassed was actually gay. The bus driver asked who was doing the harassing, gave a stern warning to the "leader" (calling him that literally pains me), and went back to the kids being harassed. The bus driver's only advice to the kids being harassed was that there was another bus two minutes behind us, and if they wanted to, they could get off and wait for it. And this is what they did. The ones being harassed, being spoken down to because of sexuality, were forced to leave the bus, while the publicly intoxicated, character-less, asshole got to stay on the bus. And while this all happened, while the bus driver threatened to kick the kid off, then turned away and basically affirmed every second of the interaction, I sat there. Silent. In the dark. Shaking with anger.

As the bus rolled away, and the kid began yelling rockies chants, and trying to pick fights with anyone who would bite, I realized I had not only witnessed a hate crime, I condoned it. I didn't speak up, I didn't walk down those five rows to that kid. I didn't knock some fucking sense into him. I sat.

I sat in my seat, shaking with anger, almost praying that kid would say another word, or get off at the same stop as me so I could redeem myself. But when he got off the bus four stops before me, all I could do was stare and him, still shaking, wishing I could administer even an ounce of physical pain, so he could get a glimpse of what he caused for his victim tonight.

One of the most despicable things a person can do is nothing. The one evil which we should all fear is the inaction of good men. When I look back I don't know what I could have done. Even as my blood pressure has returned to normal, the first thing that comes to mind is hurting that kid. I wish I would have jumped. I don't know what it would have done. I don't know if his friends would have jumped me. I don't know what would have happened, or if in that, case violent resistance would have actually accomplished something. But one thing I do know is I could have at least spoken up. I could have advocated for kicking that kid of the bus. I could have stood up, and said something. Even if it didn't work, then the verbal harassment would have been taken off those three, and placed on me, and hell, that probably would have sparked other people to jump in. But I didn't act, and for that, I'm truly disgusted.

It's tough to actually appreciate the school I go to when so much of it is ridiculous notions like this. Even the good that exist here, I feel comes with a clause of negativity which taints it.

I could get used to this

2009-06-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

Just another day at the office. I got to work around nine, and set up tabling for the 2010 Denver/Colorado census at festivals like Mile high music fest, greek festival, pride, and black arts, then busy intern work. Next, I took an hour lunch at a nice chinese food restaurant on the boss' dime, then went back to work for a few more hours of festivals and intern toils. Finally, I ended the day with a free private party at the Chop House drinking mirco-brews and eating beef wellington, only to go to a free rockies game after the food ran out. I even got in a night run with a head lamp! I hope real life is always like this!

Optimism

2009-06-05T10:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I see things that make me questions my country, but other times I see things that restore my hope. Yesterday I saw a man who works in the CU archives helping the Afghani bus driver with English. He wanted to know what "sup?" meant. The man later told me that each day he brings the bus drivers pastries, and one day he brought the Afghani man a fruit smoothie...something he had never seen before. Hope for a united glob 1, cynicism 0.

Answers

2009-06-04T10:39:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I wonder about our country, but other times I get unwanted answers. Maybe advertisements like these are why less then half of the marriages in the US don't work out.

Maybe I can't build a relationship in 24 hours, but I know with 1-800-divorce I can break it!

A leap of faith

2009-05-28T15:03:00.000-07:00

In the last four years since God has become a large part of my life, I've struggled to find what he/she/it means to me. Through different religions, beliefs, lack thereof beliefs, and media, the one thing that I can rest my hat on is the fact that God lives in everything and can't be confined to a building, book, or single group of people. Its up to one person to find out how God, their conscience, energy, sprits from the past, or whatever it may be, speaks to them and guides them through life. As for me, since my departure from running, it has been traveling. The reason for this is simple, while traveling, all I have with me is books, paper, pens, and a belief that I'll meet the right people who can show me the right the path. Its so easy to hear an ambient call when the muffling sounds of TV, the internet, and constant work, school, and other distractions aren't abundant. That muffled call was more like a megaphone during my three day trip in Haiti.

What makes traveling so fun is that the idea of expectations is ridiculous. Unless you have pre-booked all aspects of your trip, and have a printed out itinerary, it is is very unlikely anything will turn out as planned. For me, my expectations were nipped in the bud at the boarder crossing between the DR and Haiti in a town called Elias Pina. Though lonely planet speaks of a bus that goes from one country's capital to another, this is only through the southern most boarding crossing, not at Elias Pina. Thus, here is a step by step guide to a 3-day quick trip to Haiti. Step one, 100 peso (+/- $3) back of a moto ride to the boarder. Step 2, try and walk across the boarder all nonchalant, only to be taken into the immigration office and integrated in Spanish, when all you know is a few phrases between two travel partners. Step 3, after gaining access to the boarder crossing, negotiate a ride with a creole speaking boy on a moto who says he'll take you to the "stazione." Step 4, meet French speaking Haitian officials and then get to the "station" which is one painted school bus that is over packed and leads to a 5 1/2 hour ride down an unpaved road. Step 5, get dropped of in the ghetto, with no place to stay, and find a English speaking man who shows you the local bus system in Port Au Prince, Haiti's capital. Step 6, find a friend on the bus who leads you to a hotel, free of charge, because he said "People were looking at your pockets." Step 7, spend a day in the capital, warding off street hustlers and eating at a restaurant with friendly staff. Step 8, over pay a taxi driver, who gives you bad vibes already, to drop you off at the wrong regional bus. Step 9, get dropped of in a random town and find a moto driver who will take you to the next bus. Step 10, pay the moto driver about 700 gourdes ($17.50) to drive two people on the back of the moto to the boarder crossing over unpaved roads for an hour and half. Step 10, bribe Spanish-speaking immigration officers with charm, smiles, and PB & J's.

Though it sounds intense, which it was at parts, what made this trip so amazing was how easy everything worked out. When we arrived in Haiti and had no place to stay, the men at the currency exchange walked us five blocks to the local bus. When we found out at the major bus station that there was no bus to anywhere near our boarder crossing, the staff at our hotel showed us on a map where individually owned buses leave from. And finally, when are money-hungry, male sexual organ-faced taxi driver left us at a random bus stop, the driver of the bus, when we reached our destination, flagged down the moto driver who took us all the way to the boarder. What these experiences show is that if one is humble, gives up fate to the powers that be, and treats everyone kindly and with respect (even dick-faced taxi drivers), things will work out. Doors will open, rides will be found, people will be generous, and all that ends will end well.

I don't really know what I believe. I don't know which religion is closest to the truth, if there is one at all, and which prophets are real, but what I do know is that there is a higher-being who speaks to each person individually in a way that suits their needs. It's up to us to figure out the medium of communication used, and how to respond. When a person choses to do this, and figures out how to amplify that muffled voice, life's struggles will become a little easier, the dark path of the future will gain some light, and each action becomes a little more fruitful. All it takes is some silence, an introspective look, and a little faith.

Our First Year Without

2009-04-09T17:09:00.000-07:00

Today marks the first year anniversary of my Grandma's passing. I'm sure you've heard every person say it about every loved one they have ever lost, but if you were lucky enough to meet my grandma, you would know there are few people to have ever walked this earth like her. She was kind, loving, accepting, and most of all, she lived a life of integrity. It didn't matter who you were, or what you had done, my grandma loved you. And if she loved you, you knew it. And man, if she ever prayed for you, amazing things would happen. She touched so many people's lives, be them family, friends, neighbors, or even enemies, making a positive impact, and leaving them forever changed. I know for me, besides the amazing things she did for me all through out her life, even in her death she was still giving. At her funeral she was still teaching me about character, and reminded me how to trust my heart again after a long hiatus. And if you know me, I'm a person who makes every decision purely off a feeling, so this was the most wonderful gift she could have ever given.

Here is a poem I wrote the night after her wake, which I read at her funeral. I experienced a true dichotomy when I wrote it, experiencing fluidity of words, and the ease of writing, while simultaneously experience the hardship of death. Its called "those might be dogwoods."

I look out the window,
As a million thoughts pass me by,
To try and keep my mind from touching,
On what its like to die.

As I try to fight the grieving,
I hear someone say it could be,
That those beautiful white flowers,
Grace the branch of a dogwood tree.

And conversation stays light,
But it has yet to fail,
Because if silence breaks over us,
We know what that entails.

And as the car inches closer,
To the place that we all fear,
My heart begins to race and scream,
And I wonder if I will persevere

But the miles pass like seconds,
And the blinker flips to the right,
and the car passes over the street,
while I am wishing for a red light.

But belt comes off my chest,
When we land in our space
And the door opens wide,
And then we pick up the pace,

As the first door opens,
I know the time is here,
I’ll have to face the pain which I,
Have been trying to steer clear.

The second door way breaks apart,
And the silence pounds so loud,
My eyes sprint to the casket where my,
Grandma lays so proud.

I begin to wail just like the kid,
Who she always understood,
And the sleek persona I try to sport,
It felt like he was gone for good.

I had seen that face,
So many thousand times before,
And though the face still looked the same,
My mind couldn’t ignore.

The fact that she never wore a frown,
Or let company enter without saying well hi,
Or would sit quietly at a party,
As the time passed her by.

So I try and hide my tears,
And be strong, act like a man,
then a wave of consciousness comes over me,
and I begin to understand.

That although this life is fragile,
It only sets the stage,
For what is lying before as,
As we begin to turn the page.

As she lays there so still,
I let my hand glide across her face,
I know that with all my heart,
She’s in a better place.

And a peace comes over me,
that brings me back to feeling whole
My grandma’s legacy comes to mind,
And once again she touches my soul.

Then I smile so wide,
Like I did when she was here,
And I make it through the day,
The one that I had feared.

And tomorrow when I get in the car,
To drive back to the same place,
Someone will notice the beautiful white flowers,
And the dogwoods which they grace.

But this time it will be different,
Cuz no two days are the same.
And now more than ever
My heart will be touched by her name.

for Grandma Kirby, who remains in my heart each day.

Conference on World Affairs

2009-04-07T11:09:00.001-07:00

Section 1:

So this week at CU is the the 61st annual Conference on World Affairs. This week is packed with nationally and internationally renowned speakers who lecture on a variety of subjects, ranging from international relations to facebook. The campus is flooded with non-students, and basically, the student center where I work is chaotic. This week is a sociologist's dream, seeing how the "guests" of the university actually treat the students and staff, as well as looking at listening habits, and lecture attentiveness, between the large age span. But today, focused in on a lecture entitled "Winning Over Islamic Hearts," a speaker named Ziad Asali spoke some profound truth about American politics. What he eluded to was not based on tangible evidence of what the Obama campaign can and will do, but the symbolism behind it. His example was that one of Obama's first moves in the oval office was calling The Palestinian President. He said how this conversation did not lead to any new incite, but the fact that Obama showed interest, and actually asked the Palestinian President what Palestine needs, instead of telling him what America thinks Palestine needs, was a symbolic gesture that will lead to much closer ties between the US and the Arab world. I think this example is what many people are missing about the Obama campaign. Though his proposed policies were, according to the vote count, more celebrated then Mccain's, what will be so monumental is the symbolism that will come with Obama's actions. He is a man who understands that international relations are not only based on tangible efforts, counting the number of dollars or democracies the US is involved in, but also interaction, and acknowledging other cultures and ideas. So far in Obama's campaign, though things like his push for stem cell research, the bail out plan, and closure of Guantanmo Bay are all great, what has been most rewarding for our country is the flux in foreign attitudes towards our government and our peoples. Obama is a new, youthful face of America that shows other nations we are not all balding, closed minded, middle aged, middle class, white christians, but a nation of people who differ in race, thought, and ideals. Not all progress can be measured numerically, and though some of the symbolic gestures of the past have been left out of the record books, I think Obama's campaign will be remembered both as a sign of hope for a greater future, and for its tangible efforts.

Section 2:

Today's conference was on intelligent designing, and I left absolutely horrified. Three of the four panelists spoke on genetically evolving humans, one speaking on us becoming cyborgs, one talking about his top-ten wish list of genetic mutations, and one speaking of creating computers where we could download our selves too. Each one had fantasy-esque hopes and dreams, but the fact that each spoke of forceful evolution of the human race was haunting to me. The final panelist, who seemed the craziest of all, was the only one who, metaphorically, spoke my language. He began his speech talking about human parnoia, and basically, drove the point that "we are a society riding a bucking bronco." What he said was that we are evolving, producing technology, and finding scientific breakthroughs at a rate which our societal evolutions, as well as own knowledge and understanding, cannot keep up with. We are, in essence, a society on a bucking bronco without a bridle and the knowledge of how to tame a wild horse. This resonated with me, and also did what the CWA is here for, it sparked dialogue between a friend and I. We talked about how each technologic advance mankind adopts stops human evolution, and how not only do we have to worry about not evolving, but also de-evolution, deeming Wall-E not only a great movie, but true! So I guess the take home message from this lecture was with great power comes great responsibility, and with every action comes consequence, so we better be ready to reap what we sow...and Wall-E should be integrated into high school and college curriculum.

A Lesson in Music

2009-03-30T14:27:00.000-07:00

To unwind, or maybe start my day, I like to go running. Even though I'm not in the shape I used to be (which makes me sound really old) and now I normally run the same trail everyday, it's still is something I find pretty important. Besides my new slower pace, having since quit running competitively, I now like to run with music as my companion. I feel like I barely have time to do anything anymore, so combining two preferable activities just seems efficient. My mom ended up getting a new Ipod recently, so her old 8g Nano was handed down to me. I have a 30g I keep most my music on, so instead of deleting the 1g of music she had, I just added some of my own to the mix. This came into play today when I decided to take a bold step and press the random shuffle button as I jogged out the door. Here is the result:

1.) Matt Nathanson-Bulletproof weeks
2.) Straylight Run- Mistakes We Knew We Were Making
3.) The Commitments- Saved
4.) Flobots- Rise
5.) Wynton Marsalis- The Magic hour (only a portion though, its a 13 minute song)
6.) Dancing in The Street- David Bowie
7.)Tony O'Connor- All of My Life
8.) Willy Nelson & Waylon Jennings- Mammas don't let your baby's grow up to be cowboys
9.) Spyro Gyra- Morning Dance
10.) Dua- Zanzibar Casbah

Between myself, my Dad, and my Mom, these are the gems which my Ipod exposed me to today. There is something enchanting about jumping from ballads, to gospel, to hip hop, to jazz, to honkey tonk, and a little 80's pop performed by an ambiguous collaboration. Through all the things I've seen in my short twenty-two years, one of the biggest blows I faced was when music stopped sounding good, but today, I think I can smile knowing that one love I thought I lost forever has returned. So I encourage you, if your struggling today, do something you've always loved, and let it move you like it did the first time you felt it. And if that love is music, dive into those three days of songs you have in your itunes, and let the shuffle lead you. Who knows, maybe you'll find a diamond in the rough!

Ma Vie

2009-03-19T13:42:00.001-07:00

So I didn't really mean to add this, I was trying to put it on my side bar, but I didn't check the box, so here are pictures from all aspects of my life! Hope you enjoy!

CU Poetry Slam 2009

2009-03-14T11:04:00.000-07:00

So a few posts ago I talked about being a self-proclaimed writer and poet. But last night I decided to step out of that box and onto the stage, and compete in the 6th annual CU poetry slam. I've never actually read any of these poems out loud, but I figured the best way to start would be to throw myself into a competition with an audience of a few hundred. It ended up being great, and I made it to second round, but not the final. I can't complain, and I feel like this was a great way to start my slam career...and talking with all the other poets, it looks like I can be doing readings a few times a week if I like, so hopefully these poetry posts will be a reoccurring theme. So without further adu, here are the two poems I read last night...

Hope you enjoyed! the next ones will be memorized and that self-conscious tick will be gone forever!

The Little Things in Life

2009-02-21T10:21:00.000-08:00

Though I'm only a self-proclaimed writer, story teller, author, and poet, I'd like to think those in our trade have a good way of looking at life. For example, to some, a trip to the laundromat could be just that... a trip to the laundromat. But for me, its an adventure. I notice the sounds of the machines in turn with the noise of traffic in the street. I catch the eyes of patrons trying to catch the eyes of other patrons. I watch the bus stop interactions through the window to my right, and the under-payed, under-slept manager scurry in circles like the clothes in the dryer. I watch all these seemingly meaningless things occur and morph together, making a simple experience anything but ordinary. And thats the beauty of an eye for simple things. It shows that even the smallest occurrences in human existence are only small if we perceive them in that way. With the eye of a writer, the wait at the bus stop becomes a visual spectacle. The walk to school becomes a gourmet tasting for touch. The minutes preceding class begin to resemble beautiful music. With the eye of a writer, one learns to train the senses, and experience the world in a more holistic manner. Each step is felt. Each word is heard. Each moment is bliss.

Maybe my Dad was right...

2009-02-03T11:22:00.000-08:00

So my dad used to always quote Winston Churchill saying, " If your not a Liberal in your 20's than you have no heart, If your not a Conservative in your 40's than you have no brain." I would always giggle and think how my liberal side would never leave, and that conservatism is evil. But today, my laughter was stricken with fear. I found myself very skeptical of the "Liberal Optimistic" view on economics between the North and South. I started to question if maybe in my old age (22 in two weeks!) I've become cynical. Maybe my ambitions for ending world hunger and poverty are a sham. Maybe my inclination to push for social justice will slowly dissolve. Maybe I'll start supporting the GOP and hop on the pro-life wagon...

But then it clicked. Growing up doesn't necessarily mean becoming cynical. Growing up means seeing the world in a more rational light. I don't think Mr. Churchill meant we are all going to give up our liberal hopes and dreams, but instead that we are going to act on these dreams, and with each attempt, we are going to learn something. We are going to take that knowledge and shape our future endeavors, so that we don't make the same mistakes. We are going to hold our blissful dreams of unification, and make them a reality. What we are going to do is change. But if that liberal light stays a-shine in our hearts, then rationality won't lead us to cynicism, but to hope. To a more worldly view. To a higher way of thought. What that knowledge will do is increase progression. So if rationality is the underlying message, maybe instead of quoting Winston Churchill, my Pops should have said, "Son. When you are in your twenties, your going to be reckless and silly, but each day, your gonna learn something. Maybe if you retain some of that information, tomorrow you'll have a little bit more wisdom, and approach life with a little more care."

The Delicate Balance in Life

2009-01-24T13:29:00.000-08:00

This morning I was met with a great Dichotomy. Yesterday, I was met with one as well. And thinking back on my days, it seems like each is met with a blitz of awe-inspiring happiness and mind-blowing pain. The news lately has held headlines like Obama's bailout plan, peace talks between North Korea and China, new advances in stem-cell research, and the Pope trying to reach out to young believers by creating a vatican page on YouTube. But to set the scales straight, one click away were articles about the effects of phosphorus in the Israel-Gaza conflict, deadly storms in Spain killing 4 children under the age of 12, and former bishops of the Catholic church refusing to acknowledge the existence of gas chambers in the Holocaust, further bridging the gap between major world religions. Even this morning my heart was torn reading email, having received one in regards to a friends new journey in France, and another informing me of the final blow in a family friend's loosing battle with cancer. It seems like each day this paradox of rising hope and building devastation grows. I can't put my finger on whether or not I think the world is slowly crumbling from the inside, or if globalization is bandaging the wounds that ignorance created. But the one conclusion I can find seems to be the fact that this dichotomy is life. Without pain their would be no joy. Without suffering there would be no soothing. Without heartbreak there would be no love. If one moment I want to wither away in my bed, I stand up, because I know the next moment will hold something powerful enough to curb the ugliness the immobilized me in the first place. And maybe that is the lesson that needs to be learned. Even though life doesn't always appear fair, and there seems to be a war between good and evil raging around every corner, our only option is to live. We can either stay hidden in our beds, or we can wake up, make sure we put on clean underwear and socks, and do all that is humanly possible to add another tally to the good side of the scoreboard. I don't know what the rest of the world will chose, but the bell ringing on the dryer tells me that my hope is only a warm pair of socks away.

Reverse Culture Shock

2009-01-21T21:48:00.000-08:00

I would consider myself a very strong person, but I think part of that strength is admitting weakness when it appears. Having arrived home only two weeks ago, and been on the move ever since, submitting to weakness is a lesson I've learned all to well. The world seems to be in constant flux. One second I'll catch myself dazing out, thinking of the street I used to walk to school, and the next I'll be remembering how to lock up at work. But the most bizarre part (to an ignorant youth trying to reinvent the wheel) is the fact that everything cheesy returnee instructions say are true. You romanticize the place you were. Everything that was so unbearable while abroad, seems so glorious when you're back home. You see faces that you know are thousands of miles away, but seem to think they are walking on your campus. You return to the comfortable, the normal, the known, only to realize that what used to seem so simple, has become completely foreign. The people you know and love will support you, but after a few short comments about your experience, their attention is shot, and your once again left alone with the memories in your head, and the pictures on your hard drive. I've even caught myself day-dreaming about my flight home, and how good it felt to see the mountains again, and know my family would be at the airport waiting for me. But what gets me through the day is seeing the change in my life that marks study abroad's lasting effects. It's feeling the difference when I wake up in the morning. It's experiencing the new way of thought while making conversation. It's watching the knowledge I've gained from the other side of the world effect my daily life back home. Its seeing all these things working as one that makes me not only embrace the challenge of returning home, but be thankful to be culture shocked in my own country. Its knowing that when I lay my head down in Boulder, Colorado, that when I was doing the same thing in Rabat, Morocco, I was experiencing something so much greater then myself.

New Years in Naples

2009-01-06T20:02:00.000-08:00

After spending Thanksgiving in Marrakech, Christmas Eve in Paris, and Christmas day in Rome, News Years Eve found me in the city of Naples with my lady friend Caroline. Though the Romans describe it as the armpit of Italy, and its streets somewhat resemble a larger-scale Moroccan Medina (knock purse salesmen, arguing and motorcycles on sidewalks), all the elements come together to create a bizarre equilibrium between chaos and charm. Naples is also conveniently located, so we spent the day ogling the 2000-year-old ash-preserved ruins of Pompeii, and haggling with a 4’8 grandma like merchant who promised us good prices because we looked Italian. ( How much youa give me? Ten Euro, ten euro cuz I uh like you! You look Italeeean.) Though Naples is pretty hectic during the day, what I didn’t know is that the night of New Years Eve it becomes a war zone. While getting ready and profiting from the wireless Internet of the Mediterraneo Marriot (thanks Mrs. Clark!) I saw a funny article about the women of Naples refusing to have sex on New Years unless the men stopped using illegal fireworks. It seems like this was done in vain, because as we left our hotel around 9 pm, the streets were empty besides the sounds of explosions. I felt like I was heading the front line. Store alarms were sounding, smoke filled the air, and every few steps a bomb would explode and the night sky would be engulfed by fire. And to make matters worse, along with running from trench to trench to dodge fire, an empty street meant empty stomachs for Caroline and I. Napolitano people apparently spend a typical New Years blowing their city up, while eating home made meals. The few open restaurants had 60 Euro set menus and a two hour-long wait. Even the Golden Arches failed to serve us. But as we know, only the strong survive, and after evading mortars for a few more blocks, we found a corner “snack bar” with a thirty euro turf menu of the day, and a two hour wait. The bar maid kept the crowd calm by keeping everyone’s champagne flute full, and as the minutes passed, everyone became a bit merrier. Caroline and I were seated after all those with pre-made reservations went, and after our five-course meal, we found ourselves the only customers still in the restaurant at 11:55 pm. This didn’t ruin the mood, and our very merry bar maid still ran the show, so we spent our last second of 2008 sipping free champagne, then welcomed in the New year by passionately embracing and tossing our flutes into the air. Though the streets were a war zone before the ball dropped, after ringing in the New Year, fireworks were even more abundant. Our fifteen-minute walk back to the hotel turned into a 30 minute extravaganza dodging mortars, bottle rockets, and whatever else the Italians felt they should toss of their balconies, including old TVs. But we did make it back to our hotel, and when we arrived, we still had time to watch Naples blow itself up from our roof.

Here are some pictures and videos to give you hint of what it was like

Look a twofer!- A year in Review
I know I’m a few days late, but I think I would have been wasting my time if I was writing blogs in Rome instead of seeing the sites and spending time with my girlfriend. But with each New Year, one needs to look back on what they achieved. In the past twelve months a lot has happened in my life. I found love. I’ve learned a new language (or at least enough to get around Morocco). I lost my grandma. I viewed the Atlantic from two different continents. I swam in the Med in three countries. I traveled to the Islamic world. I saw Vegas as a legal adult. I took too big of a course load followed by a joke semester. I stepped foot on three different continents. I visited California, Nebraska, and South Caroline all in one summer. I began writing again. I began running again. I lived by an ocean. I saw Ramadan as well as the Eid. I learned about a religion that has a negative stigma I my country. I questioned my own faith and redefined not only my perspective on God and Religion but my own personal beliefs as well. I had falling outs and new beginnings. I had highs and I had lows. I felt joy to the point of ecstasy, and sorrow to the point of agony. But most of all I lived. I experienced. I learned. Though some things were good and some things were not so good, what was different about this year was the fact that I took every experience for what it was, an experience. Be it glorious or heart wrenching, no day was lived in vain. And for this, 2008 will be a year I never will forget. Happy New Year to all, and may life guide you in your path.

Joyeux Noel!

2008-12-24T07:43:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to everyone from Paris! I hope this year has brought many glorious events. As for me, I couldn't have asked for a better year. Its weird not being home for Christmas, and this probably won't become a habit, but seeing the Champs Elysees and the Eiffel Tower was a nice consolation. So Merry Christmas to all, and if you can find time in your prayers for my christmas wish to make her flight, it would be greatly appreciated! Joyeux Noel et bonne année!

Eye-ed Moo-bar-ack sigh-eed

2008-12-18T09:31:00.000-08:00

My semester abroad came to end a week early because of a religious holiday called the Eid (pronounced eye-ed). Though my business teacher swore that the Islamic calendar didn’t affect education or economics in the Arab world (HA!), all schools, as well as the majority of local businesses, were closed for about a week for the Eid celebration (give or take some days depending on the institution). So what does this glorious school ending holiday entail? Well the Eid is in remembrance for the time when Abraham was so faithful to God that he was willing to sacrifice his only son at God’s command. According to the Old Testament, God stopped Abraham at the last minute, and praised him for his faithfulness, and then had him sacrifice a sheep instead. The Quranic version varies a little, but regardless, the celebration is a symbol for this act. So what does a festival entail that glorifies an ancient sacrifice? Well a modern day sacrifice of course! Each year, every family must buy a sheep, slaughter it, skin it, and then cook it. My family was no different, so my final week in Rabat was spent participating in the Eid. These pictures aren’t for the faint of heart, so be warned!

Though I’m a bit torn on whether this event was a barbaric display of questionable lingering tradition, the holiday, over all, was magnificent. Families spent the day together cooking and preparing, laughing and indulging, and finally, digesting and relaxing. It was kind of like Thanksgiving, but instead of one day of gorging and sleeping, the gluttony lasted for a week! Though this semester has been a difficult one, being part of this festival was a beautiful way to end my time abroad. I got to spend quality time with my host family, as well as share an Eid meal with all my friends and teachers from school. Though some of the situations seem bizarre, being able to spend Ramadan and Eid in the Arab world opened my eyes to the majesty of the religion. These holidays are such amazing spectacles, and not only do they portray a divine faith, but also how truly linked and communal the Arab world is. I'm very thankful to have been a part of both, and I hope I can open some eyes about what Islam really is, regardless of what the media portrays.

lessons learned

2008-12-12T08:07:00.000-08:00

So like every great adventure, I came to Morocco in hopes of finding answers. As my trip comes to an end, and I have a looming train waiting for me tonight at 2 in the AM, I'm pretty sad to be leaving Rabat...but on the bright side, I still have two weeks of solo traveling, then a much anticipated 12 days with Caroline in Italy. While I'm still trying to figure out what this trip means to me, and look back on all the experiences I've had, I do know one thing for certain. I wrote a blog at the beginning of the trip, talking about Zen, and if I would rather go through life feeling only content, or if I would rather feel magnificent highs met by pain-staking lows, and all the feelings in between. I know full well now that I would prefer the latter. Though sometimes its hard, I'd rather feel the lows of missing a place, or saying good bye, because I know i've felt the highs of the days spent there. I would rather feel lost without someone, then never have felt whole. I would rather feel the pain of scrapping my knees as I fall, then never having felt the exhilaration of the jump. I would rather feel the entire spectrum of emotions, then feel nothing at all. Thats one lesson I'll take to the grave.

But until I figure out the other lessons, here is a list of things I'll miss in Morocco as well as what I've really come to appreciate about America.

Morocco

haggling prices
having no rules
being able to plead ignorance because i don't speak the language
living by the ocean
Kasbah's, Medinas, fancy tiles and doors
relying on a foreign language
traveling every weekend
using "Enshallah" like its my job
my host family
stray cats
Marrakech night clubs
Broing Out
Walking forty-five minutes to school
Hearing the call to prayer five times a day
long lunches
Ramadan (well the nights during Ramadan)
the desert
Islam
Islamic Holidays
Essaouira
Western Sahara
Bocce ball
silly nick names
Bab al-heb after the sun set
sun sets in general
train rides
under $100 flights to Europe
having a new roommate every weekend in my host house
packages from loved ones
watching nuggs highlights instead of paying attention in class
Bramadan, Broctobro, Brovember
cous-cous
dirham prices
cheap wine
sweets
bread and cheese
best chwarma
wearing the same clothes over and over
checking the exchange rate at the bank
not relying on the internet, but appreciating it
to be continued...

America

toilet paper and soap in every bathroom
being able to communicate what I'm thinking
public transportation thats reliable (Morocco makes the 204 look good)
Broing out with my ex-roomies
a plethora of choices to eat at
having a campus
the mountains
a fixed schedule
insulated buildings
Qdoba
trivia night
CEB
Exercising
Colorado
Wifi everywhere
mustang sally the red rocket
my takamine
an extensive network of people
illegal petes
CHIPS AND SALSA
quesadillas
warm showers
my aging bed
my parents paying for my cell phone (thanks mom and dad!)
having a job
being in (or near) the same time zone as people I care about
above all else, Friends, families, and loved ones

Though it had its highs and lows, and there were times were I couldn't wait for it to end, I'll never regret my semester abroad, or my choice to come to Morocco.

Moroccon Sunsets

2008-12-03T06:09:00.001-08:00

The Moroccan sunset is like a long goodbye with a lover. It drags on for an eternity, but feels like no time has past. As the sun sits in the sky, and the hour of departure approaches, the anticipation is immense, but there are no signs of leaving. The goodbye is pushed away. As if trying to avoid parting, the sun retains its bright yellow color and grand size, until the second before its bottom reaches the horizon. The moment finally arrives, and the passion is overwhelming. The sky tries to remain true to its color, fighting the growing darkness, and with each inch the sun drops, its light pink glow embraces the blue sky. As the sun drops quicker, the pink remains entwined in the blue, like locked fingers not willing to release. As the last bit of burning orange falls below the eye’s sight, the deepening pink and light blue stay grasped in one another, trying to fight the darkness, which forces their departure. As time refuses to quit, and the sun has become but a memory, the darkness begins to over take the sky, but the deepening pink remains. Even as the light blue finally disappears, and the first stars begin to shine, the pink lingers in protest, refusing to let go, denying the inevitable. But finally, as the weight of the world sets in, the pink submits to the night, slowly fading away, accepting that fate which she has been bestowed.

Braving the Desert

2008-11-10T09:13:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in every man's life where he finds it necessary to don Arab gear and traverse the grand sand dunes of the Western Sahara...Well maybe not every man's life, but for myself and four other men, our time has finally come. We left from a town called Layoune, walked through an Oasis that was home to a mine field of spiders a bit to colorful for comfort, and climbed a sand dune. What a great way to spend a vacation!

The Oasis
Lost in the Sand Dunes
Summiting the Dune (a nice view of Layoune and the Oasis in the back)
The Bros
Me, mid panic attack after seeing the spider field
Trying to teach the others to be ninjas
Long jump, Sahara style
Life in the great abyss

My life in Rabat

2008-11-04T04:51:00.000-08:00

Seven o’clock each day, my strapless watch alarm goes off, I cringe, reset it, then realize I can’t go back to bed after I wake up.

I open my eyes to an archway above my head, and my 30 ft long room I share with another American. We both wake at the same time, and grumble hello. He walks to the kitchen; I turn on my phone, walk out of my room, and hug the wall through the common area, as to avoid the elements that enter the house through the open-air roof. After brushing my teeth and utilizing the facilities outside of the house, I return to my room, smile brightly at Caroline’s morning text, and stretch my back. After a smell check of what clothes are deemed clean, I make it to the kitchen pour une tranche de pain avec confiture. By this time its 7:45 or later, and I’m out the door.

The burgundy behemoth resides in the bathroom outside the house, so I carry her up the bathroom stairs, pull her through three doors, knocking the pedals on every wall, and walk out of the medina. The ride to school is about fifteen minutes, but is enough to give even the most caffeine-addicted person adrenaline to make it through the day. Moroccans are by far some of the worst drivers I’ve seen, so each day is like working in New York as a bike mail carrier, weaving in and out of cars, hoping they see you with enough time to slam on the breaks while they continuously run red lights and stop signs. Waiting for the light to turn green isn’t based on sight, because Moroccans are physic, and begin honking almost before the light turns green…that is if they stop at it.

I arrive at ESDG normally with a few extra minutes or a few minutes in the hole, but either way, class hasn’t started, and all the American students are congregated near the computer lab, scheming.

Class is held on the top floor, and as our teacher barks at us in Arabic, as the sound of horns, tires screeching, metal crashing, and sirens blaring float through the window. About half way through the class, our teacher’s cell phone rings, and each day she looks at it, puts it back in her bag, and lets it ring. Two hours pass, our brains are fried, and we leave class.

Between my morning and afternoon class I have a four-hour gap. Sometimes the first two hours are spent running, showering, and eating at home, but as of late, it has been spent slowing easing our way in with the Moroccan students. At first, when we would attempt conversation, the girls would congregate and giggle at us, as if we were all in 8th grade again. But now, we’ve broken the language barrier, and started to actually assimilate. Lunches are shared, conversations are had, and lots of tea and coffee dates are made.

From 12-2 I find a corner to hide, in hopes of getting a tiny bit of privacy to talk with Caroline. My computer turns on, rings like an old time phone, and as if I were eating lunch in Colorado, Caroline appears on my screen. I’m awake and wide-eyed at this point, but due to a massive time difference, Caroline’s eyes are still filled with sleep, although smiling because I’m her wake up call. We talk undisturbed for about 45 minutes, then my corner is discovered, and our conversation is broken into segments by different students coming to see what she looks like, or in the case of the Moroccans, giving me shit because “I must be home sick, [I’m] always on skype.” Two o’clock hits, I run to the bathroom to save my kidneys, and then its off to another class.

I stay attentive for the first hour and a half, but from 3:30 till five, I battle with my attention span, trying hard not to drift into thoughts outside of the classroom. By 4:30 the sun is starting to fall, and when we get out of class, night is almost upon us.

By the end of the day a new fight is brewing. Maybe it is an unexpected, unannounced schedule change, or an added class, but the students feel blindsided, and the staff is upset. I hear both sides of the argument, and am truly torn. The students have every right to be pissed, but on the other hand the staff is dragged like a rag doll by CIEE. All of us are affected. Our daily schedules have been the recent casualty, and although some of the changes make since, it’s difficult to not take the side of the students, and want to take out all my anxiety on the program director. Stupid devil’s advocate upbringing, and being able to see the bigger picture!

The ride home is much calmer, because the majority of Moroccan’s are already home from work, and I coast down hill back to Bab alhead. The sun sets while I ride home, and as I reach the Medina entrance, the sky is black, The medina streets are lined with lights, and its so bright I feel like I’m walking down the Vegas strip. Street vendors are yelling, full chickens and lamb heads are roasting, and the sights and sounds mix into an intoxicating concoction that dissolves all the distaste I’ve built up that day. The troubles at the school become minuscule, and Rabat looses its pompous edge, once again becoming beautiful by my eyes.

My host Dad is always home to greet me, and we exchange small talk until dinner. He’s a very happy guy, and very funny, but the language barrier makes it a bit difficult to bring this side out in him. My American roommate is normally locked in our room, engulfed in the computer, head phones on, watching one of the many bootleg American movies in my host brother’s collection. My roommate, our host parents, and the four-year-old problem child all eat dinner together, speaking a little bit of French, English, and Arabic, but mostly making silly faces. My roommate eats quickly, and returns to his room. I sit and speak a little more, sometimes help with dishes if they let me, then begin my homework.

The four-year-old problem child follows us into the room, and punches us in the arm or pulls our hair, while we try and ignore her and learn a foreign language. She finally leaves, and periodically over the next hour or so, I her hear screaming bloody murder, as if she was getting tortured, but knowing full well she is just a monster.

As eleven o’clock rolls around, I’m ready for bed. My roommate is already asleep, and I read via headlamp, while my host brother sneaks in and whispers a question about borrowing my bike or my headphones, that he doesn’t want his Dad to hear. I then turn off my light, close my eyes, and pray to the God who becomes more clear to me day I've been abroad, then I fall to sleep, awaiting another identical day, that is anything but the same as the day before.

“She would consider each day a miracle, which it is, when you consider the number of unexpected things that could happen in each second of our unexpected existence.” Paulo Coelho

Pictures!!!

2008-11-03T03:12:00.000-08:00

Instead of having class in October, our school decided to give us a weekend excursion to Marrakesh, and 12 day long break. As a result, I had a personal mission to see as many Moroccan cities has physically possible.

Itinerary: Friday: 3:00 am, over night to Marrakech, 9:30 am bus to Essaouira
Sunday: 9:00 am 13 hour bus ride to Tan Tan, followed by a 11-2 grand taxi ride to
Tarfaya
Monday: 2 hour grand taxi trip to Layoune in disputed Western Sahara
Wednesday: 8 hour bus to Tan Tan, twenty minute taxi ride to the untouched Atlantic beaches
Thursday: Six hours to Agadir, one night of dancing and gambling
Friday: 8 hour bus to Ouarzazate
Saturday: 3 hour grand taxi ride to Zagora
Sunday: 2 hour grand taxi ride M'hamid, 1 hour camel ride into oblivion
Monday: 1 hour camel ride from oblivion, 2 hour grand taxi ride to Zagora, 3 hour Grand taxi ride to Ouarzazate
Tuesday: 5 Hour bus ride to Marrakech, 6.5 hour delayed train ride to Rabat

Here's a few gems, expect more to come this week!

Mountain Village that made me homesick
Camel Trek fun!!

The Sunrise in the Desert. The Entire Sky was cloudy except one piece where the sun popped up

The Summit of Jebel Zagora! (According to lonely planet it takes three hours to summit...this was taken 45 minutes after I started hiking)
The Kasbah in Ouarzazate
Another of Ouarzazate
The Debacherous group in Agadir!

a lesson in United States Politics

2008-10-22T12:54:00.000-07:00

(excuse the poor grammer, spelling, punctuation, ect because im using a moroccan keyboard and cant find all the keys i need)

A group of Americans walk down the streen in the capital of Western Sahara. They see a group of saharans/moroccans trying to push a large truck of a side walk back into the street. The republican of the group decides it is our duty as Americans to go help these struggling men to better Americas image. Before there is consent, the republican sprints to action. The group follows slowly and speaks to the officer in charge in French. Everyone starts to push, and after a few hard fought minutes, the truck is off the curb, in the street, on a hill, held in place by a small rock behind a tire. The group of Saharans stare blankly, and the Americans return the stare. At this point the Republican starts to walk away, while the democrat notices that the tire that was stuck on the crub is flat, and the problem was not getting the truck off the crub, it was getting the tire to spin so the truck could make it up the hill.

As the democrat brings this problem up to the group, the republican continues to walk away while saying mission accomplished in my eyes. The democrat stands stunned on the side of the street with the truck, while the republican continues, without breaking stride, on the other side... The independs stand in the middle of street barley dodgeing traffic chating American, while not taking a side, nor acting in any way.

I finally got to use my travel insurance

2008-10-11T12:48:00.000-07:00

Fate is a funny thing, and more times then not, I find it very hard to understand. I’d like to think of fate as a guide that, when your heart is in tune with your desires, leads the way like a light shining through a wooded path. Last night though, fate was more of a blinder, that guarded my eyes from seeing what lay ahead.

After preparing dinner for my family, and before I had even finished eating what I made, I felt my stomach start to rumble. I leaped up from the table, ran to the bathroom, which lies in the entrance to the apartment, ran back to the kitchen for toilet paper, and finally ended my trek on top of the western toilet with no actual plumbing. I had been feeling a little sick since Tuesday, but this was very unexpected. The meat had tasted a bit off to me, but I assumed it was just the fact I didn’t really enjoy the taste of Moroccan ground beef. The rest of the family seemed quite satisfied with my patented cinnamon laced burgers, but my stomach begged to differ. As I filled up the dump bucked while I washed my hands, my stomach actually felt ok, leading me to believe it was the end of a few days of nausea. But as I walked the few meters from the toilet to my bed, my steps got shaky, my body tensed, and my vision turned blurry. It was only 8:30, but I knew if I had any hope of feeling better tomorrow, I needed to go to sleep at that second. After brushing my teeth, and explaining the situation to my host family, I fell to sleep with little problem.

As if something was trying to tear through my stomach, my body was ripped awake by a gut wrenching pain, localized entirely on the left side of my stomach. My eyes could barely open, and the entire room was dark, but I stood up quickly, found my slippers, and ran to the bathroom. I situated the dump bucket between my legs, and my body atop the toilet. Fatigue was battling along side the foreign intruder in my body, and as I prayed that only one of the two geysers would erupt, my eyes remained heavy, and my head swayed back and forth, as if keeping rhythm with a favorite tune. My prayers were answered though, and as I filled the dump bucket with water, using it for its actual purpose, the pain in my stomache seemed to subside. I remember thinking to myself how that was the worst food poisoning I’ve had yet to date, and if it would have lasted any longer I would definitely need to visit the hospital.

I returned to bed, and tried to lie on my left side, but found a tender spot, and decided I shouldn’t trigger anything. I looked at my watch and saw it was only 12:30, and thought I would still be able to get enough sleep to feel ok tomorrow, and let my head crash into the pillow.

Before I knew what had happend, I found myself writhing in pain, rolling back and fourth on my bed, sighing in agony. The enemy had returned in full force, and this time, it seemed like they were there to stay. I repeated the process to the bathroom, only this time I found that after a half hour, coughing, and still only utilizing the western toilet, the pain in my stomach did not subside. I washed my hands and retuned to my bed, hoping that sleep would come again. I lay my back, then rolled to one side, then finally, like a lost child discovered by his worry stricken mother, I found comfort on my right side, curled in a ball. I found sleep again, but only for a short time, as the process then repeated. This happened four more times through out the night.

I had sent a text somewhere between the hours of 1-4 in the morning, and after the last battle of the epic war, I was awoken by a call from the program’s assistant director, saying the van to Marrakech was still near my house, and it would drop me off at the clinic. This morning our program was supposed to travel to Marrakech for the weekend, but as my body endured the effects of dehydration, and my stomach rumbled like train speeding down the tracks, I decided it was probably a better idea for me to hit the clinic. After dealing with problems of kids forgetting their passports, and seeing if anyone left anything at home, I arrived at my destination, feeling even worse then when I woke up.

The assistant director checked me in, showed me the waiting room, and was off. I was now alone, in a clinic in Agdal, Morocco, barely able to open my eyes, hoping I wouldn’t throw up. I lay across the empty chairs, and covered my eyes from the light. As soon as my head was down, I felt a poke at my arm, and was pulled off my chairs and throw on a queen size bed with white sheets. The doctor spoke to me in a mix of French and English, and before I felt I had said anything, he had an I.V. rolled into the room to fight the dehydration. I was happy to see this, but I was more concerned that I had something worse then food poisoning. I closed my eyes and cringed as the needle broke the skin, plunging into the vein at the peak of my forearm. I tried to explain what my concerns were, but the doctor quieted me, and said “there’s something in there that will make sleep.” This was no joke, and as quickly as I felt the cold sensation run up my arm and circulate through my body, my eye’s where shut, and my worries were transformed into dreams.

“Monsieur, fini fini, sortir.” What?, I said with my eyes still shut. The charming demeanor promised from my assisstant director seemed not to exist. The nurse repeated what he said, and hustled me out of the room towards the reception. He must have known I was still half asleep, seeing as I was just given a mild sedative, because he made sure I didn’t actually wander past the desk to the automatic doors. The receptionist waved me away immediatly, knowing that I was covered through the travel insurance of the school. I gave a somewhat dirty look to the nurse, and I headed towards the door. Before I even left the parking lot, the receptionist came running out. She spoke quickly in Arabic, and I told her I didn’t understand, and to speak in French. She said D’ccord, and after one other French word, returned to Arabic, then looked at me as if I had just shamed her family when I didn’t understand. She dragged me to the front desk, and continued to speak very loudly in some foreign language, all the while acting as if I had just knocked a stack of papers out of her hands. The other receptionist finally translated to French, and asked if our director was still here. I told her she had left for Marrakech, but I would be able to give her whatever they needed. This didn’t seem to be a sufficient answer, and after a few seconds that felt like hours, they handed me a prescription order in French, then showed me the door. This was the event that catalyzed the rest of the day.

I left annoyed. Upset how I was treated. Upset that I still felt horrible, and didn’t know if I had stomach worms. Upset because I was in Agdal, and if I would have come with out anything like I was told, I would have had no way of paying for the cab ride home. Upset.

I decided I would walk for a bit to make the cab fair cheaper, as well as find a huh-noot (corner store) to get water and see if I could keep down food. When I found one, I bought a big bottle of water, as well as a bounty, and was told it cost 12 dirhams. I was surprised that this store I was foreign to gave me the local price for imported candy, but this made me happy. I gave the man a twenty, only to find that I received a little over half the change he owed me. I looked at him, made a gesture as if waiting for the rest, only to be gestured by the man to leave the store. The fatigue from the sedative had taken my ability to speak French away, so I left, a little more upset, but realizing life could be much worse.

I found a cab outside the huh-noot, but I should have known from the start he was going to be trouble. Before asking me where I was going, he asked if I was seul (alone) and I said yes. He then asked where to, and I told him the medina, at the bab nearest to the ocean. He said this was fine, and I jumped in the car, and saw him turn on the counter. This was a good sign, but it was quickly over-shadowed when he pulled off the road to pick up another passenger. I know this is normal for taxi drivers, and I normally don’t have a problem with it, but the new passenger was going to a different place in the medina, out of the way, and if the driver took her to her destination, he would have to go a very round about way to get me to my destination. I watched the counter roll in synch with the wheels of the cab, and soon after dropping of the other passenger, our vessel slow at the mouth of traffic jam. The taxi driver honked his horn wildly, and made jokes about the traffic. We traversed the jam, and pulled to the opposite side of the medina from where I live, and the driver said this was fine. He then charged me the full price of the meter, and smiled and said thank you in Arabic as I waited for my change, which never came. I walked through the brown stone gates furious, still feeling fatigued and food poisoned, trudging towards my house.

I walked in the doors to a concerned family, and this brought some joy back into my life. My host parents asked me how I was doing, then my brother walked me up the street to the pharmacy to get my prescription filled. There were five things on the list, and as the pharmacist grabbed them, he drew tally marks on the boxes to indicate how many times I should take them during the day. While he totaled the bill, I looked at boxes written in Arabic. I was questioning what these boxes were filled with, and why I would need five different medications if the doctor just thought I had dihrea. The back of the boxes had French writing, and I found out that one of the boxes was oral re-hydration salt, one was an anti-acid, and one had something written that led me to believe it was a pain-killer. I finally had enough, and by this point, my ability to verbally communicate came back. The pharmacist wanted 170 dirhams for everything, which is a little over 20 bucks, and I refused. I said I didn’t need an anti-acid or painkillers, and that I had just been attached to an I.V., so I didn’t the salts, and all I needed was medicine for dihrea. My host brother looked shocked, because before recently, we hadn’t spoken much more than Bonjour and Ca va, and he definitely had never seen me raise my voice (which really wasn’t raised, I think he was just surprised I could speak like that). The clerk shot me a shit-eating grin and said some things I didn’t understand, and then said that since the pharmacist wrote on the boxes, I had to pay for them all. My brother, who’s about 6 foot 5 and easily above 250 pounds, gave me a look of fear, and told me just to pay. I did as he said, upset, but still calm, grabbed the bag, and left. We walked back to the house, and he told me that his femme in Belgium had this same thing happen when she visited, and all these things helped her. I wasn’t mad at him, and I had no need to be pissed off at something that had passed, so I thanked him, and began a new conversation about this wife.

I went directly back to bed when we returned, and as I curled in my ball, various members of my family came in asking me if I wanted to eat. I told them I felt horrible, and that if I tried to eat anything, I would just end up back in the bathroom. I had forgotten it was Friday, and my host Mom came in to try and bribe me with cous-cous, my favorite Moroccan meal served exclusively on Friday’s. I declined, and this time with a little more force, because the frustration I thought had subsided began to fuel up again. At that point, tired, cranky, sick, and not wanting to snap at anyone, I decided I would rather be sick on the train, and spend the night in Marrakech, then have to wake up the next day and loose most of it in transit. This would become a much bigger task then I had originally planned.

I didn’t know what time the next train left, but my parents said they would drop me off at the station. This was appreciated, and I thanked them a little extra just incase I had offended them when I refused food. We got about 100 m from the train station, only to be blocked by a mass gathering, which are very common on Mohammed V Street. I told them the current location was fine, and hopped out. The reason why there are so many mass gatherings here is because, right next to the train station is the Moroccan Parliament building. Groups commonly gather here to protest one law or another, so its very rare cars actually get to drive on that end of the street un-harassed. The group was extra-large today, so I stopped to ask someone what the deal was. Apparently this day held a parliament session, and the king was in the building. People were waiting outside for hours to see him, but no one knew what time the session would end. I continued to walk, and saw that the barricades stopped at the end of the parliament building, but didn’t block out the train station entrance.

The next train to Marrakech was set for about 45 minutes later, which was a little bit before four, so I bought my ticket, and decided to go to a bank, then sit and see if I would get lucky enough to see the king. Everything was basically closed around the parliament, but as I peered through the window of the barred western union, my eyes nearly teared up, as the glistened with the red light of the exchange rate board. Today, in the midsts of all hell breaking loose in the American stock market (and probably the result of the UK’s bailout push Wednesday or Thursday) the rate had jumped from yesterday’s 7.09 to 8.0 dirhams per dollar. My cash had been running a little low, and with a trip to Marrakech on my plate, it seemed like the clouds were starting to clear for me. I withdrew money, and then waited in the middle of the crowed, with thirty minutes remaining till my train came.

Twenty minutes passed, and I saw no king, so I decided to walk back to the station to get a good seat. The crowed looked as if it had doubled, but as I got closer to the station, I saw the actual cause. Within the thirty minutes I had left the station, the police and king’s security had completely blocked off all of the Mohammed V street. Though the streets where empty, I stood on the opposite side of the security gates from the station, with time dwindling before my train’s departure. I asked the guard what I was supposed to do, and he smiled, and said wait. I told him I had about five minutes before the train left, and he just laughed a blissful laugh, as if the day was glorious, and walked away. At this point my temper was flaring, and I jogged up the street to see if there was a barrier break anywhere.

No. Not one. I had two minutes till the train left.

I asked another security gaurd what I was supposed to do, and he said he didn’t know. A man standing at the guardrail told me to get a petit taxi around the outside of the Medina, to the other side of the station. This would take at least five to ten minutes, and I didn’t have that time. I began to argue, but my vocabulary limited me. He asked if I spoke English, and I let loose. I told him that I didn’t have time to do all that, and that the guard should just walk me across. I had no intentions of anything but getting to my train, and the king was still in the parliament building. He replied by saying that the only solution was to do what he said. I told him there wasn’t time, and he repeated what he said and told me to stop wasting time. I took a deep breath, furious, ready to lash back, but stopped. I had nothing to gain. The last minute before the train’s departure passed, and I began my livid walk down Mohammed V out of the medina.

I walked at a quick pace, with thoughts racing through my head. My stomach still rumbled, but now, it didn’t only rumble of pain, it was also empty, wanting nourishment. The day was wearing down on me, and I just thought of how upset I was. I focused on how much I disliked Morocco, and how I wish I was back home with my family, enjoying the Colorado fall. In my current state, although I do miss life back home, I know I don’t dislike Morocco, and besides this horrible serious of events, I’ve had a great time here, but this was not easy to convince a de-hydrated, fatigued, and troubled mind. My heart was heavy, reinforced by stone, and unwilling to soften. At least I thought. Before I even made it half way down the street, I stopped. I saw a man, hobbling on crutches, with only one leg. Next to him was a boy strewn out on the street on a blanket, physically disabled. To my left was a women being arrested, and seeing what I had seen all day, I assumed for an unjust reason. I hate using examples of other people, because it is blatantly belittling their lives, but as I walked so angry and furious, I couldn’t help but have a change of pace. I have both legs, and I’m not disabled. Though today was a horrible day, and I really saw the ugliness of strangers instead of the kindness I’m used, life could be worse. It was a hard concept to grasp, even having it shoved in my face, but I focused on these last sights, trying hard to forget the indecencies of earlier.

I got to the station to find a train left at 5:45. This would still put me into Marrakech around 10 or so. My expired ticket still worked for the next train, and now I had a chance to maybe see the king. Just like that, it seemed like life had turned around for me. I walked back into the medina, bought a small pastry, ate, without throwing up, and waited for the king. My hope was that I would see the king soon enough so that the crowds would disperse and I wouldn’t have to walk to the back of the station again. I guess my positive thinking catalyzed this, and with half an hour still remaining before my train departed, the king triumphantly walked from the parliament building, through his extended family all dressed in white, to the sounds of local drums mixed with his royal horn section.

I got to the train station with time to spare, and asked someone where the bus to Marrakech was leaving from. The pointed me to the track, and as the train came, told me this was the right one. I found a spot next to the window, said hello to my neighbors, and began watched a bootleg version of Indian Jones. The day seemed to make since again…or so I thought.

About 45 minutes into the ride, it seemed like everyone had cleared off the train but me. I now had my own section, and put my feet up on the chairs across from mine. I watched my movie until a couple came and sat across from me. For some reason, I decided I should make sure this was the right train, even though the man at the station promised it was. Once again, I had been turned around. Apparently, this was the train that went to the Casa airport. The reason it had cleared out was due to the fact I was at the last stop, and the new people were heading to where I had just come from. I felt very stupid for listening to the person at the train station, but I was so relieved that I had acted on my guts and spoken up when my heart said to. The man told me I just needed to ride the train back one stop, and from there I could catch the right train to Marrakech. I thanked him, and hopped of the train to find I only had another hour and half until the next train. I thought to myself how it could have been worse, I could have missed the last train, and spent the night in some foreign city. But luckily this wasn’t the case.

It’s amazing how immensely 24 hours can actually change a perspective. Its now almost midnight, and I’m still on the train to Marrakech, with the only perception of arrival time based on strangers in my compartment. Though I hope they are correct, I find it hard to trust this random gesture. I’m not angry with Morocco though, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. I now have the perspective of those travelers who only see the ugly side of the country. Those who have been hustled constantly, or led astray, or who can’t speak a language that is understood. I understand why so many westerns I’ve met have had such a negative outlook on Morocco, and I just hope that this lack indecency of strangers ceases to continue. I’ve had a great time in Morocco, and fortunately I’m blessed with the ability to adapt well, but today was a day that gives testament to the impact 24 hours can have.

The night that was

2008-09-27T13:29:00.000-07:00

To preface this entry, I must begin with the fact that I have a strong belief in God. To some, this may be referred to as Allah, energy, or random occurrence, but in any case, there is some sort of force that drives the universe, all of its inhabitants, as well as their actions…

As I sat tonight drifting between conversations, listening, thinking, and feeling, I thought of what existence means to me. This is not a something foreign to my life, nor is it new, but with each passing moment, new thoughts come and go, just as the days which carry them like chariots to their destinations. I thought about right and wrong; is it relative, or are there things that are inherently good, balanced by those which are inevitably bad. As I roved between conversations, hearing one’s thoughts about existence, specifically where it comes from, I questioned myself and my stance, not only on a higher being, but on how I approach the thoughts of others. I consider myself a very open person, specifically to beliefs and ideas, and I think those who know me can attest, but the core of all this thought is the fact I am still only human, and will always have biases and agendas. As my body graces my temporary bed, and my ears fill with the sound of a ticking clock and jangling keys, I press my mind hard to fill a blank page with thoughts that only moments ago where so clear. I try and recount the revelations of the night, knowing full well this feat is impossible. What was felt tonight was the collective action of individuals connected in a moment, and though it is my interpretation, recreation is unattainable. A glimpse of enlightment is all I can offer.

The night that was

I came to Morocco in hopes of finding answers, and what I realized is this was the first mistake. It’s not our human duty to ask how, but to ask what. What is the purpose of existence? What caused this? What am I supposed to do with life, during the blink of an eye I’m on this earth? For one to find answers, they need to have questions, and at my stage in life, this is my longing. So to rephrase, I came to Morocco searching for something. My experiences abroad before have been quite different. The summer before the last, I spent my days with one other American, surrounded by Ugandans, engulfed in their culture, doing the best my body was capable of doing to shed my American skin, and experience life through their eyes. Since the start of this semester, I’ve felt like I’ve been living an American life in Rabat, more so then the feeling of being immersed in the culture. I spend my days at school surrounded by mostly Americans. I eat dinner with my host family, and sit silently when the language barrier bars me from the conversation, and I use the Internet to stay connected to home life. This has been the basis of my discomfort, but all was dissolved today in a solution of discovery.

We sat at our own table, united by our birthplace, in the heart of a café booming with Moroccans. We made eye contact, order drinks in Morocco’s native tongue, and even sparked basic conversation, but tonight these occurrences resonated with me. I have Moroccan friends, whom I talk with on a daily basis, but I am still American, and this fact will never change. But to me, this isn’t a bad thing. Shoes will never fit two people the same way, so all we can do is try and empathize with and understand one another. I’ll always be an American, whether I’m abroad or not, but that does not have to taint my experience. So with this new thought in mind, I was ready to live the life in which I’ve been bestowed.

Though I did not change seats through out the night, the final shuffle of others left a familiar face next to me. Before tonight, I had yet to discover what lies behind her brown eyes. She is typically shy, and very sweet, but her lack of assertion in an overanxious group, has left much to the imagination. I asked her about her home life, where her family lives, and in her case, where they came from. I heard an eye-opening story, and as she continued to speak, our conversation was buried under the forceful words of an argument in close proximity. We laughed about our classmates’ stubbornness, and unknowingly arrived at this evening’s conversational turning point. Since the other argument was about God, she asked me my belief on existence and creation. I told her I believed full well there is God, and that this God, as long as I’m right with my emotions, will give me insight and direction into my life’s path. She replied with the fact she’s agnostic for the most part, but had never felt she could grasp the feeling that most believers cannot convey in words alone. She is a science major in college, and a person who relies on equations to come to specific conclusions in life. I told her this is where I believed the problem lies. What makes the existence of God very hard to grasp is his omnipotence. For a rational thinker, trying to explain an answer, which is not a single solution that can be drawn through a constant equation, is a difficult battle. For an imperfect being, trying to explain perfection is like trying to fit a circle into a square, the outcome will never be what you hoped for. To her, It was as if this humble comment had been a flag of surrender. Our shields were lowered, and our armor was discarded. We were now ready to have a conversation.

His existence led us to the next chapter, one which was concerned with heaven and hell. I told her I believe in the afterlife concept, but that I didn’t believe good people, in their earthly skin, who did not accept God, would spend eternity in Damnation. God is merciful, and I believe that once all is said and done, a person will have a chance to see their existence, with all the good, bad, wrong, and right turns, in the presence of a maker, and if at this point they still denounce him, then damnation would be their fate. But then again, what do I know? She seemed in intrigued, but said that this was one of the hardest concepts of religion for her, because she believed that life right now was all we are given. She said we can choose to do good, or bad, but at the end of the day, it was our choice, and we as people are defined by our actions. Her final words rang, and I sat dumbstruck, watching the smoke billowing from ashtrays littered around the café. The staggering conversations of our peers tried to impede our boarder, but the moment we created could not be stopped. It had become a wave during high tide, pushing its way to the shore, regardless of what lay in its path. My mind processed what she said, and I asked her if she believed her life had a specific person, and where did she derive her values and morals. Her reply was bare, and was backed by a source that has long since been neglected, her heart. She said that she wasn’t for sure if there was a specific purpose, but before she died, she wanted to know and understand the outside force that her physics classes were so reliant on. Morals where brought by the same force, as well as values, but she didn’t believe anything that didn’t feel right in her heart. When my reply was called, I told her that I believe each person has a purpose beyond themselves, regardless of their belief in its creator, and it was their choice to find it. For myself, my purpose is still hidden, but I know that part of it is to be a positive attribute to the community which I’m in. If my actions are hindering those around me, and my words hurting instead of helping, then in that moment, I’m not following my purpose. I told her of my religious upbringing, and how for years I was blinded by the morals the church dubbed as truth, but now I knew this was wrong. My morals come from the same source as hers, the heart. If something feels wrong, then it isn’t something I should partake in. If I’m hurting another with my actions, or if I feel my conscious scream, I need to reconsidered what I have put on my table. Morals should not be defined by another, they should be defined by your heart, but to be able to do this, one must connect with something many chose to ignore.

We sat in silence for a moment, catching the occasional eye as we stared at the room, submerged in cleansing thought, washing clean the inhibitions which prohibit such connection. She surfaced us by thanking me for my thoughts. We had been on the same level, and she was happy to hear another person, though with some what different beliefs, could share such a similar outlook on life. We continued to talk about the importance of knowledge, but only if it was backed by a warm feeling in you heart, reminding you it is something which should not be taken lightly. As our group began to pay our tab, and we left the café, our ambiance stayed locked to our sides, and the cool night air added a welcomed comfort. We began to talk about drugs, and their detrimental role in finding ones heart, and this lead to a conversation about high’s and low’s. Being able to reach this point tonight, we knew that what caused so much turmoil when trying to connect with the heart were the fatal flaws of doubt, self-conscious, and fear that are innate in humans. Though drugs and alcohol can temporarily silence these, what both of us had devoted much of recent times to, was finding this mental state in a natural way. I posed the idea of subjective highs and lows, whether the appeal of all natural existence was clear to us, because of a high we have reached naturally that others had never experienced. As if we had found the final clue that solved a mystery, she and I together, let loose the floodgate of what lies in our hearts.

Highs and lows seemed to be the key to us as people. When we feel that natural high, when self-doubt submits, when fear flees from the light, when every God-given talent in our bodies works to its fullest potential, nothing seems unattainable. But this could be countered when the low comes barreling through our thoughts like an avalanche, engulfing the strength, light, and guidance, leaving us stranded and alone, knee deep in the cold depths of misery. Lows were not what scared us though, it was the middle. Though centering oneself is important, the middle area is not the same. If highs are secluded white-sand beaches, and lows are like a blizzard, then the middle is like a desert, with no end at sight. When hitting that middle area, you see the world through apathetic eyes. You don’t feel happy or sad. You don’t feel anger. You don’t feel bliss. You don’t feel a thing. It’s like being a ghost, wandering the earth, questioning why you are still here when your body was banished so long ago. I had felt this a month ago after an incredible high on a bus to Cascade D’ Ozued, but I could never put it in to words like she had this evening. Though it would depend on what state our minds our in, the ability to recognize such states helps one peer into their own heart.

Speaking of relative experiences set ablaze an already burning flame that has been raging in me since February. This fire of relativity was sparked when I had the chance to hear a lecture from author Ishmael Beah. He is from Sierra Leon, and spent a vast majority of his youth as a child solider. This man has seen his family die, been forced into killing the innocent, completely desensitized, brought back to life, and still suffers from nightmares and insomnia as a result of his experience. As miraculous as this is alone, what sets him apart is his ability to understand relative emotion. Though through an objective lens, a very unfortunate select few could say they have experienced something to such a magnitude, but what Ishmael preached was the fact that no one should belittle another person’s suffering. He used the example of a person loosing their pet, and said if this person feels the worst pain possible, relative to them, resulting from the loss of a loved one, then why should his worst suffering as a child soldier be considered any worse then the person who lost their pet? Though Ishmael stands a mere five foot four inches, I remember looking at him, wondering how he could fit in the hall which held over two thousand people. This man’s soul, his prowess, his wisdom, and most of all, his heart, are large enough to fill a city. I told her, as we walked down the street towards our home stays, that my hope is to one-day amount to a small piece of what that man is. To have the ability to not underestimate what a person is feeling, as well as sacrifice my pride to truly empathize with another. I looked at her as my words came to a close, and I could see our moment had only grown with this segway.

With a look of query in her eye, she asked me if I would ever be able to sacrifice my family, friends, and loved ones if it was what God called for. If God wanted me to renounce all my possessions, leave my home, and move to the world’s end, would I be able to do it? I would love to say yes, and think that I was an island, but being stripped of all my pride, in my barest form, I told her the truth. My most prized possessions in life are my loved ones, and the thought of having them stricken from my life devastates me. I know how important soul searching is, and I think months at a time I could go with very little communication, but actually not having them be a part of my life is something I cannot fathom. She told me how one of her favorite books is “The Razor’s Edge,” and how this is the premise for the story. She felt the same as I did about her loved ones, but found herself in a similar situation on a relative scale. Her mother and uncle fled the east, against less the 50% odds, during the Vietnamese war, and it was this act of selflessness that brought her and her family to safety and prosperity. She had worked hard in school, since the point in which grades became lasting, in hopes to gain acceptance to a prestigious grad school, which would grant her a high paying job. With this, she could continue to aid her family, and guarantee the same life to her kids to which she had been shown. She had come to Morocco in search of an answer, already knowing her question, and as we walked past the vendors, smelling the aroma of foreign cuisine, she realized this was her razor’s edge. Her heart felt content, and spoke to her as if they were timeless friends, when she was working with youth and volunteering in orphanages. She is a person who loves to give and she felt that she was following the right path when she was donating her time, being a beckon of hope for those who have lost their way. Her family, unfortunately, did not see this as a prestigious career, leaving her with a life-altering dilemma. I thought for a second that the answer was simple, do what your heart says, but then realized how ridiculous that thought really was. She was torn between what she loved, and whom she loved, and it seemed certain that the fork in the road would lead her far away from one. At this point I was stumped, and although we reached many conclusions this evening, the means for this end were going to take her more then one heartfelt conversation to find. Maybe it was the last remaining minutes of that high, but this seemed to be a very acceptable answer for her. We embraced, and I thanked her for every thought she had that evening, and we went our separate ways, accompany two different groups, still arguing, but not hearing the words the others spoke.

One of my favorite lines in “The Alchemist,” talks about how a person whose finds days monotonous has blinded himself from the simple beauties in life. The most basic beauty of humanity is interaction, and tonight was a testament to that. We had been on this program for a month now, exchanged subtitles, but nothing more. If we would have moved seats, or kept the conversation superficial, we would have missed our chance at a moment of bliss. What was amazing was the fact these self-conclusions could not have been reached without the guidance and wisdom of one another. I would like to consider myself a decently intelligent person, and she obviously has much wisdom, but without each other’s insight, neither of us would have been able to take the spiritual step we did that evening. I think this is why human interaction is important. A lot can be learned from a sabatical, or a trip spent alone in the woods, but the aid of another, someone who is on a similar spiritual plan, will always triumph the insight of a person urning to be an island.

Preperation vs. Planning

2008-09-18T06:32:00.000-07:00

Last summer, on a bus from Kampala, Uganda to Nairobi, Kenya, I talked to an African man who told me the problem with Westerners was planning. He said that we spend too much time planning for life, instead of living it. He said that was the difference between us and African’s, that African’s prepare themselves for things, but they never try and plan what was going to happen. That summer I learned the truth in the man’s statement, as I watched my African friends go about their daily lives, facing and surpassing all obstacles, triumphs, and failures that came their way. From this experience, I learned the true importance of adaptation in daily life, and how the world will turn, regardless of what I have planned.

Although Morocco is on the same continent, few lessons I learned from my time in sub-Saharan Africa have been relevant here. Today was our first day of Islam and the Koran class, and though this is a topic I find very interesting, the possible enjoyment was nowhere to be found. Professor Zaki, the program director who I’ve already butted heads with, has appointed himself the teacher of this course, and although his intelligence is abundant, there seems to be a missed connection between his thoughts and their articulation. We spent a three hour course reading choicely worded, long winded, vague questions, whose soul purpose was to inform us that studying religion is not the same as studying other subjects. The study of religion is used to train a person how to think in a way that encompasses the mind and the heart. My favorite phrase was when a person’s intelligence was referred to as their “cognitive stock.” Zaki spent an entire lecture trying to explain to us how one should approach learning the Koran, without teaching us a single thing about it. His motive was the fact that there are certain aspects that make studying religion difficult, such as how times are different now then when the books were written, and problems, politics, science, ect., differ from each time period. Though this is true, what Zaki was trying to do was not map out how we would learn the Koran, but try and pre-create our interpretation of what we will eventually learn. This has been the theme for the entire program with CIEE. Instead of diving into this new culture, and experiencing it first hand, getting an impression, then debriefing, Zaki has tried to create pre-emptive judgments and interpretations before we (well those of us who didn’t travel before) have experienced anything. He is trying to plan a group reaction to situations that will be completely subjective to the person who experiences it. Preparation is so important when it comes to experiencing a new and different culture, but trying to plan out how you’ll react to something you’ve never experience before is absurd. It’s like trying to plan a reaction to a surprise which you have no knowledge of. Like I said before, Zaki is an intelligent man, and his ultimate goal of trying to teach a kid to think and analyze, instead of accept and store is my philosophy as well, but unless someone has already learned to attain information this way, his message is lost in his endless sea of million dollar words on PowerPoint slides. What the real take home message is, is that one cannot plan nor teach someone how to experience something. A knowledgeable person can offer advice and insight, but the interpretation, the reaction, and the lesson learned is all in the eye of the beholder.

Toubkal

2008-09-15T05:41:00.000-07:00

This weekend we decided we needed an adventure, so Zach offered the idea of climbing the highest peak in North Africa, Mt. Toubkal. The peak is 4,167m tall, and its base is located in a town called Imlil, which is about an hour out of Marrakech. It seemed like a good idea, and with our new lovely schedule, we could catch the night train Thursday, and be at the base of the mountain before noon on Friday. We offered our trip itinerary to all the kids on the program, but come Thursday after class, Jesse and Helen where the only other takers. This was a perfect amount for a climbing excursion.

After asking around, we found out that the night train left from Rabat at 3 in the morning. We all thought this was a great way to start an adventure, so come three in the morning, the four of us met in the alley of the train station, waiting for it to open. A few minutes after three, the gates opened, and we pushed our way along with the others waiting for the ticket window and then the train. We rushed in hopes of snagging two compartments, only to find out that the train, for some horrible reason, did not have compartments, but individual seats, two on each side, facing another two. Besides Helen, who had been out all night with her host brother, we had all slept a few hours before coming here. With the help of exhaustion and an empty train, we found some semi-comfortable positions, and restlessly slept the four-hour ride to Marrakech.

Upon arrival, we set out to find a super market in Marrakech before catching a grand taxi to Imlil. This was an adventure in itself, and after our accidental tour of the nouvelle ville, thanks to the precise directions of local strangers, we found our way to the La belvie.
With a bag full of dates, bread, and jelly, we crossed the street to go barter with a few taxi drivers for a ride. In the high season, rides with four people should only cost 50-70 dirhman a person, so at the end of the season, we should be paying no more then 50. Apparently the driver didn’t have the same outlook as we did, and after finally giving us our price, he refused to talk to anyone for the duration of the drive. But he had an outlet for his anger, blindly passing on curves on a mountain rode…

We thankfully made it to the mountain in one piece, and immediately after hopping out of our taxi, we started our ascent. Our crew, besides Zach the mountain man, looked like the saddest bunch of misfits the mountain had ever seen. All three of us where wearing running shoes instead of hiking boots (mine purchased the night before in the medina at the knock off nike store) designer (or knock off designer) glasses, and whatever random fitness attire we decided to bring on the trip. Preparation was not the name of the game this weekend, but adaptation is a very important aspect of travel.

The hike started through the main town of Imlil, which consisted of two hotels, and random shops with ceramic animals and wool hoodies, that looked like they had been stolen from hippies in the 90’s, were the only goods. After passing the buildings, hikers get the first glimpse of the valley. Before starting on the mountain path, there is a stream that runs through apple orchards and green grass, and down through the town. It also follows the hiking path all the way up to its source beyond the refuge. The mountain itself is a mix of deep gray and brown, and hides the summit for a good majority of the hike.

Guides aren't really necessary for the trip, so we decided to hike on our own. I think guides normally designate pass, so our guide free trip came with a hellish pace. It can take anywhere from 3 1/2 to 6 hours to make it to the refugee, but with our pace, we could have probably made it in two. We followed the stream for a little over an hour until we reached the half way point, which consisted of a waterfall draining into a pool, as well as obnoxious sales men thinking its a good idea to sell large items to people who are walking up a hill. We stopped and ate lunch here, dipped our feet in the freezing pool, then started up again.

As we continued to hike, we passed several groups of people, the most outspoken of course were the Britts, who would loudly comment "there go the Americans." But Even at our pace, we were constantly being passed by Moroccans on mules, carrying supplies to the refugee. At anyone moment, you could also turn your head and see packs of wild and herded goats working their way up and down the mountain.

What was fun about the small group was the ability to chat with one another, and after a few hours of ice breaking questions, we dove into questions that would break the surface a bit. As we walked in the mountains, surrounded by the elements and the sound of moving water, we talked about all the things young people thrive on; love, lust, relationships, the future, parties, the opposite sex...the opposite sex...the opposite sex. Its amazing how fast you can really get to know a person after only a few hours.

What is difficult about the hike to the refuge, is the fact it is hidden until you are about twenty minutes out. After about 2 and half hours of hiking, Helen began to feel the effects of altitude sickness. I think we all were feeling it a bit, but since she hadn't slept the night before, and restless train sleeping sufficient, I think the exhaustion intensified the effects for her. That morning we had been at sea level, and now we where just under 11,000 ft. According to lonely planet, and your local physician, this is a giant no no. But Helen, who was a DII soccer player, is very stubborn and tough. We slowed down a bit (but she didn't let us that much) and we fought our way to the refugee.

The concrete building, which matched the color of its surroundings, on the inside felt like a secluded, yet humble ski lodge, somewhere far of the beaten path. It was a sight for sore eyes, and although freezing, and lacking the burning wood fire of a ski lodge, it was a great place to be after a hike.

They greeted us with mint tea as we arrived, and we threw our bags in our shared dormitory. There were sixteen beds altogether, two bunk beds, with four touching mattresses on top, and four on bottom.

Helen, unfortunately, spent the rest of the afternoon battling the sickness, while the guys played cards and talked about life. Since we are currently in the Muslim holiday of Bramadan (bro Ramadan)...and at the top of a mountain in Morocco, our hope for beer and wings for dinner was in vain. Even the Moroccan equivalent, Cous cous and Hawaii soda, wasn't available tonight, so we had to settle for fanta and chicken tangines.

Since the refuge didn't like to use its power, lights where out at 8, and at 9 we went to bed. Sharing a bed with three other people isn't the best environment for sleeping, and after hearing the symphony of alarms from other groups ring from 1-5, we finally got out of bed to summit.

There is a distinct path to take to the summit, but we decided, in honor of Bramadan, to make our own path. We found ourself on all fours, climbing up boulders, and pushing our way through loose rock. We slipped and slid, and fought our way up the steepest incline, then took the already made path when the mountain flattened out a bit into a valley. From this point we could see the summit, and although it was still far, we could begin to map out our route to its graces. At this point the sun was out, but our half-assed gear was still not warm enough to be completely comfortable.

As we got closer to the summit, the terrain got gradually steeper, while the air became a little bit more thin, and the temperature fell just a bit more. What amazes me is how fast, when the elements are against you, the comfort of your own thoughts can turn from a treasured ally, to a sworn enemy. I was cold and exhausted, and my thoughts had betrayed me, but as we saw the summit, and crawled up the loose dirt on all fours, I put all my hope in the view from the top. This was a very good idea.

From the summit you could see for miles. There was little cloud cover, and the entire anti-atlas mountain range came in our view. There was a green valley at the bottom, and some how, less then a hundred feet under us, a stray heard of goat. We took pictures, laughed, ate snickers, and took in the amazing view, all the while trying to keep warm and gasp in the glory of climbing North Africa's highest peak.

After about an hour, we packed our bags and headed down. The descent was faster, and although it was down hill, it still was very frustrating with all the loose rock. To battle the traitors in our minds, we talked about a wide range of topics, from life and where it comes from, to pokemon. After about an hour and a half we made it to the refuge.

Helen was there waiting for us, looking a lot more colorful, and feeling a lot better. We talked about what our next step was, and decided that we would rather spend another night at the refuge, then go to Marrakech and battle the heat and street vendors. It was around noon when we got back, so we spent the day playing rummy on the patio, watching groups of hikers, goats, and mules make their way up.

After about three hours of rummy and omlete eating, someone brought up the idea of maybe hiking down and catching the last train home to Rabat. It seemed only fitting to put this choice up to Allah (or God, whichever name you choose) and used cards as a medium for him to speak. We made up a ridiculous game, with contradicting rules to decide what we would do, and after about twenty minutes, we got the order to stay the night. A few more hours of card playing led us to the cous cous dinner I had been waiting for, then to our now empty dorm room.

Though there were only four of us, and four completely open spaces to sleep, we all decided to sleep on one bunk and share the space. It does sound like a cute situation, but it was actually the result of fear after telling ghost stories before bed. Everyone told their real life stories, or stories of friends with ghosts, and to finish the night, I payed tribute to my Grandma by telling the "Mary I’m at the foot of your bed story." It didn’t scare my friends as much as it did Megan and I when we were little, but it still made me smile thinking about every time my Grandma spooked us before bed.

The next morning we packed our things and calculated how much our bill should be. We were told it was 30 dirham for each meal, 20 for tea and 80 per person for the room. The English speaking man who had told us the prices was asleep while we were getting ready to leave, so we grabbed another employee to ring us up. We spoke a little bit of French with him, but he knew we were Americans, so he decided to try and charge us double for each meal we ate, and 10 dirham extra for every time we ordered. This sparked an argument, which led to a stand off, which led to him storming in and out of the room, then finally locking the front door, as to try and lock us in the refuge. Zach made a joke and asked him if he was kidnapping us, while threatening to call our embassy, but this seemed to be lost in the heat of the moment with the worker. As we sat in a stare down, we saw our friend begin to wake up, but instead of hopping to his feet, he started to writhe in pain, moaning and rolling on the coach. He said it hurt right under his stomach, near his groin, and so our only thought was that it could be a kidney stone. Jesse had Advil with him, so we dished out enough for two days, and told him how to take them. The other employee, who had tried to cheat us, was watching the whole time, and after this spectacle, decided to give us the actual price for our stay, and let us leave the refuge (even though the back door was open the whole time.)

Because of the stand off, we were in a bit of a rush to catch the one o’clock train back to Rabat, so we hiked down as fast as possible and went straight to the taxi stop. We ended up hailing the only passive/timid taxi driver in Morocco, and instead of speeding through the mountains, we arrived in Marrakech about fifteen minutes after the train left. But like I said earlier, the key to traveling is adaptation, so to occupy ourselves, we paid 50 dirham to swim and shower at the hotel Ibis next to the train station.

The four-hour train ride back was spent digging a little deeper with one another, as well as watching the scenery pass by. Even with the mornings delay and missing the first train, we still made it back to town only a few minutes late for Fitar (break-fast).

where you go is where you are

2008-09-10T05:51:00.000-07:00

As a result of the frustration, and voiced opinions, I think the program realized it was dropping the ball, and after much deliberation, we now don’t have class until one on Monday, and no class Friday. This is way way way more then we asked for, and I couldn’t be happier. But after just taking a test completely in Arabic after only have about 8 days of classes (most of which only about speaking not writing) I do believe we may be entitled to it. Either way, my future holds many wild adventures.
As for the title; though the announcement of our class schedule was quite amazing, the scales of life did balance themselves out for me today. I’m in Morocco, I’m experiencing life, I’m speaking three different languages (which is sweet!) but even though I’m here, I’m still a son, a brother, a friend, and a boyfriend. I’ve heard a lot of people talk about the “experience” of traveling, and how they would hate to be tied down, or they don’t use email or phones when they are traveling, because it will take away from this so called experience. The phrase “where you go is where you are,” has been a real eye opener this trip, and I really think it distinguishes between those who are traveling and experiencing, and those who are running away. When I left home I was an overly emotional, self-intuitive, twenty-one year old kid. Now, though maybe a bit wiser, I’m still that same kid. When you leave a place, though hopefully you’ll inherit a less glazed pair of eyes, you are still the same person at the core. Your problems will follow you, along with your habits, ideas, and thoughts. What I’m getting at is the fact that, although one journeys to far off destinations to learn and experience, the over all experience should encompass life as a whole. I’m in a long distance relationship right now, and what my other half thought was that I didn’t want to talk much, because I wanted to experience, which unfortunately, led to a scale balancing argument this afternoon…but for me, that is the experience. Its living in this new culture and learning, but finding time to still be the person you are, for the people you care about back home, and finding out how these new ideas and thoughts will correspond with day to day life. How will the experience influence you with the ones you love? If I wanted to run away, and try to hide from my problems, or maybe take a sabbatical, then yes, the experience would be me, on my own, trying to figure myself out. No email. No phones. Just books, a pen, and a journal. But that’s not what this trip is about. To me, that’s running away. I’m a firm believer in soul searching, but when was the last time anyone truly had the world to themselves? Soul searching happens with other people as well. I like who I am and my life back home, and though I’m here, and experiencing, I think the full journey comes when you embrace all aspects of life. Why neglect what you have at home? The journey doesn’t begin when you arrive at the airport, and end when your ears ring with captains muffled voice saying your city’s name. The journey is what happens before the trip, during the planning, the participation, and the lessons, values, and thoughts manifesting themselves in your day to day life when you return. So how would taking time out of the day to catch up with the ones you love, and process thoughts really take away from the experience? In my mind, this luxury is a cherry on top.

frusteration

2008-09-08T05:37:00.000-07:00

This has been a pretty reoccurring theme since the start of the program. We have been in the dark in all aspects. We found out about host families the day we were told we were moving into the houses. We find out about meetings five minutes before they start, we are finding out our class schedules this Wednesday…when school actually starts Thursday. We have no say in what is happening, and we are spoken to like lost children. Our questions are answered with vague long-winded rants that go in circles, and I’ve learned more about the program from the CIEE website, than from those who are running it. We are also stuck in a small building, and we found out this week, to our dismay, that we are not going to be in classes at the regular university, but still stuck in the small temporary building, only taking classes with the kids on our program. Half of the problems coming are from trying to correspond our classes and what not with the main university, so it seems dumb that they would try and separate us from the school when its painstakingly obvious the fact that we came to Morocco that we probably don’t want to just study with other Americans, we want to be with Moroccans. They have dubbed us trail blazers, because this is the first year with the program, but I’m pretty tired of sporting this title at the expense of my education and experience.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this attitude, and whether its justified, or I’m just being an ugly American, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it is relevant. My problem has nothing to do with the culture, it has to do with our program. I’m just upset with the inability for our program to deliver on promises, and it has become burdensome being so blind about something which I’ve paid to do. So yes, this frustration is justified, and I’m hoping it doesn’t continue as a theme throughout the education here in Morocco.
But luckily I’ve always been a firm believer in you create your on outlook, and as long as I can survive from 9-3 each day, life is great. I’m living with a host family, I spend each afternoon at the beach playing bocce ball or Frisbee, or even studying Arabic. At night, I have a massive Ramadan feast, and following, I go on walks through the city, taking in the atmosphere of Morocco. So maybe this is just life's way of balancing itself out. Though my day at school is relatively miserable, with barked orders, boiling classrooms, and edgy teachers who are fasting, it makes me so excited for 3 o’clock to role around, and city exploring, or beach dwelling to commence.

Saturday night: Right now we are still in the middle of the two week long intensive Arabic course before actual school begins, and since our school found it necessary to put a class in the morning on Saturday, Saturday evening was our only real weekend night. The girls on our program were no where to be found tonight, so the five guys went solo to walk around town.
Since its Ramadan, all the bars and nightclubs are closed until October (hence the upcoming weekend trip to spain!) so the happening places to go are cafes. The night started out pretty typical with guys talking about guy things. What did this guy think of that girl? Who is the cutest? Where did the parents go wrong with that one? All the typical conversations you could expect guys to have. I’ve been curious about one guy on the program, he’s a pretty staunch republican, foul mouthed, boarder line prejudice/racist, hard guy from Brooklyn. Seeing as this is his mantra, I’ve been really intrigued as to why, for one, he is in Morocco, two: why he is here for a year, and three: why he is studying Arabic? I took initiative tonight (much like I’ve had to do in classes to keep our teachers form just barking vocab at us for 5 hours a day) and asked him why Morocco. Like I thought, it was counter terrorism, but what was so interesting was hearing what events in his life has actually brought him to that point. He grew up in Brooklyn, he said his apartment has a view of ground zero, and before had a great view of the towers. His father had done service, he believes in American and its values, and his grandparents, who fled the Nazi’s, came to the US, lived the American dream, and made life much better for his family. He talked about his distaste for the war in Iraq, and how decent men are dead, and how noble war is gone. We no longer are fighting another Army, but we are fighting men disguised, using women and children as shields, and attacking us when our backs are turned. I definitely didn’t disagree with him in that view, which is interesting given our backgrounds and beliefs, but our difference wasn’t the result of these themes, it was the extent to which we believed in them, and how we thought we should act. Of course we all know that terrorism is real, and that there is a threat, but to him it is our countries greatest threat, and what we need to be doing is counter terrorism work, and to me, I just don’t see the same way. All five of us launched into a conversation (and I emphasized the word conversation) about current happenings in the world. We talked about terrorism, and how to stop it. When do we draw the line with where we put our funding, our troops, our talents. I threw in my two-cents about education and anti-poverty efforts being a huge weapon in the fight for terrorist organizations to be able to recruit. We talked about international aid, The US having to downsize life and subtitles if we ever wanted these problems to end, and to level the playing field. We talked about how simple drug trade on college campuses inevitably fuels crime on some level, and how even buying products whose crude materials come from other countries, also elongates the gap between everyone. We talked for hours, and though we didn’t come to any life-altering conclusions, I think this sort of dialogue and thought, is what will lead this next generation to massive positive change. We talked till around 11:30, then all laughed as we gathered our things to make it home by our host families curfews.
What I really liked about the conversation was the mutual respect of one another. We all gave and took a little bit, and acknowledge truth no matter whose side it came from. For me, the conversation really made me question what I want to do with life. For the last few years I’ve been tiptoeing with the idea of international work, but with the last few years I’ve also had my eyes opened by seeing both the positive and negative effects of international work. In our conversation, we talked about a girl on the program whose goal is to become a teacher, and work with impoverished kids who have been basically forgotten, and give them hope, and a chance at a brighter future. I guess what I’m getting at is where is help, talent, and passion most effective? Which level do these self-less workers need to be at? Is it more useful to be placed domestically, and work in one’s country, in hopes that their will work will inspire others, and lead to unification of nations later? Or should we focus on infra-structure and education abroad, in hopes to curb the problem of radical groups and poverty for this new generation, all the while creating positive sediment and bonds between the involved countries? I definitely don’t have the answer at this time, but my hope is that we do both, and one day both these paths will be able to meet in the middle.

2008-09-04T05:14:00.000-07:00

Thank god for fire fox! here are all the posts... in one day, hope you enjoy!

Program d’exchange, Rabat, broing out

I began to get a bit nervous as I walked to the hotel, but when I talked to the man at the counter, and he gave me my room key, I felt pretty good. I went up the stairs to my room to find my roommate for the hotel passed out on the bed. I tried to be quiet, but he quickly jumped awake, and we began chatting. His name is Yoseph (actually spelled with a J, but using this spelling for pronunciation), but he goes by Joe, and he is of Eritrean descent. I knew I would like Joe from the start, and both of us hung out, watching the news until our program’s seven o’clock meeting time.
First impressions are always rough, and as the jeg lagged kids struggled to remember names, we all packed in two large vans to eat, before heading to bed. The program is made up of 5 guys and 20 plus girls, and at dinner I sat at a table with Zach, and a few girls from all around the states. Dinner was nice, but to my dismay, the first decent restaurant I ate in, compared to the shacks and hole in the walls I’ve been dining at the past three weeks, actually gave me my first bout with “stomach problems.” It didn’t hit until right before bed, so the entire dinner and our late night walk where very enjoyable.
Thursday was the real start of the orientation, and we stayed in one big group in the hotel until Saturday when we moved in with our host families. Until now, I had been traveling alone, with no agenda, inconspicuously, only revealing I was American through speech. Now, all of Thursday, we walked in a group of nearly thirty, through crowded streets, being gawked at, as we did tours of banks and cell phone stores trying to get each kid ready for the program. It was really stressful for me, and though I tried to enjoy the company, the heat, mixed with the stares and asinine errands was a bit much. But after making it through the morning, Thursday ended up shaping into a pretty nice day, with a visit to the King’s palace, as well as the unfinished Mosque of Mohammed V and his mausoleum.
After a ten o clock dinner, and about 4 or 5 hours of sleep, CIEE planned Friday to be our first day with three-hour Moroccan Arabic courses, followed by a very long-winded, virtually worthless, culture course. The Arabic class was interesting, but having slept for a very short time, mixed with the heat of the classroom, it was very hard to stay attentive. We ate a nice lunch afterwards, and were told we had a 45-minute “discussion,” before we had free time at the hotel. The discussion ended up being a two-hour monologue given be the program’s director, where he asked questions about what we have seen since we have been in Morocco. Seeing as only two kids had seen anything outside the hotel and lunch, and that the culture we were supposed to be discussing was unfolding right outside our window, I felt pretty frustrated. Everyone was tired and hot, but before the end of the discussion, we were told to formulate questions, that we would not revisit after seeing some of Morocco. After this, Professor Zaki asked the class for honest feedback about the lecture and if it was worth the time. I raised my hand, and told him in all honesty, that if we had no intentions of revisiting the questions, and only two kids had seen anything outside of the school and the hotel, that we probably could have spent our time in another way. There was a silence, and a load of agreeing eyes shot towards mine. Professor Zaki thanked me for my honesty, and after a few more moments of silence, a brave soul took the responsibility of feeding his ego, and talking about how interesting the lecture was. Maybe it was the heat talking, but I felt that if he asked for honesty, that moment was a good time to be truthful.
That night we had a lovely dinner in a traditional Moroccan home, which consisted of an open-air courtyard living room, four or more floors, beautiful tiles lining the walls, and chandlers hanging from the second and third floor walk ways. The main floor is the only floor with a living room, and all the other floors are basically a square walkway the looks down on the first floor. Since it was Friday, which is a holy day in Islam, we ate cous cous. The dinner was long, with four courses, and tea and cookies for an aperitif. There was live music, and many guests where dispearsed through out the four tables of students. I was lucky enough to sit next to Michael, a man who worked for the US embassy, who gave me a lot of good incite into how to get a job with the foreign services, the job the duties, and positive Moroccan rappers. All together, the dinner more then made up for the arduous day, and that night I slept well, dreaming of meeting my host family.
When the day arrived, and I traveled to the Anncienne Medina to meet them, I wasn’t disappointed. I’m staying with a family of five, 2 daughters, one sun, on the first floor of a four floor traditional house. We have internet and two TV’s, a toilet (with no running water), and a shower. I feel like I really lucked out, and even though my French is pretty shotty, my family has been very nice.
Our place, and the medina, is a five-minute walk away from the beach, so I spent the weekend lounging, as well as buying a bike for the commute to school.
The fun has just begun in Rabat, and with talks of the upcoming trips, I can just hope to do them justice on this page. Sorry for the delay, but in the end, I think it will be worth it!

Boot camp

I don’t know what studying abroad looks like to other kids, but I can’t remember a time where I’ve ever had a three-hour class, especially one that has an hour break followed by another two-hour class. Monday was our first full day of lessons, and between the nine o’clock start, and the verbal assault of Dearisha (Moroccan Arabic, sorry for the horrendous spelling) my day seemed a lot less like school, and a lot more like basic training. My professor’s name is Ben, and although he is nice, he speaks very fast, and believes that after hearing a word once, and not seeing it, we should have it completely memorized. I’ve always heard that college takes all the language you learn in one year of high school, and squeezes it into one semester, but on Ben’s plan, I should be toping Morocco’s bestseller’s list with a novel near thanksgiving.
The hour break was welcoming, and for 25Dhs, I got a cheeseburger with an egg on it, as well as fries and rice. Though it was delicious, class in a hot room, on a full stomach is not a good recipe for learning. The afternoon class was brutal, and as our new professor Norah expected us to read assignments in Arabic, I felt a little unprepared, along with the rest of the class. 4 o’ clock is a glorious hour here, and I think everyday at this time I’ll feel as if I just finished a triathlon.
What made school fun today was definitely the bike ride there. I live a few kilometers away from the school, and am currently the first student out here to buy a bike, so instead of sharing a cab, Zach and I decided we could both ride the burgundy behemoth to school. Though she is a looker, the twenty year old, rusted, not level bike is not fit for two people, and after a near death experience riding down a small hill in traffic, we decided to suck up our pride and call the program director, Media, to pick us up. But as I’ll quickly find out, the best way to be ready for school, as well as have some cheap fun, is to buy a bike in a city with no traffic laws, and ride to school.
The rest of the afternoon was spent on the beach playing paddleball and swimming. I’ve never lived near the cost, but I could really get used to running each morning on seaside cliffs, and taking a dip after school.

Ramadan started today, and I decided to participate, at least for one day. Right now its 6:17, and I actually don’t feel terrible, but I’m pretty sure I maybe learned about half a phrase in five hours of class today, so I don’t know if this habit will continue. We woke up a little before four this morning to eat breakfast that is supposed to last your stomach until 7:30 at night. To my dismay, it was all bread, and knowing how long carbs actually last, I figured today would be pretty awful. The routine is to wake up early, eat, fall back asleep, then wake up late for the day, take a long nap, binge eat from around 8 at night until midnight, wake up around four again, and do it all over.
Today in class my brain refused to function. I heard every phrase over and over, but I couldn’t retain a single word. Though I was there in body, my brain definitely was in another place, and after five hours of wasting my professors’ time, I figure that if I want to get anything out of this program, I should probably eat and sleep. Besides fasting, Muslims are not allowed to smoke, have contact with the opposite sex, or swim. I think I can do the fast, and since I don’t smoke and my girlfriend is half a world away, those two steps should be easy, but living by the beach for the first time in my life and not taking advantage of it seems like it’s a bit of a waste for me. So, if I’m gonna fail one, I might as well fail them all (or at least the two that pertain to me).
Ramadan was fun for a day, but I don’t think I have what it takes to be Muslim. I really do have a lot of respect for the religion, and especially for those Moroccans and Arabs who fast while continue to train for sport.

Cascade D'Ozued

2008-09-04T05:13:00.000-07:00

Eleven am comes a lot earlier when your going to bed at four, and as my alarm rang, I didn’t have the same skip in my step as usual. But today was the waterfall day, and my hopes where high.
The bus was prompt, and I barely made it on before its doors shut, and we were on our way. In an unconscious stupor last night, I laid on my iPod, and wasted the majority of the battery, so I didn’t know how long it would last during the ride. Even so, I put my headphones on and laid my head into the chair, and starred out the window at the scenery.
For me, there’s something truly majestic about bus rides in foreign countries. I watched the old stone buildings and small groups of people quickly appear and disappear, as brownish-red sand filled the horizon. I sat very humbled, thinking about my size relative to the untouched land that past by out the window. As more miles passed, and I continued to contemplate life, I had a crystallizing moment where all the pieces of the world seemed to be in place. Maybe it was the mix of the music playing while seeing the world pass by that brought it. I had to fight back tears in this moment when I began to think about the beauty of life, and how great it has been in the past few months.
My mind stayed in the moment for as long as possible, but as soon as it started to drift from the present, the moment was gone. The high began to fade, and while my mind balanced itself out, the euphoric thoughts weren’t as easy to grasp. But I knew that they existed, and that small glimpse was enough for me to strive for that happiness each day.
The bus stopped at a fork in the road with two signs. One said Ozued, and one said Azilal. I saw a few westerners hop off the bus, and I figured that this was my stop. I grabbed my luggage, and followed the group across the street to a stop. It turns out, two were from Italy and the one with the British accent was actually from Holland. His name was Dowa, and he was the true definition of bilingual. He was traveling alone, and had just met the Italians. The four of us, as well as three Moroccans, haggled with the taxi drivers for a ride to the waterfall. Altogether, we fit 9 people in the small sedan, and for seven dirhams apiece, made it to the waterfall.
We were dropped off at the mouth of the river, where we found the campground guide, who kindly showed us how to get to the falls. I followed the river blindly, not knowing what to expect all the way to the fall, until I stopped dead in my tracks. What I saw was amazing. The fall itself was about 90 feel tall, and dropped down two cliffs, before reaching a pool, which lead to a smaller river, with smaller cliffs and pools, that continued as far as the eyes could see. At the base of the waterfall was about a thousand vacationing Moroccans, swimming and jumping of cliffs, as loud and fast as all the Moroccans I’ve met. The valley was amazing, with lush greenery, complemented by sparse rocks, and brown sand. There where small primates running around, dubbed Ozued apes, as well as donkeys and stray cats. We followed the guide away from the edge of the cliff (after snapping a ton of pictures) and he led us down the mountain trail to the water where our campsite lay.
The place was called Camping Panard, and for 20 dirhams a night, one could stay on the covered terrace on a mattress. The group of us decided this was the best option, and found a few mattresses. The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring our surroundings. The place was a maze, with paths leading you in any direction, and pools and mini waterfalls for miles. At the bottom of the main fall was a massive pool totally packed with Moroccans, as well as huge makeshift boats for tours, restaurants and vendors. What I’ve always loved about waterfalls in Africa is the fact there are no rules, so as high as you can climb and as close as you can get to the waterfall is up to you. Dowa and I walked up the steps half the height of the waterfall, then climbed until it got a little to steep and slippery (though most people climbed till the could bath in the falling water). We talked about the usual things, until he began to explain some laws in the Nederland, which blew my mind. It was amazing to hear more about the laws then just the obvious fact of legal weed.
When the night fell, we ate in our campsite, and watched the staff play drums and smoke hash. Apparently this is the nightly ritual. Though the camp was quite dirty, especially the bathrooms, at night everything was candlelight, and gave it this pseudo-romantic sense. Even squatting to go number two in a hole seems more pleasant when a candle illuminates the bathroom. I followed the twinkling path, brushed my teeth, then took in the incredible night sky. The stars were in abundance and the night was clear, just like a winter night at the cabin.
All my friends left the following morning, so for the price of one old pair of nikes, I took a two hour-long hike to caves and good cliff jumping. My guide was my age, and considered himself Berber not Moroccan (which has an interesting historical background for those interested.) As we walked, he pointed out random sights, and across the river we saw a few monkeys running through the trees. After about an hour of hiking, we reached our destination, and even this far from all the camp sights, there was still one little old lady selling soda. To get to the caves we had to cross the river on a pretty rickety bridge. I wish I would have taken a picture, but basically it was to logs held together by some rope, with sand bags used as footholds. The caves engulfed the river, where the water dropped into a dark crevasse, and out the other side. We found one above the river, where no water ran through, but you had to scale a bit of a mountain to get in. It was pretty exciting, and after we took pictures, we ended up climbing to the top of the rock structure to return to the river. On top of the cave I took a few pictures. It was an incredible sight to see how far the valley stretched, and I thought about how this would be a very fun destination for a few days of hiking and backpacking. There were less people down this end, but even the pool under the cave was still pretty full and wild.
On the way back, I decided that swimming was worth the possibility of stomach problems the Chnucks warned me about, and I found a nice cliff to jump off of. It was about twenty-five feet high, and after checking the depth, I climbed to the top to meet the Moroccans sitting near its edge. They spoke French, and bragged about jumping off it, but this pride seemed to disappear as I looked at them from the water below, soaking and pumped up, asking when they were going to meet me in the water. All declined my offer, and looked a little surprised I jumped in without haste.
I retuned to camp with my guide, where I rested for awhile, then played soccer with a six-year-old resident. I figured we were at about the right skill level, so this would be fun. The rest of the afternoon was spent swimming near the bottom of the falls, until night when I met a few Britts and French kids. We decided to go for a night swim as the sun was setting, near a cliff I had yet to jump off. It was a little over twenty feet I would say, but it had a prime runway for flips. This afternoon I was scared to flip off a ten or so foot cliff by myself, but immediately, with some male encouragement, I found the courage to flip of a cliff more then twice the size. Its funny how the male brain works.
I dine that evening with the French kids. There were four of them, Edmound, Nicole, Samuel, and Tiphanie. Edmound was the one I talked to the most, and he offered me a ride the next morning back to Marrakech in the car. I nearly turned the offer down because they were leaving at eight, but figured a free ride in a big Euro van at 8, seemed more appealing then a squished taxi for one hundred dirham at four. Nicole was quiet (and a guy for the record) and Samuel, even with the language barrier, proved to be the group sleaze. In only a few minutes, I found out that saying a little bit in English, referred to a small penis in French. I feel like that’s something our teachers should warn us about!
The van the next morning, was a typical, top heavy, white Euro van. Instead of having three rows of seats, it had the front seats, and then an emptied out back with only a love seat bungeed down so it didn’t fly out the open side door. We listened to French reggae on the way back, and for a four-hour drive, we switched places three times. When it was my turn in the back, I passed out, only to wake up to a few silly photos. When I sat in the back with Edmound, he explained how him and Tiphanie used to date, but broke up because he moved to college in a different city. Now her and Samuel are dating, Edmound’s best friend, and he is going to be gone for 10 months, and they are going to stay together. Edmound had a girlfriend, and talked about being faithful, but it was obvious in his eyes that he still cared for Tiphanie, and as I thought back on the awkward PDA moments between the couple, I almost cringed for Edmound’s sake. What crazy things love can do.
We arrived in Marrakech, and after a long lunch and market stroll, we all parted ways, but not before exchanging names to find one another on facebook. I spent the rest of the blistering hot day hiding out from the sun in my hostel speaking with a few guys from the UK. Its funny because even though I speak French at a six-year olds level, this conversation made me think I understood more of the conversations with Edmound then what was coming out of these guys mouths. Maybe it was the accent, or the weird word choice, but as the conversation went on, I became more of a spectator then a participant. There really is a huge difference between the English language, and the American Language.
Another night on a terrace, and another rude awakening by the sun.
Rabat
After taking four buses, countless taxi’s, walking, and one massive Eurovan, I decided I would take the train to Rabat. My ticket was printed for five o’clock, but as I showed the guard the stub at 12:45, he seemed to be fine with letting me catching the 1 o’clock train. I sat in a compartment with one other man….at first. We both had our feet up and were speaking the little bit of French we both knew, when another person came in. My new friend’s feet hit the floor, but mine were still up…until another person walked in…then another. Before I knew it, there were four people on each bench, and the slightly air-conditioned, spacious, cool train car had turned into a stuffy, hot furnace.
The ride lasted for four hours, and to keep myself occupied I read, failed at napping, walked the aisles, and wrote. I spoke a little more French with some rando’s, but everyone else on the train seemed to be pretty entertained by their music…my ipod died a week ago.
As we began to approach Rabat, I remembered receiving an email from CIEE saying which train stop to get off at. There are two in Rabat, and one is next to the train station, and one is not. I asked my friend in the car, and he said Rabat-ville is where I want to go, so as we passed Rabat-Agdal, him, a nice stranger, and myself grabbed my three bags. The train stopped, and I talked to both, and we realized that we had got off at the wrong stop. My friend felt bad, and decided he would hop in the taxi with me, and as we pulled to my hotel, he quickly reached in his wallet, before I could in mine, and paid the driver. I tried to give him the money, but he wouldn’t let me, shook my hand, and went on his way.

technical difficulties

2008-09-03T06:02:00.000-07:00

So I have some lovely posts for you guys, but for some reason the simple copy/past feature isn't working on blogspot, so it will be here soon!

Rabat is lovely, i live about 5 minutes away from the beach, and everyday is spent between class, bocce on the beach, and hanging out with my host family. I could get used to this! So stay tuned it should be up soon!

Marrakech and Cascade D'ozued

2008-08-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

So i lost my guide book a ways back, and the names may be spelled wrong, but sitting now in the wonderful hotel Ibis in Rabat, I think its time to add these to posts. And for those who are religious viewers, this will be the last random long one and now i'll be more on a schedule!!!

Marrakech

So Marrakech is worked up to be the largest, most touristy, and crazy city in Morocco, and well, I think it was pretty close to living up to its title.

My guide book disappeared in Essaouira, so as I hopped on the bus to Marrakech, I knew absolutely nothing, about what to see, where to go, and most importantly where to stay...but as we know, traveling has a way of figuring it self out for you. On the bus I met a girl from the UK, and decided I would follow her to her hostel in hopes of a place to stay. When I arrived, lost in the maze of the medina, to my dismay, the hostel was full. This actually ended up being great, and with a 25d tour through the medina to the square, I found the hotel Afriquia. It was located right outside the square, and for 130D a night (a little bit under twenty) I got a double bed and a hot shower. Also, this is a popular place for tourists, so some interesting conversations as well.

As expected, the square was crazy. During the day, there where a few people walking around with Monkeys on leashes, and some snake charmers, but at night, the place went wild. It reminded me of Pearl street on culturally-laced crack. The street around it was pitch black, but in the middle where 60 plus portable stands grilling fresh meat and fish, singers, story tellers, snack charmers, orange juice stands, acrobats; anything the mind could imagine, they where there performing and pedaling in the little light produced from the food stands. I was like a moth, just drawn towards the light, not really knowing why, but just floating towards it.

As I chose a food stand to sit in, packed into long picnic benches with people I had never met, I heard English to my left, and as I eavesdropped, I heard a kid talking about an exchange program...in Rabat...starting on Wednesday. There where probably 2,000 people eating in those food stands, with at least 10,000 people walking around the square, and as the kid finished his sentence, I realized that fate had led me to someone on my program. His name is Zach, and as we ate and figured out our nights plans, I laughed a little bit to myself thinking about how these twists life throws our way.

Zach had been on an exchange program for the 10 weeks in Yemen, and neither of us had been out in Morocco, so we decided to take advantage of the best club scene in North Africa. The guide books used the words posh to describe it, and as we reached the massive casino, lined with Mercedes and BMW's, our eyes grew a little bit wider. The line was filled with the high society of Morocco, and although we where undedressed and in the back, Zach's ability to speak a little arabic got us to the front, and into the club.

When the doors pushed open, we saw a massive old theater turned night club, lined with lights, one main bar in the center, a DJ booth, and to our dismay, no dance floor and people just sitting. We had paid about 250D for entry, but it came with a drink, so we went to the bar, ordered, and rested against the cool steel taking in the environment.

When we finished our drinks, we went out into the waiting area to look for an atm. As Zach fiddled with the machine, I accidently bumped into a girl at the coat check. It turns out she is from France, but likes to speak English, and the coat check not only takes your unwanted items, but sells 200 dollar bottles of vodka and champagne. She told me her family is loaded, and that her and her friend where alone and weren't going to drink this all themselves. This is where the night got interesting.

Zach and I played it cool for about ten minutes, walked around, and then met up with the girls. I don't actually remember either of their names, but the girl who had interest in Zach, as I was told by the French girl, was Moroccan, and her Dad was very well known and respected in the Moroccan government. As we sipped champagne and watched the club begin to get wild, the French girl began to get very drunk. At about 3 a.m, the club was packed, and though there was no floor, most of the passerbys began to stand up and dance. We followed the lead, and mingled with those next to us until the French sugar mama got a little drunk, and decided to interrogate me. Though I told her very early I had a girl friend, she decided to tell me "i'm French, and I'm rich, you can't resist me!" I laughed to myself and whispered to Zach what she said, and we all continued dancing. As the night went on, and Zach and his lady began to get a bit closer, the French girl's passes became a lot less subtle (yes its possible) and as I repeatedly declined her offer, she would leave, go dance with someone real close, and as I would talk to our neighbors next to us, she would get frustrated, come back and try again. When she finally got to the black out stage, and Zach's fear of his mate's Dad set in, we decided to call it a night.

I returned to my hotel at about 5:30 in the morning by taxi to be greated by a not so happy night guard. But between all the dramatics, the club had fire dancers on the bar, a live violin show accompanied by house beats, and a lot of upper class Moroccans. Not a bad start to the program huh?

The next day I actually woke up at a reasonable hour (for college kids) I felt pretty good, so i decided after some lunch and water, I would be productive. At lunch I saw I the Canadian couple who sat near Zach and I at our random meeting. They were the typical semi-closed minded people that travel to a country, but talk about the things tha thtey consider bad there. I was told to watch out for htis and that, and that every person is a hustler, and all the typical thoughts, but the other conversation topics were quite enjoyable.

After lunch I decided i would buy my train ticket to Rabat for school, as well as my bust ticket to Azilal to see Cascade D'Ozued (very large waterfall). I guess the couple had a little more influence on me then i thought and as someone immediately tired to help me find the right kiosque at the bus station, I tried to find it on my own because I didn't want to pay him the "commision," many hustlersask for. He ended up being an employee and very helpful, so that made me feel quite bad. But i do give myself a little credit for actually acknowleding the slip.

Marrakech as a city is pretty much dead during the day, so as the clock hit three, and I had no plans till 9, I decided to actually open my French book and study in the park. Marrakech is a massive cement jungle, with dirt red buildings that match the horizon but if you travel out of the medinas, there are tons of beautiful parks with trees and grass to sit in. I studied for a good fifteen minutes, then people watched for about an hour, then gave into the sun, and went back to my hotel to take a nap.

Zach and I had decided to meet at 9 the night before, but as 9:15 arrived, and I had not yet found him, I decided to go get some dinner. On the way to the square, I met a man, whom i thought worked at my hotel. Turns out he is from Algeria, but moved to Canada, and is in MOrocco with his family on vacation. I had never seen him and his brother leave the hotel, and they tended to spend a lot of time behind the front desk, so the fact they didn't work at the hotel surprised me. He talked about how much he didn't like the people in MOrocco, and I guess that would explain why he didn't leave the hotel, but not why he was in the country. He took me to a special stand he liked for soup and cake, and continued to talk about how everyone here is only out to get your money. I wish he would have been at lunch that morning, I could have introduced him to the Canadian couple with the same mindset. Zach, once again, found me randomly while walking around the square. We all ate, and as Zach and I discussed tonight's plan, the Algerian man voiced his thoughts about how the club scene here is bad, and all the girls are prostitutes. I thought about making a joke here about the beauty of having prostitutes at a club, but I thought there maybe something lost in translation.

We heard that everyone goes to the international club Pascha on Saturday nights, so Zach and I decided to head over there. We arrived around midnight, only to find the club doors don't open before 12:30. Pascha isn't only a club, but also a classy hotel, pool, restaurant, and open-air bar, so we found a few ways to entertain ourselves while waiting to dance. We checked out the restaurant near the pool, and though we were clothed in our nicest outfits, the calm untouched pool looked very welcoming in the warm summer night. We fought the urge though, and decided to check out the open-air bar. There were two rooms in the bar, one patio, and one under cover, both having knee high tables surrounded by couches instead of chairs, and sporting hookah's and mostly non-alcoholic drinks. There was a DJ under the cover playing American songs, and a Moroccan singer, belting out the words to a Celion Dion song in perfect American accent (even though Celion Dion herself is Canadian). She had a wireless mic and no stage, and walked around the tables, seductively looking at the bar patrons.

Its funny what six months of legal drinking can do, because as Zach eyed the menu looking for the cocktail with the most booze in it, I ordered un verre de rosé, content with its alcoholic form. The nights before that i went out in Morocco, no one drank, and good times where had, so coming to the international club where many people were more interested in booze then dancing took me by surprise. We sat for about an hour in the bar, listening to live music, sharing stories, and taking in the sights. ONce we had our fix, we made our way to the place we had come to see.

The room was smoke filled and white, with blaring music and hundreds of people. In the center was a square dance floor, filled to the brim with pumping fists and swinging hips. Up a few stairs was square walkway that surrounded the floor, and two bars on either side for optimal drink dispense. Tonight there was a European DJ, who sat high above the dance floor on a booth near the entrance. In the middle of the set, him and his entourage stopped the beat and did a drum set, but besides this, stuck to mainstream western rap, that only Zach and I seemed to know. The feel of the club was very different from the night before, as men and women danced in separate groups, to mediocre music, squished in a small place. The romance and mystic of the last club wasn't there, and come three in the morning, I was ready to head home.

fun and photos

2008-08-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

so i havent had my laptop for a few days so no real post today. Have no fear though, hear are some pictures of the lovely events that you have been reading about!...with a few gems that have yet to come

* take note of the foot first jump to check depth instead of headfirst. At least I learned a lesson right!

Essaouira

2008-08-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

so i promise the posts will become more frequent and less long soon, but while im traveling this is what you get!

8/15- Travel is a relatively new thing to me, well traveling alone that is. I’ve been traveling with my family since I was born, but it wasn’t till my recruitment trip to Santa Clara that I ever stepped on an airplane all by my lonesome. Last summer was the first time I’ve been out of the country without at least one member of my family, and this summer has been the first time I’ve done the journey completely alone. Traveling for me is more than a vacation, it’s a chance to cleanse my soul, and to really take an introspective look at the person I am. This summer, more than ever with the language barrier, I’ve had a lot of time to just sit and think, which sometimes has been great, and others has been difficult, but its really brought me to some realizations. I’ve been sick the last few days, which has led me to a bit of stress, and I’ve just felt like I have some unseen standard or goal I need to accomplish. I’ve been running around, and meeting people, and trying to do this and that, and meet this person, or do this thing, and I really don’t know whose goals I’m trying to meet. So today, right now, I’m doing exactly what I need to do. Its only nine, but I’m home, laying in bed, reading and writing. I’m cleansing. I’m taking full advantage of travel.
This morning I woke up around ten and got ready to go windsurf. I felt pretty shitty, but I came to Essaouira to do this, and I just needed to make myself get out of bed. I was told earlier I needed to be there by 12:30, but it was already eleven, and the walk was about 20-30 minutes, and I needed breakfast, and I wanted to actually update my blog, but I went. Thankfully, at least in my beliefs, God was looking out for me today. I found a quick breakfast, got the fresh squeezed orange juice my failing system needed, and made it too the windsurf school right at 12:30. The day before my body basically crashed because of fatigue, and my thoughts and worries got the best of me, and the mix really wore me down. I was afraid this was going to happen today, because I wasn’t fully awake and I hadn’t really eaten, but when I got to the school, and paid for my lesson, the teacher said he would see me at three. It seems so small, but something like this is why I believe in fate. I was told all week that I could only get a lesson at this time, but even though I wanted to wind surf, I wanted to eat, write my parents an email, and finally update the blog before. I was feeling homesick a little bit, and I just needed to do these things to center myself. This spur of the moment change in windsurfing lessons gave me that opportunity. What would look like to some a minor detour in the day, ended up being such a blessing in disguise for me, and to be honest, a catalyst in reclaiming a positive outlook. I was doing what I needed to be doing.
In the two hours I had to spare, I found an internet café, checked emails, did the blog, and had time to eat. But what was most important was I had time to collect my thoughts. My Mom and I have both been very interested in enlightenment, and eastern religions this year, and I had been thinking a lot about what enlightenment really looks like. When I’ve really prayed and meditated, I’ve felt nothing. But not a bad nothing, nor a good nothing. It’s just nothing. It’s a sense of being there, not wanting anything, nor worrying, or planning. Its almost like having an out of body experience but still being in my head, watching my body act as if it were on autopilot, and seeing time go by as like it were a scene in a play. When I was in Casablanca, when I first meet Adiel, Aida, and Jasmine, and we walked along the beach, with cool ocean breeze, and the sand between my toes, I walked, replying to questions, taking in the sights and sounds, but not thinking, just doing. I remember snapping out and making myself stop and think about what was happening at this moment, how I was in another country, with three complete strangers, speaking of things like we had known each other forever. With this, I felt a high like never before. My body was tingling, my thoughts where pure, and my senses where intensified. In this moment I had decided that instead of having my body run, as if my soul was pressing the cruise control, I wanted to be in the drivers sit, and experience in full each moment, be it good, or bad. At least this is what I thought until yesterday, when a mix of frustration, cold, and fatigue led me to low, and an inability to combat the negative thoughts. I’ve always been a firm believer that there has to be a balance of good and evil in the world, and that those who have experienced the lowest of lows, are the only ones who have the ability to experience a high of the same magnitude. It was in this thought that I gained more insight into what I think enlightenment will feel like. It’s that balance. That moment when there is a complete equilibrium between the lowest of lows, and highest of highs. In that moment, want, desire, yearning, pain, pleasure; all these things will be working as one, to a feeling that is so much, but nothing at all.
After this thought I remembered I’m a kid who likes to ponder things like this, but also dive into shallow pools and do dangerous things, so it was time to counter the serious with the silliness. I paid for a two-hour lesson, and though I only got about an hour fourty of windsurfing, I think it was all I could handle. My instructor was a twenty-year-old surf bum, who lived in a beautiful town, doing what he loved. He spoke a little bit of English, and showed me how to stand up, and turn, and then let me go off on my own, while he spent time on the beach flirting with the local girls. It was great. Windsurfing, though, is amazing. It’s amazingly difficult as well, but having your actions dependent on nature like that is so cool. I ended up being able to stand, and turn my board in a complete 180, and catch enough wind to pull me at a decent speed. It was awesome. Well worth my 50 bucks. I look forward to doing it again.
When my lesson ended, and I was deciding what I should do with my night, whether I should call my friends from the night before, eat shark, drink with the bums, fate took its turn again. I knew I needed to rest tonight, and sit, and try and get past this cold, but its hard to make myself rest while I’m on vacation. But as I passed the lone liquor store, only to see it closed and remember that Friday is a holy day in Islam, I realized this was a direct request for me to go take care of myself. I walked home, sat at the local beach for a bit and stared out at the crashing waves, then returned to my guesthouse to watch a video of an immaculate Arab wedding. I showered in warm water, watched my first Moroccan sunset (which I know seems weird, but I’ve been running around) and now I sit reading and writing, just like I’ve been wanting to do all trip. What a great day.

8/18- Today was a day of tested moral value. Though there is a language barrier, what I’ve found out in my short 21 years on earth is that words only account for such a small part of communication, and most of the time eyes and can speak more words then the lip sever could
The day started out with some pickup basketball at the courts near the beach. I played with Choukri (the unfaithful Moroccan man) as well as Hassan. Its difficult to play basketball outside when there is wind, so to take a shot from further then 10 feet out in Essaouria is almost impossible. We played three on three, first team to four, and as the games progressed, I felt like I was learning a new sport. The game is a lot less physical in Morocco, and almost any contact is foul. You also have to be stationary when you start dribbling, and if you try and start dribbling on the run, its considered traveling (marche). But these new rules didn’t seem to effect our team to much, and we ended up winning until we were finally kicked off the court.
As we walked down the beach road back to the house, Hassan and Choukri began scouting for talent. This was interesting to watch, but these men where definitely professionals. It started with a look, as you kept walking by females walking the opposite direction. Then as they passed by, you turned your neck to see if they did a double take, and if so, then you shoot a wink, and raise the brows a bit, and if all goes as planned, go spark up a conversation. It made me laugh at first, but as I caught a glimpse of the girls they were eyeing, I felt a bit of a lump in my stomach. It dawned on me that I was with two married men, and the girls who they were talking to looked very young. It turns out the younger sister was only 18, but the girl Choukri was interested in was 25, and actually older then the two.
We got the girls numbers, and decided we would meet up for (non-alcoholic) drinks around ten, and then went on our way. As soon as the girls were out of site, we found another two, and Choukri and Hassan started again. It was weird because, although I wasn’t the one talking nor getting numbers, it just felt a bit wrong to me. We walked, and as the two chatted up the opposite sex, I thought about my stance on what was happening. Either way, whether I wanted to participate or not, I was impressed with the social skills of the two.
Before the rendez-vous, I went with Hassan’s younger sister Hajaar to watch some local music. We walked through a couple dark allies, and found ourselves in a small colorfully tiled room packed with people. All the musicians were wearing traditional garb, and they all played clappers except for one man who played an Arabic bass. Everyone was pushed together around the musicians, and with a few people dancing in the ,iddle. At one point the musicians, who I think were high up religious men, did a synchronized dance, with jumping, spinning, and a lot of moves from and to the knees. It was quite a site. There were kids as small as 6, and men up to what I think would be 80 (give or take 20 years depending on nicotine and caffeine intake). As my mind started to wonder a little bit, a girl next to me began flailing wildly. Her arms went wild, and if I were deaf, I would have thought she were at a heavy metal show. The girl got pushed through the crowd and into the dance, where she was then harnessed with a scarf and somewhat held up while she continued to rock out. I don’t really know what was happening, but it reminded me of the one time I saw someone speak in tounges at my Grandma’s church. Both this girl, and the women at the church, were caught up in something which looked as if they couldn’t control their own bodies. Though this girl’s spiritual consumption was more physical, but are quite moving sights.
This set the tone for the night, because what was to come was also filled with interesting sights. At ten, as promised, we met with the girls, and were on our way. Hassan was at work, so this rendez-vous quickly turned into a double date. As Choukri and Zakia Immediately fell into their own conversation, I found myself in an interesting situation. I was now playing wingman for a 24-year-old married Moroccan man. Now I know its every man’s duty to do this once in awhile for his friends, but the fact that I can barley make sentences in French, and I know about three Arab phrases, really made my job difficult. But I think I passed with flying colors. The wingmanee was named Salima and was about to start university. We struggled through a conversation until we got to the café, where we all sat together. My role tonight was comic relief. Instead of trying to speak in French, the group had me repeat the Arabic words for the parts of the face, and laughed wildly. I also had quite a reaction when I told them the one Arabic word I already knew before I came, Haraar, which so nicely translates into shit in English. Technology also came into play, and we all took pictures and watched videos on cell phones.
It ended up being a pretty nice little date, and as Zakia and Choukri began to get close, I did my best to keep my pseudo-date as unromantic as possible. I thought I got some aid from Caroline, as my phone buzzed with a text, but when I announced it was my girlfriend, it didn’t seem to phase anyone. I guess infidelity is common in Essaouria. We left the café, and headed on our way back into the Medina, where we found Hassan and a large group of women. Two were white Italian women he met at work in the Hammam (reoccurring theme?) and the others where actually related to Zakia and Salima. I think two where cousins, but I one recognized from the photos on Zakia’s phone. Her name was Hakeema, and from now on will be referred to as SMAMW (sexy middle aged Moroccan women). We all talked for awhile, with the Moroccans in one conversation speaking Arabic, and myself and the Italians in another speaking English. The family of Moroccan girls decided to call it a night, and the four remaining persons decided to head to Choukri’s.
This is where the night took a turn for me. Choukri’s place was very nice. It was a two bedroom, one bathroom apartment with a big fancy TV and a few couches. The Italian women had never smoked Sisha before (for those in the higher age group, not hash, but a very mild form of tobacco smoked out of a water pipe) so we all sat around the hookah, and listened to an eclectic mix of wordly music. Choukri and Hassan had been telling me about when they were paid to be extras in Alexander and Kingdom of Heaven, and so he grabbed a stack of pictures and began to pass them around. After the film pictures came, then came pictures of him in referee school, followed by the ones of him and his wife, as well as a two-year-old son. This came as a shock to me, as well as to the Italian women. Choukri continued to pass out photos, and showed one of a Spanish woman who he dubbed his “next wife.” The Italian women asked him if he was divorced, and with a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen before, he said yes. He got pretty quiet after this, and then began to smoke a cigarette. He had told me earlier he didn’t smoke, and as he took long drags, he stared at the floor. I guess the Italian women’s reaction to his antics really got to him, and as I sat in the smokey room, watching Hassan dance, Choukri sulk, and the Italian women take in the moment, it hit me what was bugging me earlier. I was concerned about my morals. I knew both these guys had wives, and with the recent news of Choukri being a father, I really began to feel bad for aiding and assisting in their devious encounters. I was pretty quite for the rest of the night, and as I got home I prayed and thought about what this all meant for me. But as my eyes began to get heavy, I realized that my intention in all this was to meet people in a different culture, and take in the sights. As long as I was clear that I had no love interest in these girls, and stayed faithful to my relationship, I should have no moral qualm.

The final two days
After having my realization the night before, I came into day one of the final two in a better mood. Both days looked very similar in form, but the actual happenings of the events where quite different. Each day we went and played basketball at three, then had random meetings with the Casablanca girls, then a fun night out. But if that was all I had to say, I probably shouldn’t have a blog.
Basketball ended up being pretty frustrating because of the nonsense international rules (I know that’s an ugly American comment, but come on! Basketball is the one thing that the US has ever actually created, and we still some how have different rules then the international standard). In Morocco taking three steps is legal, but it’s a foul to swat the ball from someone’s hands when they are dribbling. I didn’t get the rules at all, but the fact I was playing basketball in Morocco, with a bunch of Arab kids, near the beach really made up for the frusteration. Besides the first day, I ended up being loosing teams. what can you ?
I guess since I met the guys, my checklist in Essaouira changed, but thats what traveling is about, Having initial perceptions that completely fluctuate once you arrive. Plus, I realized that the shark that looked so appetizing the first night, was the same shark sitting in the ice the next day, and the following, and the one after that…so I had to find a substitute. This came with out question in the final two days, with a fish feast, and a traditional Moroccan family platter. With the poisson, we ended up buying the seafood at a market, then the bread at a bakery, then cooking all of it at a hole in the wall Moroccan restaurant where you can grill your own fish. I had never seen anything like this, where all the customers where the cooks, but our food was great. We had Kalamaria, Sardines, Shrimp, and a bigger fish I didn’t know the name of. It was excellent. The next day for lunch, the women cooked, and we ate at home, but it was still quite eventful. The dish consisted of an olive-based sauce spread over chicken and crepes, all in one large dish, eaten with the hands by everyone. The food was great, but what made the lunch eventful was the family feud that ensued. From the bedrooms very close to the table, I heard Marium, the oldest sister, start screaming at Hajaar, the youngest. I had no idea why, but then I heard a smack, and La Haardisha (mom), Hassan, and Niama, the youngest, all ran into the room. The yelled for what seemed like hours, which in reality was probably ten or so minutes, so loudly. Through the curtains I heard squels, and tears, as I sat awkwardly reading my French textbook, hoping for any reason to leave the house. This was the second fight I heard in four days of staying in this house.
The nights, although very eventful, were quite the opposite, and both filled with lots of fun. The moral realization gave me excitement for the night, and as I left the house the first night, Hassan only showed me to the door, because he was staying in to be with his wife. Again we met the two girls, went to the café, played games, took pictures, and left. We then went to the top of the Kasbah to watch the waves crash, and again Salima and I where in an awkward situation as the other two ran off. To ease the tension, I began asking what if questions in French, and then we sang songs she knew from the US. At one point Salima asked me what the other two where doing, and I replied embrasser, kiss in French. She couldn’t understand my accent so I closed my eyes, made a kissy face, and a loud kissing sound. We laughed, and the other two heard us, and we convinced them to move on.
Our final destination was a hidden dance club near the Kasbah. It was on the top floor of a hotel, with a DJ, and a huge mix of Moroccans and Travelers. We saw our Italian friends there, then sat down our things, and began to dance. The club had really good music, with a mix of hip-hop, Arab, and house. We all danced wildly, spinning, and jumping with the rest of the floor until about two o clock when we called it a night. Choukri walked me home, and I thought I would have to sneak in the house quietly, but to my suprise i found the family just sitting down to eat dinner.
My final night coincided with the first night of the Essaouria music festival. It started at ten this evening, and since everyone was running pretty late, I went by myself at first. The stage was at the entrance of the mediana, and people where lined from the guard rails of the stage to the wall that lines the ocean. The first band was an Arab jam band, which got the crowed wilderyone was jumping around, swinging in circles arm in arm, and just having a good time. There were barely any people standing still, and as I began to get self-conscience dancing by myself, I found Niama, and jumped in the mosh pit of his friends. There was a fancy hotel bar on a roof, which had a great view, so I decided to sneak up there for the second band. It was actually easier then I thought, and as I listened to the traditional Berber music, I found out my secret agent ability saved me from having to by a twenty-dollar pint like the other fools on the roof. I watched the crowed move, and saw patterns of bodies grooving in synchronization that looked like a wave crashing from one side of the stage to the other. I felt like a VIP, but then decided that I would rather dance with the crowed, then snooze on the balcony.
I met up with Choukri and Hassan, as well as Salima, Zakia, SMAMW, Fatima-zarah, and a new Marium. We went to go eat, and then at 1:30, went back to the stage where the concert was still rolling. We got the end of another traditional band, which few people danced too, but then got to partake in the largest, most sporadic dance party I’ve ever seen. The loud speakers boomed with a song by a guy named H-kayne, and as the roadies fixed the set, easily 20,000 people shook their hips. It was incredible. This must be one of the biggest songs in Morocco because the entire area went nuts. The song ended, but the energy stayed high as a funk/punk rock band from Essaouria came on to close the show. The entire crowd danced like those obnoxious people at a concert who, if you are them, are way fun, but if you aren’t them, you try and dub as obnoxious, but really your just jealous of the fun they are having. We jumped around, did summersaults, lifted people on shoulders, danced in circles, did the train, and anything else a person could imagine. When the clock struck three, and the last chord faded out, I knew the night had come to an end. As we walked the girls, and SMAMW, to the taxis, I thought about how the next day I would just be another tourist, running around on my own. Before this summer I’ve never been lucky enough to have perfect ending to anything, but with this, and my send off weekend from Boulder and Littleton, I have to say my luck has changed. Essaouria gets an A in my book.

everything from the trip thus far

2008-08-15T05:16:00.000-07:00

sorry for the lack of posts, but I promise when I am stationary I will be better about posting regularly, but till then here is a lot!

Kindness of Strangers- This has truly been a reoccurring theme since I’ve stepped off the plane in Casablanca. That’s not to say there aren’t bad people everywhere, I did have my camera stolen yesterday (though this is the first thing I’ve ever had stolen abroad, they guy was talented, he unzipped my backpack, stole the camera, then zipped it back up), the good has definitely outweighed the bad.

When I arrived at the airport in Casablanca, I had no idea where I was or where my hotel was. I needed to exchange money, find my bags, and figure out the cheapest way to get there. Maybe I had some good Karma from the plane, or maybe people are generally good (I choose to believe the latter), but as soon as I got off the plane I met a middle aged women from Brussels who spoke about three words in English and a lot of French and Arabic. She had kind eyes, and maybe realized I was lost, and as I tried to speak French to her, she seemed to realize I needed help. She showed me where to buy a train ticket, then tried to explain that the sim card I got for free only worked with local calls (which luckily she was wrong.) She pushed our way through the crowds, and then verbally assaulted a middle aged Moroccan man who didn’t want us on the train with kind words. In retrospect, I guess I don’t know what she said, but she was calm when she spoke, and for the rest of the ride the man seemed to suck up to her, so I’m assuming she said something with force. A women with both French and Moroccan decent spoke with me on the train while my new friend continued to speak with the Moroccan man. Her bag was very heavy, and I had lifted it on the train for her earlier, and she said that this is why she likes Americans. I guess the Moroccan man asked her for help with his bag, then refused to help her. I was thankful my weak arms could carry the bag, and we continued to speak. The lady was named Fadi, and she told me all about her life in Paris, and her new vacation home in Casablanca. She offered for me to stay with her and her family when I go to Paris, and gave me her phone number. I was astonished with how nice everyone had been, but the best was yet to come.

When the train stopped, my Belgian friend grabbed my arm and pulled me through the crowed once again. When we were about to part ways she asked me where my hotel was, and I showed her my receipt form the Internet. Apparently it was far, and so we went on a twenty minute journey looking for a cheap taxi, or one who would actually use the counter instead of give us a foreigner’s price. When we finally found someone, I hoisted our bags on top of the cab and we were off. My hotel wasn’t far from the station, and as we pulled to the side of the street to hop out, I reached for my wallet and she hit my hand. I pleaded for her to let me pay, but she just smiled, pointed to her eye and the hotel, and waited for me to go. She gave me her number, and I’m truly sad that the maids through it out, because this act of kindness has set such a wonderful precedent for my trip. If I ever see her again, I’ll make sure to pay for a lovely meal, and I’m sure karma will repay her in full.

I spent the night wondering around the Annciene Medina, and looking at the massive Hassan II mosque. I felt safe here, and thought about beautiful Casablana was at night with lights shining on the mosque and market. I was already in awe, and I had no idea of what kindness was to come the next day.

8/13- It’s not easy to paint a grand picture on a small canvas, but I’ll do my best. The last few days have been a whirlwind of sights and sounds, as well as revelations and mini-epiphanies, the biggest one being how my recent frustration came from having these epiphanies as well as a language barrier stopping me from sharing them. But things have been great, and as I sit in the master bedroom of a guesthouse in Essaouira, I must say life is good.

My first few days were spent in Casablanca, and the random kindness of strangers did not cease to exist once I got to my hotel. I spent the first night wondering the Anncienne Media of Casablanca. It is the old city, which is basically a walled circle of traditional Arabic buildings about twenty feet high, pushed very close to one another. At night, it is filled with people, bright lights, loud sounds, and foreign scents (at least to me). It was right behind my hotel, and from there I visited the Hassan II mosque, which according to some reliable sources, is one of the top five biggest in the world. It is massive. It sits on a cliff, and has a glass floor so attendees can see the ocean under their feet, as well as the sky above their heads with the retracting ceiling. At night, its chaos, but in a beautiful way. Though it sits in the Anncienne Media, the mosque is a wonderful mix of traditional and modern ways. It’s like walking to a packed stadium in the middle of the night in a massive field. All you can see is the light of the mosque, and once you get there, people are everywhere. There are vendors, tourists, families, homeless, you name it, those people are there. Everyone is happy. Everyone is at peace.

The next few days in Casablanca went by fast, but most were spent with new friends, with whom I communicated with through broken French and English. I spent a lot of time with two girls named Jasmine and Aida, with the highlight being our dinner at a restaurant called La fibule. It sits on a cliff over looking the sea, with giant windows that allowed the patrons to view the waves crashing on the rocks below. We were seated next to an open one and the sound of the ocean accompanied our exquisite meal. I had cous cous with beef and vegetables, and aida had some sort of Moroccan meatball dish that looked like meatballs in rague sauce with scrambled eggs. The restaurant had couches instead of chairs, and even though we arrived at 11:30 at night, there were still no empty…couches.

Aida is both Moroccan and French, and lives in Paris, and though she speaks of her love for Casablanca, every other meal we ate was at a foreign restaurant. I had to remind myself that I was in morocco when we at a sushi place and spoke English the whole night.

One thing that was really interesting was the Moroccan choice hang out. People would stay up until two or three in the morning eating gourmet gelato at a place called G-ice. We went there two nights in a row, and both nights struggled to find a seat at 1 in the morning. It was bizarre, but very fun to watch.

My last night, before staying up way to late for having to catch an early bus, before I met up with Aida and Jasmine, I stopped to have a coke with a few older guys at a café right by my hotel. There were two Rashids, a Robert, a Jalied, and a Kaled. Kaled was the oldest, and spoke English very well, and Jalied was the youngest, and had dreds from his head, all the way down his long boney back. Robert was my favorite, and although we could barely speak to one another (due to my lack of French) he talked to me for three days before I actually sat down with him, always very enthusiastically, and very inviting. The guys bought me a coke (which I thought was incredibly generous) and we spoke of things like politics, music, and school. They smoked cigarettes and drank tea while I attempted to explain what I was doing in Morocco. Jalied finally chimed in and spoke some English, and talked about being a musician in Morocco and school. As the conversation went on, they openly smoked hash, and their comments became quite amusing. Before I left Jalied talked about quitting school when he was sixteen because of fees, and before I could respond he said, “but why pay, life is one big school, everyday.” I loved this comment, and I left the table with a smile on my face.

What has amazed me about Morocco so far is the blatant kindness and welcoming attitude. Everywhere I’ve gone, even if it was a street vendor who I didn’t by from, or the thief who had the decency to zip up my back pack after he stole my camera (while it was on my back, quite impressive), I’ve been treated so kindly. I came home one night at 2 or so in the morning only to find the front door to the hotel locked. As I began to freak out, I saw a visibly drunk homeless man approach me. I thought for sure I was dead, but instead, he just showed me where the doorbell was. It’s all these events (excluding the sarcastic thief joke) that have made my time in Morocco amazing thus far. If the strangers of the country have been this amazing, I can only imagine what my host family will bring. I only hope I can return the kindness.

After Casablanca, I went to Agadir. Although it was nice, the place was a pretty large, modern city, and very touristy. After a few nights of not sleeping, and having not yet had my epiphany on relationship dependency and the language barrier problem, I had a rough first night and day. What was amazing was my entire perception changed after a skype conversation, and a good nights sleep. I decided I didn’t want to be in a big city, so I bought a bus ticket to Essouira, and I spent my remaining days in Agadir with a French man named Jean-Jaques. He spoke a little bit of English, but really pushed my to speak French and it made a huge difference. Instead of feeling stupid, I began to feel pretty happy about the progress I’ve made in only 3 semesters of French. We ate dinner at a traditional Moroccan restaurant, where we had soup, eggroll’s Moroccan style(with fish as filling), and small pieces of Chocolate cake. The Moroccan kindness shined once again when we were at dinner. We were sandwiched between two tables, and as we eyed their food, both made us taste the different specialties before we ordered anything. When in Agadir, eat dates!!! We also saw a bit of a bollywood film, as well as Mad Max in French, and then walked the touristy strip on the beach.

I left Agadir feeling good, only to feel almost blissful when I arrived in Essaouria. It is exactly what I have been looking for. It’s a small village on the beach, with almost all traditional architecture and glorious scenery. My guesthouse is in the traditional part of town, far from the touristy hotels, and right next to a secluded beach. I spent my day traversing the labyrinth of the old medina, which was built in the abandoned Souq (fort). There are twists and turns, dark alleys, and large streets. I love the sounds and smells that come from these markets. They are so strong, yet very subtle. What I imagine is that aroma hand you see in cartoons that circles you and touches your noise, only to have you float off the ground to the scents origin.

After my walk, I made it to the beach in time to price tomorrow’s windsurfing adventure, and catch a glimpse at some of the riders. Its incredible how high both the kite and windsurfers get. I can’t wait to try. Hopefully the lone four scares on my face already are all that will come this summer.

I returned to the souq after the beach, and walked to the viewing area on top. It has restored cannons, as well as friendly pastry sales men who offers special cookies that make you strong (…or high). As the sun began to set, I found a lone liquor store, bought a single Casablanca beer, and snuck off to a hidden beach. As I drank out of a can covered in newspaper (sporting a beard and my hood on my head), I realized that I wasn’t the only one with that idea. I found a magnificent beach with huge rock walls to climb, and a natural arch over a secluded pool of rogue ocean water, as well as the home to Essaouria’s low life…at least to Moroccan standards. Since alcohol is pretty much forbidden to Muslims, these people were the outcasts, but man were they friendly. They took pictures of me on my camera, offered me what tasted like Moroccan sake, and just were just generally welcoming. I snuck off for a bit and climbed the rock structures and watched the powerful waves break close to my feet. The magnitude of these waves mixed with Essaouira’s constant wind is awe-inspiring. I made damn sure to get off the rocks before high tide came in. When the sunset, I said by to my new friends, and went home.

I had a great time with them, and the beach was so beautiful, I think I’ve found a new nightly ritual (except with wine, because Moroccan beer has yet to satisfy me). So far, my checklist is coming along pretty well for Essaouira. I can already mark of the sunset on the secluded beach with bums, now all I need to do is windsurf, eat shark, get a message at the newly renovated solar powered hammam, and ride a camel. Life is rough.

The take home message thus far is when in Morocco, throw yourself out there. Try to speak a little French and Arabic, be very outwardly nice, and carry two water bottles. The easiest way to make friends is to share your water.

Time for me to return to the life’s giant classroom. A tout á l’heure!

* somewhere in here I wrote souq for a fort instead of Kasbah. We actually rock Kasbahs not souqs (markets)

8/14- it was nice not sleeping on the ground for a night, but unfortunately I woke up sick. I think the mix of jet lag, sleepless nights, and the bus rides all finally caught up with me. But today was windsurf day, or at least I thought it was, so I got up anyway. I caught a quick breakfast before I went, and it turns out the shop keeper used to live in Florida, and is well known for his windsurfing abilities in Essaouira. He taught me a few basics, and I began my walk to the beach.

Due to the lack of wind, I decided it was a regular surfing day. I got my board, and my wetsuit, and hit the beach. Unfortunately when I’m sick, I get a bad case of the hots and colds. The water was bearable, but since I was sick, I would get really cold really quick. I stayed in the water for about an hour and fifteen minutes, caught a few waves, then laid in the sand for about an hour to try and get my body temperature back up. It was probably 80 outside, but with a strong wind, and my teeth were chattering. This led to me meeting some friends though, and the lack of string on my wetsuit made me meet more friends by asking random people to zip and up zip me. I surfed for another 45 minutes, and then headed in. My cold was getting the best of me, and I needed to rest. I ate lunch on the walk back and washed it down with two delicious French pastries. If I come back a few pounds heavier, this would be the reason.

I laid in bed for a long time, and my cold seemed to get worse, but I finally forced myself up so I could go to the internet, then hopefully the hammam for a steam shower to cleanse my system. This was a very good decision.

I checked my mail and saw that I got an email from CIEE. It had all the last minute information, as well as a list of people on the program and where they are from. It was interesting to see the schools, and it got me really excited for my trip. It also made me so happy that I forgot about my cold, and I had a new hop in my step.

The hammam was the next stop. I was greeted by two large men who spoke a little English, and I was talked into not only using the Hammam, but also getting a scrub down. Basically, a hammam is a large single sex steam room with a shower, and the option of personal scrub downs, and if you’re a member, a massage. The room was in the basement of a hotel, and had blue and white tile. There were three rooms, one for changing, one for cold water, and one for the scrub down. I had no idea what I was in for, but what I got was a man pouring bucks of hot water on me, then an herb-laden scrub down, and a cold shower in a hot room. The man who gave me the scrub down was named Hassan. We talked for awhile, and as I was leaving, he finished work and offered for me to go out with him and his friends. We first went to his house, where he offered me tea, then food, then a room for the night, then…..O your disgusting get your mind out of the gutter, he only offered me a trip to the café sisha with him and his friends.

We met up with two guys, whose names I don’t want to butcher, and then three girls. One of the guys spoke pretty good English, and with him I had my first glimpse of infidelity in Morocco. Apparently, two of the girls were his sisters, and the other was his girlfriend. His wife was in another city, and while we were at the café, his wife called, only to be passed off to Hassan to say that he wasn’t there. It made me a bit uncomfortable, but I didn’t really know what to say.

What was difficult this evening was the language barrier, because the group started to talk about Descartes and then the former king Hassan II, and it just sounded like it was a very interesting conversation. I guess just another reason to really focus on learning French and Arabic.

I had to leave a it earlier then the rest to make it back to my guest house before one. The family locked the door, and unfortunately my key hasn’t been working two well. I found a cab, and prayed the whole way home for my key to work for the first time, and luckily fate was on my side. I didn’t want to have to knock and wake up the family, so I was very happy for the initial success of my key.

Enshallah, windsurfing lessons tomorrow.

leaving on a jetplane

2008-08-07T16:23:00.001-07:00

Since the Moroccan keyboards are different then ours in the US, I figured I would save myself some time and money by just typing on my laptop, and uploading the word document. Anyways…
As of 6:30 am on Tuesday I started my journey. Although the first step out the door is when the journey begins, my last post was from DIA and nothing to exciting happens until you at least leave your own state.
After an hour and a half delay in Colorado, I made it to Chicago in time to run to my gate…where I found I hate yet another delayed flight, this one for two and a half hours. I wasn’t upset though, I was actually pleased with the fact I booked a ticket with an extra long layover in Brussels, so it seemed I did some of the planning for this trip right.
In the Airport I met two girls who were teachers in Texas, but decided to quit their jobs and move to Liberia to live on a stationary ship and help out a medical team. They had both traveled before, but nothing like this, and were oddly calm for having such a long commitment at their fingertips. We talked for a while, and one of the girls had been to Colorado a few times, but had only been to Pagosa Springs and Durango. Since I met my roommates two years ago, who are from Pagosa, I had never met another soul who knew about the city until this year, and both were from another state, that I met at an airport.
Two hours after our departure time we finally boarded the plane, only to hear over the intercom that the central hydraulic, which apparently works with the landing gear, was broken and the pilot estimated another hour. I laughed and made a silly joke to the person sitting next to me, only to receive a sheepish smile before she threw her head down. I then tried to make some conversation, only to realize that she was from France…and that I did not attain conversational skills from my three semesters of French. I tried to say a few things, felt silly, and we ended up awkwardly looking at each other, smiling, and looking away until the flight started.(commencer!)
Its funny how one moment can really change a relationship with someone…and how fast the first near death experience of a trip comes. While the whole plane slept I began to write a bit before I could fall asleep. As my eyes drifted and I began to put away my laptop, time slowed, and I felt my stomach drop like no rollercoaster has ever made happen. It was like a movie, people were screaming, butts were a full foot out of seats, lights flickered, and I sat silently, wondering what would happen next. My seat neighbor jumped awake, horrified, and looked at me as if I knew what was going on. The plane continued to jump up and down, then side to side, and I still sat calmly. I grabbed her hand immediately, then closed my eyes and prayed. What was funny though is I wasn’t all that scared. I thought back to a Christian concert I went to in eighth grade, and remembered a man preaching about an experience just like this. I didn’t pray for safety, or for the plane to right itself, I prayed for acceptance. If this was my time, it was my time, but if not, then let me be strong and calm. After a few minutes the plane stopped bouncing, and as fast as the bad weather came, our flight seemed normal once again. My neighbor, who I later found out was named Julia, was really shook up. I stroked her arm, and in French she asked me what happened. I didn’t really know how to reply so I said il fait mal, which I think means bad weather. She seemed to understand, and slowly calmed down.
After about twenty minutes the plane was back to normal, and I finally got some sleep. When I woke, Julia was in a great mood. We attempted to talk for about two hours, understanding a fair amount and having a good time. Turns out the girl whom I thought was probably sixteen was actually twenty-two. This took me by surprise, and I laughed about how skewed my perception of age with people really is. The flight ended and we parted ways, but not before she asked how to say mucho gusto in English, turns out she knows spanish too! She got a bit teary eyed and thanked me for holding her hand with French and attempted sign language. Though in retrospect we were probably weren’t in a near death situation, experiences like that can really open someone’s eyes. As weird as it sounds, this was a great start to my trip, and gave me a lot of hope for overcoming the language barrier I’m going to have. One day down and already I feel the twist of fate that landed me here wasnt a twist at all.

Procrastination

2008-08-05T09:12:00.000-07:00

So i've been meaning to start this blog for awhile now, just to ease the hassle of the mass email to people who probably won't read it anyway, but I just never took the time. I couldn't think of a name, and I was trying to see everyone before I left, so now I sit in DIA twenty minutes before my flight finally blogging.

I couldn't have asked for more from my last days in Colorado. They were amazing. I got to see all all my friends, spend time with Caroline, see my family, dive into a pool and scratch the entire right side of my face.... just all the things a person would want to do before they left the US. This has been a summer to remember, and has created so many wonderful memories, and now to top it off, I get to board a plane and be abroad for nearly six months. Life is at an all time high.

I fly into Casablanca today, spend four days there, and then created the rest of the itinerary as I go. School starts on the 27th, and I need to be in Rabat by the 26th, but until then, everything is fair game.

I'll try to write on this as much as possible, but I can't promise much wisdom, insight, coherent sentences, nor good grammar or correct spelling. So on that note, bon voyage, and stay posted!