Where's the rain?

Rain. Day upon day of foggy, moist, freezing drizzle. A persistant wet that leaves mold on the walls of my house, ice on my floor, clumps the salt in its shaker, and leaves my hands constantly and painfully in a state of raw numbness.

Rain that, to my utter chagrin, comes with a biting wind that blows up the mountain from the north; Cold winter water picked up from the Mediterranean and condensing on everything I want to keep dry. Clothes, food, books, even my precious toilet paper. Blowing and blowing, it keeps my house in a perpetual state of groaning and rattles my plastic roof with such force that I feel like I’m just waiting for the entire building to implode. One point for the wind. Zero for me. If I needed one more reason to stay in the warmth of my bed in the mornings, the wind gives it to me.

Rain and wind and fog and mold. These are just a few of my least favorite things. Yet, despite my ill will towards bad weather, these are the very things that drive life here in the Beni Snassen. They grow the wheat, they keep the orchards alive through the dry summer, they provide fodder for all the grazing animals, and they replenish the aquifers that give us our “world famous” spring water. But, unfortunately, these are the very things that are painfully missing from Morocco right now. No rain. No wind. No fog. No growing season.

It’s difficult to celebrate the fact that I can keep my rain jacket packed away, when the farmers and their families (a majority of my friends and neighbors) are fretting over whether their newly planted wheat crops will survive, grow, and, ultimately provide the much needed income and nutrition that they depend on in the coming months. The king even went so far as to call the nation to a rare national day of prayer for rain.

As of today, the prayers are yet to be answered. They are building and building. I’ve been told that God punishes his people for their sinfulness. Is that what’s happening now? Will the rain come only with repentance and reform? If that’s the case, as they continue to send plees to “their” god, I will start sending mine to “my” god. Because, while I am reveling in not having mold in my corners, rain leaking through my windows, and dampness destroying my very spirit, I hate even more the idea of my friends and neighbors (people I have grown to love and respect over my two years here) not meeting the financial and nutritional needs of their families.

Note: Since writing this a couple days ago, the rain has COME! That’s not all! So did the wind, fog, and even a dumping of snow. Guess I’ll get that rain jacket out after all.

Shuksgiving 2011

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. It’s a time of family, friends, food, and our annual Gettle family “bog walk.” More importantly, it’s a holiday unencumbered by the frenzy that has totally enveloped our other big holiday, Christmas. In fact, Thanksgiving almost seems like it is as much the celebration of sanity, a last big breath before the plunge into the Christmas pool of brash spending, stressful baking, and overly dramatic holiday parties, than it is merely a holiday celebrating our history and thankfulness. Like an opposing answer to Lent’s Mardi Gras, Thanksgiving seems to be the comparatively somber observance before the gluttony of Christmas commences.

Wait though! Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. Ever since I was a child, some of my most enduring memories are stirred out of the excitement that I feel around Christmas day. Getting up early to open stocking presents. Playing with our annual Lego sets. Knowing that all of us have nothing else to do for the rest of the day besides spend time together. A lot of my excitement, especially now, is due to our family’s slow, but purposeful distancing of itself from the regular Bacchus consumerism that rampages much of American society leading up to the day. We still struggle, sifting through piles of Hammacher Schlemmer catalogs for the most “appropriate” gifts for people we barely know as if doing so is going to offset the fact that we rarely see or speak with them. It’s hard to escape the expectations. And, frankly, giving feels good. But that’s not what it’s all about. Waking up on Christmas morning, all that preparing and frenzy means little. The focus instead turns to family, solace from the every-day-grind, and, in my family, the birth of Jesus.

I like Christmas. I like Thanksgiving more. But I’m not writing this post as a lampoon of the direction I see the holidays going or an argument as to which one is better. This is, I guess, more an exploration of what Thanksgiving, a fundamentally American holiday, has come to mean to me here in this journey of my life away from home.

I realize now, maybe most importantly, that the idea behind Thanksgiving as a celebration is, anecdotally at least, a pretty universal thing. A month or so ago I wrote about the Muslim Eid Adha (their big holiday). If you read that post, you will recall that I celebrated with my host family at their home. Although the Eid Adha and Thanksgiving/Christmas celebrate entirely different historical events, throughout the day, from the slaughtering of the sheep to the numerous meals with numerous family members and friends (most new to me), I couldn’t help feeling that these holidays are all essentially recognizing the same thing: that there is a lot to be thankful for and that it is good to sit down with the ones you love and celebrate it. Lots of food doesn’t hurt!

For me there is indeed a lot to be thankful for. At Eid Adha I thought about it in the context of my life in Tafoghalt. I thought how thankful I am for my wonderful host family, for my beautiful home, and for the new friends I’ve made and the generosity they and their families have poured on me. I am thankful for the opportunities I’ve been afforded and the every-day-adventures that fill my life.

Here in Peace Corps culture, as in America, Thanksgiving is the underdog to Christmas in the importance we place on it. Volunteers tend to stick around, while at Christmas they tend to try and find ways out of the country, whether that means back to the USA or just someplace else that actually acknowledges the holiday’s existence. In this alone, I find more reason to like Thanksgiving. The other Peace Corps volunteers around me have become my family and to have this chance to come together with no other intention but to eat, drink, and be with one another is something I value with all my heart. No other time of year does it seem like so much effort is put into doing so.

While Eid was a time of appreciating my life in its everyday level, Thanksgiving gave me a chance to see the many things I am thankful for in the broader scope of my life. Sitting in a warm and generously donated chalet style hotel lounge amid the mud brick houses and snow capped peaks of a rural Moroccan mountain village, and surrounded by a room full of energetic, loud volunteers and Moroccans and two tables piled high with freshly made “American” food, I couldn’t help feeling a little overwhelmed by appreciation. Appreciation for the moment. Appreciation for the experience at large. And appreciation for the people who not only got me here, but are continually getting me through. I miss my family back home without a doubt, but after nearly two years together with these people enduring shared hardships, disappointments, and, less-frequently, the triumphs that come with this life, I realize that I was in the midst of the next best thing: an unofficial family galvanized in this shared experience of Peace Corps Morocco.

 

 




Being away from home seems to motivate volunteers into making a compensatingly Hulked out version of the normal Thanksgiving meal. Bob the turkey (pictured) was the headliner of this years Thanksgiving meal. At about 36 pounds, he was too big, even after slaughtering and feathering, to fit into one oven. We had to split him in two, cooking one “Moroccan” style and the other “American” style. In holiday tradition there were also breads, rolls, potatoes, veggies, sauces (including a delicious pomegranate “cranberry” sauce), pies, cookies, and relishes, and a big bowl of mac and cheese.

Independence

Beni Snassen 3id Kbir Soccer Tournament

Today I want to wish Morocco a happy independence day. After 44 years under Spanish and French occupation, in 1956 Morocco became the independent kingdom that I now live in. I wont proclaim to know much about Moroccan history. Most of my information comes from Lonely Planet and Wikipedia. However, it seems coincidentally interesting that this 55th celebration falls so near one of modern Morocco’s greatest turning points. In a week from now, Morocco will be taking a new step not only towards a more comprehensive democracy as a nation, but also towards a more inclusive, and representative role for its citizens. That’s the theory anyway. I’m no expert on Moroccan politics, but my observations in Tafoghalt show an overall sense of guarded optimism. The Arab Spring that ripped through this part of the world earlier this year and is still happening in parts of the Middle East did not skip Morocco. Although it largely avoided the headlines because it was relatively peaceful, the movement for government reforms spread through Morocco with popular support. In response, the king introduced a round of reforms that include, among other things, a more regionally representative dissemination of power. Similar to congress men (and women [I’ve seen a few campaign fliers for women candidates]), these representatives are the reason that campaign teams have been wandering around town handing out information, politicians are buying tons of tea and cookies, and the streets are littered with piles of fliers full of sullen faced men in their nicest suits. Without disclosing too much of my own opinion (PC rules), I too have some apprehension about the elections. In the year and a half that I have spent here, I have become too well aware of the culture of politics that permeates small town Morocco. In fact it’s not so different from American politics. Just multiply the beurocracy by 5. Often divided by family or proximity, politicians seem as often as not, barriers to progress and reform. The mighty stamp rules the land! If you are not on its good side…well, good luck. But these elections are meant to give the people more national representation, and I have nothing but hope that they will honestly and peacefully accomplish their intentions. The demonstrations that marked the Arab Spring in Morocco were full of discontented young people with few demands other than that someone provide them a job. I don’t see this election a fulfillment to that wish per se. I do see it as a step that falls in line with Peace Corps’ philosophy on handouts. Instead of directly giving people the things they demand, these elections are empowering people so that they can determine their own future. As for myself, I've been having some personal revelations as to my own independence. Maybe I'll write about those next time. In the mean time I found this article to be well written, insightful, and extremely relatable. Its been floating around the Peace Corps world. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/what-the-peace-corp-taugh_b_1099202.html

Oh the holidays!

Its been a long time in coming and full of close calls, but today, finally, I feel like I completely belong here in Tafoghalt and Morocco. When I arrived at my families home this morning, there wasn’t any of the pomp and circumstance that used to mark my arrivals. Just a few quiet, familial greetings and a little surprise at how early I had come. I explained to them that I didn’t want to miss the slaughter of the ram like I did last 3id Kbir. They acknowledged the reply like it made perfect sense, which for me to be understood on the first attempt, is an accomplishment in itself, and continued preparing for the slaughter. For my host father, Ramdan, this meant performing ablution and going to the mosque to pray, for my host mom, Cherifa, it meant getting as much cake and coffee down my throat as possible, and for the my two brothers and sister, it meant waiting patiently. The electric feel in the air pleasantly reminded me of Christmas morning before presents are opened.

I’m not writing this to explain how 3id Kbir (literally translates to “big holiday”) happens, however. The ram was slaughtered, ALL body parts squeezed and cleaned, and lots of fresh meat was eaten. No, I want to shout for joy, to proclaim to the world that this year 3id happened with me not to me! What I mean to say is that I was an active participator. No longer an observer being tiptoed around, I was given tasks, splattered with blood, and had poo exlode out of the intestines all over me. I was in the thick and dirty of it!

This may not sound like a big deal, but in my world where just about every day I get up and am reminded that I’m the Waldo in this picture (one of these people is not like the others), any semblance of being treated like everyone else gives me fortitude like nothing else. It is not a fault that Moroccan’s are so generous, but I am always treated like royalty. I get the most food first. Hosts bring out special treats just for me. I’m almost never allowed to help or do any work in return.

So this morning when Ramdan demanded (not asked) that I grab that ram and help him, I jumped at it like some kid who finally gets to help his father with some new “grownup” task. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t profusely excused. It was a full on blood and guts job, and for a morning I felt for the first time that language, culture, and everything else that makes me different were put aside and I was, finally, not the guy in the striped shirt.

Thoughts

The summer light is slowly ebbing away. Dying embers of the African sun drop through the incoming Sea clouds and splash on the sides of the mountains sending bright shafts of dusty light sliding back down into the valley. The radiating warmth that only a few weeks ago was suppressing heat is now welcome company in the quickly chilling air. Fall warmth that forces a smile on my face. The red dirt is parched from a very long dry season. Every step I take kicks up a hanging cloud that marks my path on the side of this empty potholed road. Give me a drink! it seems to cry. Give me a drink, and let me begin the messy business of settling down. Striking me as true, I think in agreement, "I’m ready for change too, for the quenching rains of winter, for the unknown that lies beyond Peace Corps, but shwiya b shwiya (little by little). Basking in the sun was fun, and like dry dust, being picked up here and dropped there, it was exciting. But I too am ready to soak up the rain, settle down, and help grow the seeds that have been sown".

These solitary walks through the Beni Snassen Mountains are becoming more contemplative, full of doubt, wonder, and a strong sense of excitement for the things to come. I have six months left in Morocco.Not long ago that would have seemed like a pretty substantial chunk of time. Certainly enough to accomplish projects, see the sights, and develop some meaningful relationships. No longer! Six months now seems like barely enough time to decide what I want to take home with me. And I don’t even need any bureaucratic stamps to figure that out. Yet here I am with 3/4th of my service past, and I am ready, oh so ready, to make something of my service. Over the last six months I have slogged through the sticky muck feeling of Peace Corps worthlessness. I have tried and I have failed at projects. I have been on the verge of calling it quits. But now, as I stagger out of that slog, I see my service for what it really is, and I see my life after for what I want it to be.

My worth as a Peace Corps volunteer in Tafoghalt, Morocco does not lie in physical projects. Fresh water available to all: check. Electricity: check. Education: check. Trash collection: check. Wifi in the school: check. No. I think I always knew that my physical contributions as an unqualified, unskilled, unconnected volunteer with a poor grasp of Arabic would probably not move this community up the general income scale, but it has taken me until now to be able to find professional worth in what I AM doing. Everyone wants to see quantitative results from their hard work. Some people are able to wait for a long time for that. Others, like myself, like to see continual development build upon itself in real time. In the world of individual relationship building this is possible, but in the world of community relationship building results can be agonizingly slow and even when they come to fruition they aren’t always positive.

Here’s an example: Over the last year and a half I have been trying, sometimes hard sometimes not, to build at least some relationship with all the people I see every day. Of course doing that in the States would be a task, but here where the spoken language is often not even the one I’m learning (Arabic. They speak Tarafit), the names of the people are hard to remember, and the nature of friendship is so different from what I’m used to, the task often feels impossible. But slowly I am accomplishing this shallow community wide relationship while, simultaneously chipping away at a few more meaningful individual relationships. Being an American in a highly Arab, Muslim society, however, means that building relationships isn’t always smooth sailing. Whether I agree with American policy or not, I’m often seen as the guy to direct anger against Israel or US foreign policies. As people in my community have become more comfortable with my presence, a few with anti-American sentiments have approached me and directed their anger at me.

As an employee and, therefore, a representative of the United States government, I don’t feel like this anger is wrongly directed nor have I ever felt threatened by it. On a personal level, however, it has become one of the hardest things I deal with. When I try so hard to represent a different side of America, its hard not to resent accusations of violence, manipulation, and greed. I’ve come to a point of acceptance though. Of this, and of all the other rasps that used to grab at me and hold me back. More than anything else I am here to represent the United States, to build relationships, and to show Americans that Morocco, as different from the US as it is, deserves respect and a fair perception.

As my professional life and personal life are so intertwined here, acceptance of the limitations and challenges of the one have led to happiness in the other. Yes, I still resent certain aspects of Moroccan culture. But, I have come to accept these things as they are. It is not my fight to fight.

And just as the dust that follows me will eventually settle back down in its rightful place, so will I. As I follow the paths through the mountains (the same paths that I discovered with such excitement when I first got here), I often dwell on these thoughts. They have not always been good or constructive, but they are the one thing that I can see building off each other. And now, as the sun of my service is hitting its western horizon I am realizing the true value of what I have here and what I want after.

But more on that later.

Ramadan: Part II

Red dust explodes under my feet with every step as I walk up the “African” road with my Ramadan promise to fulfill. The heat from the afternoon sun is still lingering here in this lane under tall eucalyptus and cedar trees, and it is drawing from the pine duff a strong smell of familiarity that leaves me a little homesick.

The going is pleasant, but not without difficulty. Despite having cheated on my fasting by drinking early, walking uphill in the hot African sun is work, and by the time I reach the crest, my chest and back are blotched with sweat. It’s all worth it though when I look up and the view over Tegma opens up to me. I’ve seen it 100 times before; the mosque hanging on the edge of a cliff, the simple houses, the gardens spread out through the valley, the plain and sea below in the distance, but every time, without fail, I’m blown away by its beauty. And rarely are days so clear as this one. Usually new viewers have to search through the haze and imagine the coast where it should be, but today I can see the dark blue water out to the horizon and the Spanish islands jutting sharply from the water just off the coast. As I catch my breath I imagine that I see can see Spain’s coast on the other side.

I would sit up here for hours admiring the rare view, but today I’m on a mission and the Mghrib (fast-ending call to prayer) is close at hand. I want to reach Yemeni’s house before that, and I still have a couple of kilometers to go. It’s a race against the sun, but the sun is predictably well paced and I know that I have time for one last lingering glance down the mountain.

As I readjust my sunglasses and shoulder my pack, a scooter roars up behind me. Redoun hops off the back and quickly tries to distance himself from the choking cloud of dust and exhaust that follow him by catching up with me. Redoun is like many of my better friends here: smart, reserved, and expressedly unimpressed with my 3rd grade Arabic vocabulary. He smiles politely as I offer a long overdue congratulation on his recent marriage and we exchange the necessary handshake and greetings.

As usually happens, we quickly run out of formalities and an acute silence follows. “Did you have a honeymoon?” I ask trying my best to piece together something that would communicate the idea of honeymoon since I don’t know the word. “We stayed in Sadia.” “Oh! That sounds fun. Was it nice?” “Yes.” “How long were you there?” “Two weeks.” Uh…what else do I ask?

I am relieved for the end of the awkward conversation when finally he reaches his house and we part each other with a wish for peace and good. I continue down the road alone. Past the cliff mosque I turn down a steep dirt path that winds under the cliff. I could follow the road, but this way is quicker and more beautiful. Speed over beauty? Not in Morocco. Past the precariously draping fig trees, I enter the cool shade of terraced gardens full of olives, pomegranates, figs, and carob trees.

Soon, Yemeni meets me on the road, and after filling his jugs up with water at a nearby spring, we walk together down to his house. Yemeni is one of the few people I have no problem talking to. His personality runs the conversation and I lose all the reservations that usually inhibit my Arabic. He runs a wonderful little bed and breakfast on this quality.

We reach his house just as the sun is hitting the horizon. His family is there and they greet me like I’m an announced guest that they have been anticipating. I don’t know why I’m always a little surprised at the ready unsolicited generosity that many Moroccan’s always seem to have on hand. I was given the standing invitation long ago, but I didn’t precede this visit with an announcement. The fact that families are always ready for one more is a great part of Morocco that I will miss in America.

There is not much lingering before the barely audible Mghrib sounds, and without any pomp we (those of us who didn’t cheat) break our fast. Under the open air of the night we quietly and quickly make our way through the dates, fish, tea, and Harira (Moroccan soup). Afterward, the frisky crickets and swooping bats entertain us as we all lay back, full and satisfied. THIS is the life.

The Great Escape

Last week I compared the life of a Peace Corps volunteer to theater. The story is chalk full of adventure, drama, love, tragedy: all the makings of a success. Well we volunteers are not only the protagonists in our own stories, but also the front row audience to everyone else’s. With so much going on, sometimes we need to take a break, stretch, go pee, let off the tension, and remind ourselves of reality outside the playhouse. This weekend, it was intermission time for Socorra, Brian, and I.

I’ve heard Peace Corps Morocco referred to as the Posh Corps. I imagine it’s for many reasons. For one, very few of us live in isolated villages, hours by rickety transportation from the nearest refrigerator or TV and the food, while sometimes weird, is pretty mundane. I can think of a few things that specifically make me feel like I’m in the Posh Corps. 1) I live within an hour of two relatively large cities, 2) I have electricity, water, and internet in my site, 3) there are 3 Marjanes (Walmartish stores) all within 2 easy hours from me, 4) I can see the Mediterranean and its beaches from site, 5) I live within 2 hours from Spain.

Now, at this point, some of you are probably pointing out that Spain is close, but 2 hours? Maybe by plane, but that’s deceiving. In describing this one method of escape, I have to describe where we escape. It is Spain, but its Morocco. I wont go into detail about its history, but about 1497 years ago Spain established and began occupying the city of Melilla on the Moroccan Mediterranean coast. To this day Spain still lays claim to it, much to the dismay and denial of many Moroccans. In order to hold that it is in fact their land, Spain has set up a proper border complete with high, barbed wire fence, guards, and a relatively quiet border crossing. This is the Spain I live 2 hours from. A couple of taxis and a bus and I can be sipping a Sangria, eating pork tapas, and not being judged or harassed for doing any of it. We like to refer to it as our “Vegas.”

Like Vegas, it’s an extravagant place of escape that we can rarely afford. Unlike Vegas, we don’t go there to get hammered and find girls. We go simply to escape what often feels like a stifling, repressing Moroccan culture. It lifts our hearts to see women doing what they want, dressed as they wish, people eating and drinking what they want where they want, different ethnicities, respect for animals and the environment, and not being watched everywhere we go.

This weekend Socorra, Brian, and I made our escape to Melilla: the land of the more familiar. Socorra and I had been there before, but for Brian this was a first time. After trying to describe exactly our status within Morocco’s system, the Moroccan guards let us through and we preceded to timidly squeeze our way past the queue of Moroccans awaiting to see if they would be granted passage into Spain.

I remember the first time passing through the Spanish gates. The change hits you immediately. The air smells differently, there is much less trash on the streets, buildings are in less of a state of disrepair, nobody is waiting there to harass you. It’s so welcoming.

A few blocks of walking and you come to the beach. There you find trash cans, swimmers in all sorts of revealing attire, free/clean bathrooms, a play ground!, and restaurants (of multiple ethnicities) and bars along the beach. Throughout the city there are bars, restaurants, stores, and neighborhoods that seem to exceed all of the variety I’ve yet seen anywhere in Morocco.

In the few times we have been to Melilla we have found a bar that tailors to our limited language abilities (being limited to English and Darija.). Because we speak Darija and so do the bar tenders, we have managed to avoid Europe’s wallet busting prices. So after spending a day wandering around the city, admiring the neoclassical architecture, stopping for a few tapas, and eating our first Asian food in months we headed to our bar. They remembered us and between the cheap drinks and the great Flamenco band it was easy to forget that we were only 2 hours from home and a whole different reality.

The next morning that reality hit us hard though. If the difference crossing the border into Spain was striking, crossing back into Morocco was a solid punch in the face. It seemed like before we even got passed the guards, people were coming up to us harassing us for money or to take their taxis. On the public bus back to the bus station, a group of teenage boys were harassing a sick woman and a fight broke out between two men. The trash was more noticeable and the lack of variety in anything mocking.

It was easy to remember why I wanted to escape as I made my way back into Morocco. It was even more difficult to remember why I wanted to be there in the first place. But, I’m home now and I remember. Like many people, Morocco is not what it appears to be and learning its true nature, while often difficult, is a true joy. A new act begins and I’m ready to tackle it.

Lent Day Who Knows

Late tonight I watched the most incredible lightening storm of my life over the Mediterranean alone from a perch on a deserted mountain road. Cheesy alert. It reminded me of how beautiful nature and life can be and how lucky I am to be here!

My Life is a Movie

I was thinking about this the other day. Peace Corps is kind of like a theatrical performance. First, we have the protagonist. A naïve, idealist, with a good heart, a good head (sometimes), and the gusto to do something big with his life. In an effort to fulfill his need to put these qualities into practice, he joins an organization known for its rumored idealistic, flip-flop wearing, “lets go native” philosophy: the US Peace Corps. At the beginning motives are unknown by the audience. Perhaps, they think as they watch, the volunteer doesn’t know exactly why he is there either. He’s complex. Slowly revealing who he is through inner dialogues meant to quell his confusion about self and purpose, the audience slowly starts to see who this person really is and why he does what he does. Between these self-analyzing, philosophical musings they see his interactions with the people around him, both other volunteers and neighbors. They see how his ideas about life and self express themselves in his relationships: sometimes triumphantly, sometimes tragically. Most of the time, knowing what they know, the audience will be slightly amused and delighted by how clumsily, and over-seriously the volunteer goes about these interactions.

It would be no performance, of course, without an antagonist. Or, in this case, many. The volunteer, unbeknownst to him at first, has a host of issues set in his way, many there before he even arrives. Apathy, homesickness, cultural differences, the local crazy out to make life miserable, and transportation that sometimes makes him want to die. The odds are against him. The audience can see this from the get-go and it keeps them enthralled, even through the tedium that fills the void between the heart pounding action scenes, intriguing drama, and hilarious comedy. Perhaps, they think, the tedium is his biggest enemy. He’s not doing a great job of combating it though.

Like in most stories, the volunteer is not alone. He has friends and family, some popping in and out, some there throughout its entirety, helping him accomplish, not necessarily the mission he set out for, but his destiny: what (he is slowly discovering) he is meant to accomplish through this ordeal. These people anchor his reality, keeping him in sight of what is most important and helping him avoid getting upset over things that can be dismissed. They don’t always give him warning of impending doom or keep him out of trouble, but they do always come to his rescue when he finds himself in a jam that he cant get out of on his own.
At some point in the story, the volunteer is faced with an obstacle so big and so powerful, that his fundamental idea of the ordeal is remarkably altered. This is the turning point. From here on out the volunteer quickly starts to “get-it.” He sees his enemies for what they really are and he no longer fears them. While twists appear every once and a while and the volunteer relapses into unsuccessful habits on occasion, the story picks up from here with the end in sight.

This story has a happy ending as it turns out. The volunteer finds his purpose and accomplishes it in some fashion or another. Not everything works out as he had hoped, but in the end all that matters is that he made it through. No grand finale. No on stage fireworks. Just a quiet, reflective success.

Lent Day 3: The Things I Do

Ok, I know I wrote yesterday about how projects are just time fillers. Not unimportant, but not the most important. I am holding to that. All the same, I’m now going to write about that work.

People keep asking me what sorts of projects I’m working on or if I’m even doing any “work” at all. In answer to the second question, yes, barely. In answer to the first, here’s a look.

Oh and keep in mind that I go through these project ideas like Tiger Woods goes through mistresses. Yes! One point to me for keeping up with outdated pop culture.

Project #1: One-day celebration of the UN Year of Forests at the local Tafoghalt middle school.

Also known as E Day, this project is the most likely to happen. The idea has been brewing in my mind since last summer, but until about a couple of months ago it was not a perceivable reality. In theory it’s very simple. In weird, new-American-in-Tafoghalt reality, it turns out, it’s actually pretty difficult. It took nearly a year before I even felt comfortable enough with the people and place here to really start foreseeing any potential success or sustainability. Anyway, the premise of the project is this: Bring together local educators and leaders to celebrate forests with local students by doing educational games and activities. Its taken two months, lots of back-and-forth clearing up misunderstandings, and a few date changes, but I think finally things are lined up as well as they are going to be. One local environmental non profit will be showing some short films and having discussions on them, Socorra will be doing some activity of her choosing (pressures on now that everyone who reads this knows), a few Department of Water and Forest representatives will be planting trees and illustrating tree anatomy, and another environmental organization will be doing a drawing contest and painting the winners as murals on the school walls.

Project #2: Environmental Education teacher workshop for rural educators

This project is a little more ethereal. Another idea that’s been a brewin in my head, though this one was little more than a passing thought in our heads a month ago. Socorra and I hope to bring educators and Water and Forest reps from all over the Morocco Orient region together with Moroccan trainers to network and do a two-day hands-on training on how to incorporate environmentally related lessons into their curriculums. We can both attest to its organization being as difficult as you might imagine. To add pressure, we want to do it at the end of the school year which is fast approaching. Right now we are just trying to figure out logistics like a place to stay, who will cook, who will train, who wants to be trained. We haven’t even begun to worry about struggling through the government red tape and finding the money. I think I can safely say that, if it happens, this will be the defining project of my service.

Project #3: Tourism association

We are just going in order from most likely to probably never going to happen. This project falls somewhere in between. A few months ago, there seemed to be a lot of momentum for starting an association to help develop sustainable tourism. Things like creating brochures, hiking maps, advertising, community events, and guide training. It was an idea of the people, they were excited and motivated, and than after the initial woohoo moment and me telling them that they should start organizing the meetings themselves things sort of halted. I have recently discovered that some of the people who want to start it don’t like each other. In a place where personal issues seem to take precedent over business issues, I think this will probably be a project killer. Something, anyway, that I have neither the social standing nor language ability to deal with effectively.

Project #4: Budget training for local women’s associations and cooperatives.

Recently in the “most likely to happen” slot and now in the “probably will never happen” slot is this training for a local women’s association that weaves rugs for added income. Jonathon, the volunteer before me, was passionate about helping these women and I sort of promised him when he left that I would try to keep up with them and help them when they needed it. He had helped buy looms and materials for them to begin weaving in their new building. When I went down to talk with them a few months after I had been in site, I discovered that they (this being the couple of women I talked with) had used all their materials, had no money, and thought the building was too far away to be practical. They got financial help from Jonathon and so, I think, expected it from me. I thought, however, that instead of giving them more money to continue spending ineffectively, I should train them how to more wisely use the money and then, if they thought building another new building was worth THEIR money, they could build it. I should have seen then that it wasn’t really about walking a kilometer that was the issue; there were politics at work here too. Some women didn’t like some of the other women and felt the system that they had been given wasn’t fair. I wanted to give up after discovering this, but I persisted. Recently, however, I’ve been informed that there is longer a legal association and that plans are in the works to restart it with a different leader than the one I have been working with. That is why this one is now at the bottom of the list. Unless I get a huge kick of motivation, I don’t foresee reviving it. But, then again, I don’t foresee a lot of things that end up happening here. Mostly for my, but also for Jonathon’s, sakes I hope some surprising happens and this turns into a success.

Lent Day 2: Discovery

One year is a big mark for me. You see, before I came to Morocco I had made a pact with myself that no matter what: if I was burning up in some dusty desert pit, if I was stuck in site with a site mate that drove me crazy, if my neighbors didn’t except me, if I was downright miserable, I would not go home until at least one year was over. At the end of the year, if I was still unhappy and consistently wanting to go home, I would take some time to seriously assess my situation and see if it was worth staying for another year.

So now we’re at a year. Going home is not at all in the picture and, aside from the moments of misery (though at times frequent) and the occasional awful feeling of disdain for this culture, I have been happy. As for feeling like I’m serving a purpose here, I spend a lot of time trying to pick that one apart. Socorra and Joe can attest to that. Sometimes I feel useful, much of the time I feel like I’m just biding my time, drinking tea and bullshitting until my two years are up and I can continue with my “real” life.

This feeling, just as I am, is changing and adapting to the circumstances. I mean, I am finally starting some projects. A year in. But that’s not what is important. What is important is that I’m learning to live with the fact that doing “official” activities, where I have to plan and organize, and “working” in a more official sense of the word is not what is giving me the most purpose here and probably wont ever be what gives me the most purpose. Drinking tea and bullshitting is not a way to pass time until the end, it is a means to that end. It is the purpose.

I suppose every volunteer who finds their service an overall success, aside from those who really do save starving African children, have to come to peace with this at some point, whether its during their service or after. I’m happy that I know this as truth here in the middle of my service. I am still working on it though. Every day I have to remind myself that it’s not about the projects at the school or starting associations. That’s just what I’m doing to kill time in between the tea and bullshitting.

Lent Day 1: How to Survive a Year in Morocco

This week, with the passing of our one-year anniversary in country, my mind races back and forth over itself, skimming through the memories, ideas, and thoughts that it has compiled in the last year.

It would be easy to say that success has yet to find me here in the countryside of eastern Morocco. Certainly I have accomplished no projects, I have built no schools, and I don’t think I’ve saved any starving African children from anything. On the surface it’s nothing. I’ve washed away a year drinking tea, watching movies, and learning a language that has little value outside of itself and Morocco. It’s not until I take a moment to assess the fecundity of my situation that I am able to see that there is, in fact, richness in the mundane and success lying deep within the context of my Moroccan life.

While this success is not often measurable, nor even perceivable, I know that my efforts are not in vain. I imagine that every smile I conjure, every cup of tea I drink with someone, every Berber word I learn are all hard earned pennies in a jar. In that context, while no I don’t have a $100 project in the bag, things are adding up to something worthy of my efforts and I need not worry that my time is being wasted.

One year. 365 days of the Moroccan sun rising and setting over me. It is changing me. The person I was leaving my tired-eyed parents in the Minneapolis airport the morning of March 3, 2010 is not the person I am now. Or, I should say, not the same. Like American +, I am Colin+: A new version of the same person. Enhanced in some ways, depleted in others. Different. I’m not expecting to understand the full potential of this change until after I’ve come home.

A year does a lot to ones perception of a place. It enhances it, skews it, and exposes it. I look back to that bus ride from the Casablanca international airport to where we would spend our first night in Morocco and laugh at how excited we were to see shepherds simply hanging out with their flocks of sheep and goats on the side of the highway. Now, I would do anything to find a place away from town where there isn’t one always watching me. I remember my surprise when I found it raining outside the airport. No sand dunes, camels, or hot sun. My perception of Moroccans themselves has changed as well. I am constantly amazed at how generous they can be and disconsoled at how bluntly soliciting they can be. On the same note, I’ve noticed how the perceptions of myself have changed. I am not as openly accepting of difference as I thought I was when I arrived here. My values are much more ethnocentric than I ever thought. I am capable of self-motivation and leadership that I had forgotten was in me.

So, here’s to another year of discovery and success for me and all my fellow one-yearers in whatever way it comes.

My Lenten Promise to You

For those of you who may not be keeping up with your obscure(ish) Christian holidays, this Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten season. Although I’m not Catholic I usually find it to be a good excuse to pick up or reestablish good habits. Its like a second chance at New Years resolutions without the year long commitment. In the past I’ve generally given up something, but in light of the fact that this year I don’t have a lot to give up that wont contribute to my slow spiral into insanity, I’ve decided to add something to my life. Why would you care, you may ask yourself. I suppose for the same reason you care about anything else I write here, but more so because what I have decided to add to my life is writing. While I may not/probably wont post everything I write on this blog, I will in all likelihood be posting more. So for those of you devoted readers out there (am I deluding myself in assuming that you exist?) keep your eyes peeled for slightly more frequent and consistent updates.

Peace Corps is hard work...?

Although it was warm today (in the 60s), the weather remains cold. Thanks to the meat thermometer sent to me for Christmas I have been able to see just how cold it actually has been getting. I like sounding tough about cold weather but, the temperatures are rarely as low as they feel. There have been a number of frosty mornings, but generally the coldest it gets is in the mid 40s. For those trying to survive the Minnesota winter, I know that you are probably longing for these sorts of balmy days, but hear me out on this (I still want to redeem my reputation of being able to withstand cold). It is almost always at least 5 degrees colder inside than out. There isn’t much chance of escaping the cold. It is everywhere and we do everything we normally would do, like typing this blog, in it. It’s a bit like going camping for 4 months in late fall.

After three weeks of vacation, life is starting to swing back into normalcy. I have gone back to sitting at the cafes hoping for the spark that will bring a random conversation into a full-blown fire of learning. I’m back to hazy meetings with people, after which I’m lucky to have understood half of what was said and done. Back to running in the mornings and not eating chocolate and drinking beer every day. Normalcy is nice and its easy to wrap myself back up in the comfort of it, but I’m now coming to grips with just how little I have gotten done here under its allure.

Every 3 months, each Peace Corps volunteer is supposed to fill out a report describing all work related activities done within the previous reporting period. It was easy to pass the first one off as a freebee. We had been in site for only a couple of months, and I was happy to report that I had not yet done anything of great significance. This second one felt different though. It forced me to rack my brain in pursuit of the smallest, most obscure memories of activities that I could possibly shape to seem like active work. Endless meetings and café bullshitting unfortunately don’t count.

Put into perspective, its not surprising or all that disappointing that I have done so little, but its easy to get lost in the success of others and feel below par compared with them. I know that comparison is a frivolous pursuit without end, but I suppose it is human nature. I have been doing it since I was a kid. When I got an A and someone else got an A+, I wasn’t happy. The competitive spirit seems never to have left me, and as a result I am left feeling behind and lacking.

As it did when I didn’t get the A+ and the other kid did, the perceived lack of success has materialized a new resolve to be more persistant and ambitious. I hope that, as a result, it will ignite the same feelings in the people I am trying to work with. Most of the projects’ successes depend on the success of the local people leading them, and, in turn, my success in this area is entirely dependent on it too.

My biggest fear is not that I wont finish a successful project. I will not have a problem if that happens, because, as I said, so much is independent of me and my own ambition. I came here, in part, to work as hard as I can, not only to help those I'm working with to be successful, but also to help myself be successful. And confident. In order for those things to happen I have to know that I am working as hard as I can. I am through with the sit-back-and-wait approach. It's time for some action!

Antsy

Although it was warm today (in the 60s), the weather remains cold. Thanks to the meat thermometer sent to me for Christmas I have been able to see just how cold it actually has been getting. I always want to sound tough when it comes to cold, but the temperatures rarely are as low as they feel. There have been a number of frosty mornings, but generally the coldest it gets is in the mid 40s. For those trying to survive the Minnesota winter, I know that you are probably longing for these sorts of balmy days, but hear me out on this (I still want to redeem my reputation of being able to withstand cold). It is almost always at least 5 degrees colder inside than out. There isn’t much chance of escaping it. It is everywhere and we do everything we normally would do, like typing this blog, in it. It’s a bit like going camping for 4 months in late fall.

After three weeks of vacation, life is starting to swing back into normalcy. I have gone back to sitting at the cafes hoping for the spark that will bring a random conversation into a full-blown fire of learning. I’m back to hazy meetings with people, after which I’m lucky to have understood half of what was said and done. Back to running in the mornings and not eating chocolate and drinking beer every day. Normalcy is nice and its easy to wrap myself back up in the comfort of it, but I’m now coming to grips with just how little I have gotten done here under its allure.

Every 3 months, each Peace Corps volunteer is supposed to fill out a report describing all work related activities done within the previous reporting period. It was easy to pass the first one off as a freebee. We had been in site for only a couple of months, and I was happy to report that I had not yet done anything of great significance. This second one felt different though. It forced me to rack my brain in pursuit of the smallest, most obscure memories of activities that I could possibly shape to seem like active work. Endless meetings and café bullshitting unfortunately don’t count.

Put into perspective, its not surprising or all that disappointing that I have done so little, but its easy to get lost in the success of others and feel below par compared with them. I know that comparison is a frivolous pursuit without end, but I suppose it is human nature. I have been doing it since I was a kid. When I got an A and someone else got an A+, I wasn’t happy. The competitive spirit seems never to have left me, and as a result I am left feeling behind and lacking.

As it did when I didn’t get the A+ and the other kid did, the perceived lack of success has materialized a new resolve to be more persistant and ambitious. I hope that, as a result, it will ignite the same feelings in the people I am trying to work with. Most of the projects’ successes depend on the success of the local people leading them, and, in turn, my success in this area is entirely dependent on it too.

My biggest fear is not that I wont finish a successful project. I won't have a problem if that happens, because, as I said, so much is independent of me and my own ambition. I came here, in part, to work as hard as I can, not only to help those I'm working with to be successful, but also to help myself be successful. And confident. In order for those things to happen I have to know that I am working as hard as I can. I am through with the sit-back-and-wait approach. It's time for some action!

Christmas in Morocco

I suppose everyone has a memory of their first Christmas away from home and family. They remember where they were and what reason it was that resuluted in their being away. I imagine for some, it was a welcome change and for others sort of, well, devastating. For me it was neither. But it was strange.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas I took comfort in the thought that almost everyone, at some point in their life, for whatever reason, has to venture off on their own, even on a holiday deeply rooted in home and family. I took greater comfort in knowing that everyone who joins Peace Corps signs up to make these sorts of sacrifices.

Normally, by no decision of my own, I am forced into a Christmas “mood.” Musac (sp?) in the grocery store, displays at Target, and lights in the streets all draw forth old memories of Christmases past and force me to think about the Christmas present months before the actual day. Without trying, the holiday bears down on you in the States. But that sort of hysteria doesn’t exist in Morocco. At least not for Christmas. No Santas hohohoing their way through city malls. No shivering bell ringers by all department store doors. Nothing to suggest that the holiday exists outside the confines of our Western, Christian culture.

While, out of habit more than anything, I felt a slight empty space where all the hype was missing, it was almost refreshing to be away from it. Not to say that I didn’t miss my family and home more than usual (I definitely did), but, for me, it was nice to celebrate simply a holiday that originally celebrated the significant, but simple birth of Jesus, and later became a holiday for simple reunification of family and friends. While I didn’t have my blood family with me here, I did have some of my Peace Corps family. With them Christmas was everything it should be: simple, gratifying, and fun.

Many of my Peace Corps “family” went home for the holidays, but I was lucky to coax my neighbor, Socorra and another friend from the other side of Morocco, Isabel into joining me in Tafoghalt to celebrate the day. It was probably the plane tickets for the flight to Belgium from the Oujda airport more than my coaxing that actually brought them this way, but oh well. Anyway, to make up for the lack of Christmas spirit preparation, from the moment they arrived to the moment we left for Brussels, we spent almost all our time locked up inside; our Christmas stronghold against the indifference of the Moroccans outside. With some decorations, a few presents, and shared memories and some traditional foods of past Christmases we bolstered (in my opinion) a respectable amount of “cheer.”

If Christmas was a downsize of what I am accustomed to, New Years was quiet the opposite. The morning of the 26th we left Tafoghalt by taxi to make our way to the Oujda airport, all fostering doubts that the snowstorm in Europe and the general standard of Moroccan transport would allow us to make it successfully to Brussels.

We were forced to depart from the plan even before we got to the airport when the souk bus driver, thinking, as we did that the airport that had been in use for years was the one we were flying out of, dropped us off at that airport. As soon as the trailing exhaust of the bus cleared enough for us to see, we could all sense the eerie stillness of a recently abandoned place. The parking lot was empty, there was no bustle, and the few cars that we saw coming in we soon saw leaving again. Despite these omens, we continued walking from the highway where we had been dropped off to the front doors of the airport. Not until we got there were we informed by a nearby group of lazing gendarmes that this was now the “old” airport and that the new one about a mile and half away was now open. Oh, and no we couldn’t take the shortcut. They of course were too busy to help us further, so we started the long trek to the “new” airport by foot, sticking out our thumbs whenever a car happened by. As luck had it, we finally approached a guy sitting in his car (for the sake of PC it was an official taxi) on the side of the road, who without hesitation took us the rest of the way to the airport. Oh Morocco.

By the providence of God or Allah or whoever, we made it to Brussels with no further hassles aside from a flight delay, and on arriving we were fortunate enough to find our other companion from Fes and have Isabel’s distant uncle pick us up from the airport and take us directly back to his apartment. As it turned out, despite it being his and very nice, he didn’t actually spend many nights there so it was all ours for the week. So after a brief introduction and inauguration into Belgian beers and a tour of the place, he left us alone to our Belgian adventure.

One day we visited one of Belgium’s oldest and most traditional breweries, but, in large, we spent most of the week just wandering around, checking out museums and shops, and eating waffles and drinking beer whenever the whim took hold of us.

Towards the end of the week, after an almost devastating mix-up, my friend from home, Megan, joined us for New Years Eve and Day. No description of these last couple days is necessary. In the end, after having to pay Ryan Air 80 Euros for two forgotten pieces of printer paper (a lovely sendoff), we made it back to Morocco. I was expecting a sort of bitter departing from Europe and an even more bitter return to Moroccan life, but the opposite actually materialized. The 80 Euro fee was one last reminder that, although it is the culture that I am most comfortable with, we in the west let ourselves focus way too much on profit and business. We forget to treat humans like fellow humans. It is one of the most important lessons that Moroccans have been teaching me over the last year. As a culture they live life with a certain amount of pride and selfless humanity that we, in the west, seem to be losing to the pursuit of success and profit. At no time since I have been here has that been clearer than when I came back from Brussels. It’s good to be back!

Catching Up is the Hardest Thing to do

No! I am not dead! I know that it has been some time since my last entry on this blog, but for those of you have questioned the state of my pulse in the last few weeks, rest assured. It is still beating. No. My AWOL status is due entirely to laziness and maybe a small amount of lacking inspiration. Not, as some seem to think, to freezing in a freakish snowstorm or over consumption of Morocco’s sweet tea (though I have no doubt these things may yet take their toll). I guess I shouldn’t waste too many words or too much of your time in the pursuit of excuses, but instead will get straight to the point of catching you up on the story of my Morocco life.

If I’m not mistaken (and I’m pretty sure I’m not since I can look at it directly below) that my last entry left us off somewhere right before Thanksgiving. That holiday seems almost an eternity behind me. I’m hard-pressed to remember what has happened since then, but I know that, somehow, I have been busy. Or at least I have felt busy. In this is the story of the last couple months regarding my personal development. I can call a day where I had one meeting and made peanut butter a very busy, exhausting day. So when I say that my month was busy, remember the context in which it is being said.

Thanksgiving was an “experience.” Emphasis on experience since I have never celebrated anything like it before and probably won’t ever again. It was my first major family holiday away from home (other than one Easter while I was in Turkey. There aren’t a lot of big Easter celebrations at our house anyway so that wasn’t a big deal) and my first in this country. The celebration we had here was strangely similar to one I would have had at home with most of the same foods, new family, and even some football, but it was definitely different. I say “strangely” because, while we tried to replicate what we were all used to, there were so many constant reminders of where we were, or more appropriately where we were not that it was hard to convince ourselves that this was 100% Thanksgiving. Anyway, I wont repeat what has already been said when its been said so well by my friend and neighbor to the south, Socorra. She has a blog about it on her sight that says almost everything, and might I add, in a more entertaining fashion than I think I’m capable of. Everyone should be reading her blog anyway.


After I returned home from Jerada Thanksgiving, showed some other volunteers around my site, and devised plans for a massive French colonial style paintball war, I pretty much immediately had to prepare for work. And I mean like REAL work. Like I had to finalize plans for a meeting I was to have with the women in Tegma about the benefits of forming a business cooperative for their rug weaving and about what I realistically could and could not do for them. I didn’t really have to do that much, but the language is still my biggest challenge, and even the simplest task (like calling someone I don’t know) is so much harder than it normally would be. In the end, through the haze of my constant misinterpretations and fear of language failure, the meeting did not happen the way that I had tried to plan. It did happen though, and that fact alone makes it 80% successful. Luckily I had the help of a very motivated Oujdi woman and a representative from the ODOC (The govt department that supports the formation and upkeep of business cooperatives) that we convinced into coming. They were able to carry the meeting and convey much of the message that I couldn’t. And despite my having planned a more active personal role in it than happened, I was happy to let others do it for me. A major tenet of Peace Corps is that I should be more of a cheerleader than anything anyway. The results of the meeting: while it seemed to have gone well to me, it apparently didn’t. All that talking that I thought was constructive conversation was mostly complaining, criticizing, and asking for things that we couldn’t give. Pretty disheartening to find that out afterward, but that’s all part of the job and I will continue to try with them as long as they start taking a more active role in their own future and demanding less of outsiders. Now to figure out how to communicate that.

While this meeting with the women was probably my biggest work related activity of the last couple months, it wasn’t the only one. I’ve filled at least a few hours since talking with people and having meetings, all in an attempt to set the foundations for successful future projects. To many of you at home, this may not seem like much. It certainly seems that way to me most of the time. I often have to sit down and think about it realistic terms to appreciate that I am not wasting my time away here. I work at the pace that my counterparts work, I try to find and cultivate motivation within them before moving on to serious action, and I am trying to stick to the PC mantra that we should only help them do what they themselves are passionate about doing (this being extra difficult as I'm not finding a lot of passion to do anything beyond drink tea). Working under this philosophy means that a lot of my time is spent not actually doing any “work” whatsoever. This is another large challenge, only second to language. I don’t like feeling lazy! But… I really really hope, in the end, that all of this idling and prodding, pushing and waiting lead to successful/sustainable projects.

As most of my time is not spent doing work that can easily be measured, or for that matter, be counted as work at all, I still spend plenty of time idling away the hours. I continue to work on my recorder skills (yes, that is the musical instrument), and until someone has pity on me and sends me a more legitimate instrument (excuse me all legitimate recorder players who are reading thing) I will continue down this path of grating noise. I also continue reading lots of books and watching lots of movies. Thank you to those that helped me out with these sanity savers over Christmas! I have added hikes to my list, visited Oujda a few times, somehow ended up in front of a quite decidedly anti-American crowd with an American flag, decorated random things around my house, drunk far to much tea (need I mention it again?), bought a bbq and an oven, been chased in the dark by wild pigs and gone on vacation. I think I will write about that vacation which includes Christmas separately.

And that’s about it. Or at least that wraps up a lot of the mundane into a short and sweet summary. As I kind of like writing more about the mundane, and maybe some of you like reading about it, I will continue trying hard to avoid laziness and to write more often.

No! I am not dead! I know that it has been some time since my last entry on this blog, but for those of you have questioned the state of my pulse in the last few weeks, rest assured. It is still beating. No. My AWOL status is due entirely to laziness and maybe a small amount of lacking inspiration. Not, as some seem to think, to freezing in a freakish snowstorm or over consumption of Morocco’s sweet tea (though I have no doubt these things may yet take their toll). I guess I shouldn’t waste too many words or too much of your time in the pursuit of excuses, but instead will get straight to the point of catching you up on the story of my Morocco life.

If I’m not mistaken (and I’m pretty sure I’m not since I can look at it directly below) that my last entry left us off somewhere right before Thanksgiving. That holiday seems almost an eternity behind me. I’m hard-pressed to remember what has happened since then, but I know that, somehow, I have been busy. Or at least I have felt busy. In this is the story of the last couple months regarding my personal development. I can call a day where I had one meeting and made peanut butter a very busy, exhausting day. So when I say that my month was busy, remember the context in which it is being said.

Thanksgiving was an “experience.” Emphasis on experience since I have never celebrated anything like it before and probably won’t ever again. It was my first major family holiday away from home (other than one Easter while I was in Turkey. There aren’t a lot of big Easter celebrations at our house anyway so that wasn’t a big deal) and my first in this country. The celebration we had here was strangely similar to one I would have had at home with most of the same foods, new family, and even some football, but it was definitely different. I say “strangely” because, while we tried to replicate what we were all used to, there were so many constant reminders of where we were, or more appropriately where we were not that it was hard to convince ourselves that this was 100% Thanksgiving. Anyway, I wont repeat what has already been said when its been said so well by my friend and neighbor to the south, Socorra. She has a blog about it on her sight that says almost everything, and might I add, in a more entertaining fashion than I think I’m capable of. Everyone should be reading her blog anyway. www.socorrac.tumblr.com

After I returned home from Jerada Thanksgiving, showed some other volunteers around my site, and devised plans for a massive French colonial style paintball war, I pretty much immediately had to prepare for work. And I mean like REAL work. Like I had to finalize plans for a meeting I was to have with the women in Tegma about the benefits of forming a business cooperative for their rug weaving and about what I realistically could and could not do for them. I didn’t really have to do that much, but the language is still my biggest challenge, and even the simplest task (like calling someone I don’t know) is so much harder than it normally would be. In the end, through the haze of my constant misinterpretations and fear of language failure, the meeting did not happen the way that I had tried to plan. It did happen though, and that fact alone makes it 80% successful. Luckily I had the help of a very motivated Oujdi woman and a representative from the ODOC (The govt department that supports the formation and upkeep of business cooperatives) that we convinced into coming. They were able to carry the meeting and convey much of the message that I couldn’t. And despite my having planned a more active personal role in it than happened, I was happy to let others do it for me. A major tenet of Peace Corps is that I should be more of a cheerleader than anything anyway. The results of the meeting: while it seemed to have gone well to me, it apparently didn’t. All that talking that I thought was constructive conversation was mostly complaining, criticizing, and asking for things that we couldn’t give. Pretty disheartening to find that out afterward, but that’s all part of the job and I will continue to try with them as long as they start taking a more active role in their own future and demanding less of outsiders. Now to figure out how to communicate that.

While this meeting with the women was probably my biggest work related activity of the last couple months, it wasn’t the only one. I’ve filled at least a few hours since talking with people and having meetings, all in an attempt to set the foundations for successful future projects. To many of you at home, this may not seem like much. It certainly seems that way to me most of the time. I often have to sit down and think about it realistic terms to appreciate that I am not wasting my time away here. I work at the pace that my counterparts work, I try to find and cultivate motivation within them before moving on to serious action, and I am trying to stick to the PC mantra that we should only help them do what they themselves are passionate about doing (this being extra difficult as I'm not finding a lot of passion to do anything beyond drink tea). Working under this philosophy means that a lot of my time is spent not actually doing any “work” whatsoever. This is another large challenge, only second to language. I don’t like feeling lazy! But… I really really hope, in the end, that all of this idling and prodding, pushing and waiting lead to successful/sustainable projects.

As most of my time is not spent doing work that can easily be measured, or for that matter, be counted as work at all, I still spend plenty of time idling away the hours. I continue to work on my recorder skills (yes, that is the musical instrument), and until someone has pity on me and sends me a more legitimate instrument (excuse me all legitimate recorder players who are reading thing) I will continue down this path of grating noise. I also continue reading lots of books and watching lots of movies. Thank you to those that helped me out with these sanity savers over Christmas! I have added hikes to my list, visited Oujda a few times, somehow ended up in front of a quite decidedly anti-American crowd with an American flag, decorated random things around my house, drunk far to much tea (need I mention it again?), bought a bbq and an oven, been chased in the dark by wild pigs and gone on vacation. I think I will write about that vacation which includes Christmas separately.

And that’s about it. Or at least that wraps up a lot of the mundane into a short and sweet summary. As I kind of like writing more about the mundane, and maybe some of you like reading about it, I will continue trying hard to avoid laziness and to write more often.

Mubruk L3id

Mbruk L3id!
For those of you who are not up on your Muslim holidays, today marks the biggest one-day holiday of the Muslim year, 3id Kbir. Literally translated it means “big holiday.” Think Christmas big, but instead of sacrificing a tree, sacrifice a ram. That’s the idea behind it, and the killing is what makes the day what it is (at least for a non-Muslim like myself). All the visiting relatives compare the size and beauty of the carcass just like we do with Christmas trees. Maybe it was my imagination, but it really did feel like Christmas. Everyone goes to mosque in the morning. The streets were as quiet as I had ever seen them. I’m afraid the thought of stringing lights around the bleeding body even crossed my mind at one point.

A little info for the curious. 3id LKbir, or more formally 3id Ladha, is an important religious holiday celebrated by Muslims worldwide to commemorate the willingness of Abraham (Ibrahim) to sacrifice his son Ishmael (Isma’il) as an act of obedience to God, before God intervened to provide him with a ram to sacrifice instead. Two things: Yes, that was copied from Wikipedia and yes, the same story is in the Christian Bible. If I am learning one thing about religion here, it is that Christianity, Islam, and Judaism all share a lot more in common than I previously thought.

The day started with misinformation. When I showed up at my host family’s house the slaughtering had just been finished and the head was just being cut off. No worries though. The killing is symbolically important, and I wasn’t happy that I missed it, but the rest of the day was great.

I think that as soon as I stepped in to help skin the sheep, Ramdan recognized that I had very little clue what I was doing and so relegated me to the symbolic position of making sure the hanging carcass didn’t spin while they peeled the skin. By the time we were done skinning and gutting, Charifa came out with the smoking, charred, and, well, kind of gruesome looking head of the ram. Surrounding it in the bucket were its charred legs. As soon as the assorted body parts came out, the kids went to work on hacking at them with a small hatchet while Charifa sorted through the guts, squeezing the poop out and cleaning them. At one point I looked over and saw Sana gauging out the eyes with a dull knife. Undoubtedly we were going to eat those.

The first thing on the menu (the pre-lunch snack) was barbequed liver wrapped in fat. My mom will be pleased to hear that I downed that liver like a champ. It is actually pretty good. How could it not be? It’s wrapped in salty fat. After an intermission of some pomegranates and further animal parts cleaning and sorting, we had lunch. My fears of eating the head resided as the pressure cooker was brought over and a lovely smell came forth. As Charifa spooned the contents onto the plate, she said to me in darija with her usual amount of gusto, “eat. Guts.” Why thank you! That’s just what I was hoping would appear instead of the chopped up head! I admit that while the pile of assorted stomach, liver, intestine, and heart pieces didn’t look that good and the idea of it certainly was foreign to me, it did smell good. I wish I could say that it tasted as good as it smelled. It did not. But I managed a reasonable amount. Enough that there was little arguing among the family that I had eaten too little.

I guess it is a testament to how far I have come since being a vegetarian that I can say with confidence that a holiday almost entirely devoted to eating meat is a pretty good idea. Meat for lunch, meat for dinner, meat for breakfast. For four days. Bring it on!

Now, if you will please excuse me, I have to go prepare my stomach for my meat breakfast tomorrow.

Life IS like a box of chocolates

I arrived home last week after two weeks on the road, and immediately noticed a new sense of how I felt about Tafoghalt, my job, and my neighbors. Maybe my perception had been altered while I was gone or maybe being away, on the road so to speak, had enabled me to put a label on what I was already feeling. I don’t know. Whatever happened, I feel different. Like I’ve entered a new phase.

It was an immediate recognition. I had left with a lot of doubts, but optimism shone over them. Now, upon my return, my mood, like the weather here, has become much more melancholy. My language progression is at a standstill. Work (and this is stretching the meaning of the word) is slow. I feel a certain amount of disappointment and frustration with the people I am living and working with. And, in general, I dislike the culture; the way it treats women, the way it treats animals, the disrespect for personal feelings and beliefs, the general lack of motivation, the underground, unacknowledged “sin”. I know, I know! I sound miserable when I put it like that. Those are just my feelings right now and at their worst.

In Philadelphia, even before we got to country, we were given handouts that charted and described the emotional phases of the average volunteer through her/his service. Two years of inner war; Battles fought on daily, monthly, and yearly terms. The chart claimed that there would be victories and loses and that attitudes would depend on the outcomes. Liking to think myself unique and uncategorizable, I tossed the paper into a folder without much though, and buried it under a pile of books in my apartment.

I ended up pulling the “critical periods” handout out this morning, and every single issue that I just described is listed under the 7-10 month period. It doesn’t do much to help, but it is nice to know that this is normal. I’m not a horrible person for hating where I am right now and, sometimes, the people I have to work with. I know that other volunteers here are feeling this way, but its good to know it’s not just a regional thing.

Right, so I know that some people are curious about where I have been, and, as I’ve mentioned it here, I should probably write a little about it.

Two weeks ago, overly ready to leave and feeling a lot of doubt as to whether Moroccan transportation would get me there, I headed out of Tafoghalt in a mid-morning taxi bound, ultimately for Paris. The plan had been to leave the day before, spend a night alone in Paris, and then meet up with my mom, grandma, and aunt who were just ending a week-long river cruise through France. I had been feeling apprehensive about the whole rendezvous not working out, but was surprised when plans had to be changed, that it was not because of problems in Morocco, but because of the striking French.

I arrived at my mom’s beautiful Paris hotel at midnight on Friday, tired and dirty, but so relieved that I had made it. I think Mama’s relief was double mine. After my first hot bath in eight months, I fell asleep on the carpet floor of the hotel room, realizing as I did, that even the floor of this hotel was nicer than many places that I’ve slept in Morocco.

I will admit right now, much to my own chagrin and knowing that it defaults all the arguments that I made before I left about why I wanted to leave America, that I miss the West. I miss convenience. I miss comfort. I miss English. I miss diversity. I even miss the consumerism that drives us and makes our culture what it is. Most of all, I miss my family and friends. Paris, from the moment I stepped off the plane, felt different. It felt comfortable, and convenient, and all those things that I just mentioned. It felt a lot like home (being America in general). No standing outside hoping for a taxi that might, if you argue enough, use its meter. Water fountains. More than one type of coffee. No assumptions that if you look different you are not from there (and no assuming that just because you look Asian you are from China). Diversity in people, food, buildings.

I know that this is the romanticized view of a home-hungry voyager, but Paris really did blow me away. Not only because it was Paris, but also because it reminded me of all the things that make America great. It reinstilled the sense in me that my home really is there and nowhere else.

I will leave out the details of what I did in Paris because it is probably not much different than what most tourists do there, but I will say this: I had a wonderful time seeing my family and experiencing Paris at such a beautiful time of the year. It was reenergizing.

Unfortunately Paris was only a weekend. Not enough time to see it or to reconnect with family. On the other hand, by the grace of the Peace Corps, I was given a transitional reentry period in Marrakech in the form of an Inter-Service Training. The training itself was marginally interesting overall, but seeing all the other volunteers from my stage again was great. It had been about six months since I had seen the majority of the health volunteers that we swore in with. It was nice to reconnect and to see where other people were in their Peace Corps lives.

A week of Marrakech and the binge lifestyle of Peace Corps Morocco and I was ready to go home (the Morocco one). The transitions from loneliness to crowdedness back to loneliness are exhausting. Before going home though, I joined the rest of my CBT group (remember CBT? Go way back to the beginning of this blog if you don’t) for a reunion south of Marrakech in our training site, Idelsen.

As with Paris, the visit to Idelsen was much too short. We got there on Saturday evening and left Monday morning. In that short amount of time, we basically did nothing but eat, drink tea, and sleep. Socorra and I calculated that we must have drank well over 30 glasses of tea in the time we were there. As the tea is half sugar, that’s about 15 glasses of sugar. Diabetes here we come. Again, maybe this is retrospective romanticizing, but our whole group seemed to agree that the people of Idelsen were much kinder, open, and genuine than the people we currently live with. Whether its true or not, we were all reluctant to leave.

Now I’m home. I’m alone and it’s quite again. In a lot of ways I am thankful for that. In a lot of other ways, I wish it weren’t so. I know that this post is a little overcast, but not to worry. The “critical periods” handout assures me that things do get better. I will not doubt it again.