“If the heart of Africa still remained allusive, my search for it brought me closer to understanding myself and other human beings.” –Maya Angelou
Much like my Peace Corps experience, the readjustment process has proven to be a cyclical one. The euphoria and shock of being back in the States wore off by month number two. I started a new job focusing on the day to day, trying to reconnect with old friends and getting healthy. Things were going so well. Soon enough, though, I became disgruntled with the way things seem to work here and wanting nothing more than to escape back to the cafés of Morocco. That was the world I understood. Just let me sit on the terrace of Café Bilal shaded from the summer sun sipping fresh orange juice, chatting with other patrons and people-watching as the jellaba-wearing grandfather walks leisurely by next to the metrosexually-dressed teenager chatting away on his cell phone.
Discussing Morocco, Peace Corps and related adventures has helped me reflect on that significant part of my life. I want to develop a narrative that articulately describes the two-plus years I spent as a Peace Corps volunteer in Morocco. This will take years to do. I have made progress, though, by identifying and explaining lessons I learned.
Many months have passed since I returned to the States. I can clearly see the effects of my experience in Morocco—the broadening of my perspective, coming into my own as an adult, and my growth as I strive to become a better, more well-rounded person. I am now in another phase of my life but this period of my life is not over and never will be. I can never completely divorce myself from the experience, from the country of Morocco, and from Peace Corps. And I do not want to. I want to be able to look back in 25 years and see that the experiences of my early twenties are still very much a part of me.
This is a list of 10 life lessons I learned while living in Morocco. In no way is this list in order of importance nor is it exhaustive—many more lessons are still to be learned. Note: Two others—importance of networking and working in public service—were left off and will be written about at later date.
1. Think Global, Act Local
This reflects a shift in my perspective more than anything else. For me, this means having an understanding of the world but realizing that what you can do, with available or potentially available resources, what you have control over, is in one’s community (and we each define community differently). I need to always be aware of the macro environment trying to see the big picture but knowing what I can do to affect even the smallest thing. Working at the grassroots level taught me that systematic change and movements happen when, collectively, all those small things start to come together and build upon each other.
2. The Difference Between Illiteracy and Ignorance
Ten days into my arrival in Morocco, upon being placed with a host family during training, I had my first real experience with illiteracy upon realizing that the adult women were trying to read the Arabic script in my language textbook. EYEOPENER. This was the first step towards breaking down my ignorance and learning to appreciate and understand illiteracy. Here I was, this college educated, well-traveled female ready to impact and change this community for the better but not realizing that it was I who had more to learn than they. The illiterate women that took pity on me were my teachers, slowly but surely breaking down my ignorance and imparting their wisdom and worldview on me over copious amounts of tea.
Maya Angelou said it best with this passage from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings:
“As she began the first of what we later called my ‘lessons in living,’ she said that I must always be intolerant of ignorance but understanding of illiteracy. That some people, unable to go to school, were more educated and even more intelligent than college professors. She encouraged me to listen carefully to what country people called mother-wit. That in those homely sayings was couched the collective wisdom of generations.”
On quite possibly my worst day in site—when I was convinced the world was conspiring against me—fighting with every fiber of my being not to breakdown in tears, not to retreat to the friendly confines of my house, where I could pick up To Kill A Mockingbird and mentally transport myself back to the South, I found my way to the host family’s. Naima took me into her arms, eventually pried me out of them, put Ali in my still-needing-a-hug-arms with instructions to sit down and wait while she made a pot of tea for us. Over tea, she asked what was wrong. Slowly and painfully, I went through the events of the day eventually resorting into a little tirade of hate while she listened intently and patiently. I finished and expected her to show me at least a little bit of sympathy. I got none. Naima simply shrugged and said, “Miskina (poor thing), this is Morocco not America.”
It was like she had hit me over the head with the decades-old cast iron skillet she uses to make fat bread. Instead of adding insult to injury, this was an epiphany for me. She was not willing to let me, this [then] 22-year-old white girl, sit at her table ignorantly cursing the stupidity of Moroccans (I’m sure my tirade included hateful words toward Moroccan men, soap operas and arranged marriages). Over many more cups of tea, I came to really know the women in my village, listening to them while trying to soak up as many “lessons in living” as I could.
To wrap up this concept, I turn to the wonderful Somali (and Canadian) rapper, K’naan. In the song “For Mohammed” on his Dusty Foot Philosopher album, he articulately defines “the dusty foot philosopher”: the one that’s poor, that lives in poverty but lives in a dignified manner, and philosophizes about the universe. They talk about things that read people do and they’ve never read. They’ve never been on a plane but they can tell you what is beyond the clouds.
3. Be Quick But Don’t Hurry
Or a longer title “Be quick [showing confidence with deliberate movements] but don’t hurry [showing a measured level of patience].
The single biggest teacher as it pertains to this was the Moroccan public transport system. I would hurry to the taxi stand only to have to wait—sometimes hours—for the taxi to fill. Two blizzards in a week dumped several meters of snow overwhelming the snow removal crew and I have a plane ticket to the US for the following week. Plus, PCV after PCV is inundating my phone with texts inquiring if the road is open. After about the 3rd day of approaching the taxi stand knowing the answer to my question, I finally succumbed to reality. No matter what I did nothing would advance the process. Day and day, I would approach the taxi stand knowing that somehow, there will always be time and I would, eventually, get to where I needed to go.
One of the most common phrases I heard in my two years was “There is still time”—their way of saying “be patient.” I found that if I was patient I was also displaying confidence. My voice was a good indicator of my confidence level. If I was wavering and not entirely certain, I had language troubles and language troubles led to problems in other areas. I HAD to be confident or else I could not bargain with store owners, work with the cooperative, or have daily interactions in my site.
4. You Have To Go To Know
Much travel is need before a raw man is ripened—Arab proverb
Books, newspapers, and magazines do their best to provide facts, anecdotes and stories about the world, its many cultures and religions but to gain an in-depth understanding of another place, one must go there. Spend time amongst the people, shop at their markets, observe their daily interactions, sincerely attempt to speak the local language, etc. I thought I knew this lesson before moving to Morocco. I came to realize just how much I did not understand this concept previously.
More importantly, by moving to a small town at the top of a mountain in a foreign country where I did not speak the local language or adhere to the same religious beliefs, I was away from almost everything I knew and thus, out of my comfort zone. I quickly realized that in order to perform my job to the best of my ability, I needed to make Morocco my comfort zone. It seems to me that no matter where you are, the early twenties are formative years of your life. I was blessed beyond words with the opportunity to move to Morocco, to live in the village I did, to meet the people who impacted my life for the better, to have the chance to grow into an adult where no one knew me as child, a teenager (heaven forbid) or my parents. For the rest of my life, I will have a different (or maybe, more complicated) view of the Muslim world and of Morocco with its rich culture and traditions.
5. Travel the World in Books
Yes, I know I just said being an armchair traveler is not enough but one still should read about the world. Before I left for Morocco, I read a couple of guidebooks and considered that sufficient. WRONG. I needed to read novels and travel memoirs about Morocco and the region. I did not even bother to read Paul Bowles, Paul Theroux or Peter Hessler. After reading their books, I got a much better glimpse into Morocco, grassroots development, and life in the Peace Corps than the guidebooks. It was not until I had access to the Peace Corps library and the brains of other PCVs that I became aware of writers like Fatima Mernissi and Tahir Shah. I did not know how much I was missing out!
During the World Cup, I found myself becoming increasingly nostalgic for Africa. I used the opportunity to listen to nothing but African music and read books featuring South Africa. Emotionally, I removed myself from my current location and transported myself to lands far away. Vice versa, while in Morocco I would read passages from To Kill A Mockingbird while in Morocco to mentally transport myself back to the South.
6. The Power of Fresh Socks
“When you are pretty sure an adventure is gonna happen, brush the honey off your nose and spruce yourself up as best you can, so as to look ready for anything.” -Winnie the Pooh
When in a funk, I would try to do something to ‘spruce’ myself up—going to the hammam, switching from yoga pants to jeans, and yes, changing my socks. That feeling one gets when they want to slightly change things up…you know, when you decide to wear the cute dress instead of your traditional jeans and T-shirt. The cute dress is out of the question in Morocco—I think my host family would disown me—so, I had settled for the seemingly simple task of changing my socks. For those used to the comforts of central heat, you may be puzzled with the phrase “seemingly simple.” My fellow PCVs know what I am talking about. Changing socks requires you to peel off multiple pairs of socks—usually 3, in my case—and expose your toes to the frigid mountain air. And that requires more than one mental pep talk. The feeling of clean socks on your feet is mighty refreshing, though.
7. Greetings
“Salaam wa-lekum”
“May-taa-nit?”
“Labas”
“Kulsi bixir?”
“Hamdullah”
These Arabic phrases are instantly recognizable to all who have the slightest understanding of Moroccan Arabic or Berber. No verbal exchange is ever conducted without first uttering these phrases. Before one can ask for directions, order food, negotiate a sale, etc; pleasantries must be exchanged.
Knowing how to converse with the locals in their own language opens doors. When a foreigner seems to infiltrate even the darkest depths of the Fez medina, the locals usually assume it is a tourist lost in the wondrous maze that defines the world’s largest car-free urban space. Sometimes, though, they find that the foreigner opens their mouth and out comes Darija (Moroccan dialect of Arabic) or better yet, one of the Berber languages. And that is how the locals can distinguish who belongs in their alleys, their secret spots, at their dinner table, and needs a delicious home-cooked Moroccan meal.
8. The Value of Communal Dishes
The act of breaking bread with others does wonders in promoting world peace and friendship. Communal dishes force communication and respect. When one is sharing the same loaf of bread and plate of food, it is not wise to disagree. In the States, we have our own plates. The separation is clear—mine is mine and yours is yours. You can go through a meal without talking, just shoveling utensils full of food into your mouth. Communal dishes force you to talk—who gets that carrot or the larger piece of meat—and when sharing the same plate of food, it is wise to respect and trust your neighbors.
9. More Unites Us Than Divides Us
“This may be the curse of the human race…not that we are so different from one another but that we are so alike.” –Salman Rushdie
In many conversations I have with people in America in regards to my readjustment, a constant theme has emerged. I find myself talking about how similar Panama City seems to Morocco. Sure, Panama City is much bigger than my site in terms of size and population. But the similarities are numerable. As another PCV said, we may look different, have different beliefs but underneath it all, we all have the same needs and desires. We want education for our children, safe communities, jobs, clean water, etc.
One day about two months after I returned, I went for a run in the downtown area. At the strike of 6, really close to sundown, the church bells from the First Baptist Church pierced the silence. I slowed up, paused, and thought to myself “what a beautiful call to prayer.” I was, momentarily, thinking this was the same call to prayer I heard five times a day in Morocco.
I was at Christmas party last year carrying on a conversation with someone who had also spent time in an Islamic country. One topic that quickly came up: the call to prayer. The other person made the comment to the effect “I hate it. It rings at all hours of the day, waking you up in the middle of the night.” I was stunned. I consider the Islamic call to prayer one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. I explained my position and mentioned that the two of us lived in the Muslim world in two different experiences—he was there involuntary as a member of the military. I CHOSE to move to Morocco, to live by myself in a small village where I knew no one, to learn the local language and work to improve the community. One of the perks of my job was that I could lounge on the roof of Café Clock in Fes at sunset and hear each muezzin sing the call to prayer, the echo of each minaret as the call is spread throughout the world’s most-intact medieval city. The other person in this conversation was hearing the call to prayer while on patrol wearing a bullet-proof vest and carrying a gun.
And sometimes the atmosphere feels the same. As one volunteer said to me while out and about in the beach resort town of Agadir, “Elizabeth, do you feel at home here?! This place is just like PCB!” In some ways, you never leave home.
10. Build a Relationship with Food
Morocco taught me the value of food. You want something—make it. Pizza, for example. Work for it—knead the dough, make the sauce from scratch, grate the cheese, and cut all those toppings. After putting in the work, you want to savor it, cherish it.
Oh, and meat—I love thee. More importantly, I appreciate meat. I think this hit home when, in site, I pointed to a turkey, said “I want that one,” and bought it—it was to be the Thanksgiving turkey. SiMo carried the kicking and screaming turkey to the butcher who put the poor animal out of his misery. I was handed a ready-to-be seasoned turkey. This entire process took a total of 30 minutes; I was traumatized for weeks. I recovered, eventually. The turkey was raised as humanely as possible, sold to me by the local turkey cooperative, butchered in a matter of seconds, cooked and eaten the next day—all in the same 24 hours.
If all meat was consumed this way, just imagine how much less meat we would eat! I sure eat a lot less meat than I did before Morocco. One reason is because the process I went through with my turkey cannot be duplicated with ease here. Another reason, meat does not taste as good. In Morocco, it is like I could taste the tender love and care that went into raising each animal, the anguish it took to kill the animal, and the time it took to properly cook the meat.
Disclaimer: Each Peace Corps volunteer has a unique experience, similar to other PCVs in many ways, different in just as many ways. While I am sure that several of my PCV colleagues learned many of these same lessons and hold similar views, I speak only for myself.
Travel news: I leave in two weeks for a month in Southeast Asia. My sister is currently studying in Bangkok. I plan to spend a week in Bangkok and its environs, visit Angkor Wat, experience a few of the islands, go to a yoga retreat, spend a few days in Singapore and a week in Malaysia before flying back to Panama City before Christmas. I’m stoked.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Readjusting to the “Do-It-Yourself” Culture
The “Do-It-Yourself” culture—that would be America. Even more, all things D-I-Y are what America prides itself in, celebrates, and acts pompously about. Well, Morocco is not exactly like that. As I go about daily errands here, I realize how long it has been since I have had do something like pump gas, print photos, and bathe myself (yes, I am aware of how that sounds). No one pumps their own gas in Morocco; the gas stations have attendants to help you. You want me to print my photos using this machine? How do I work it? Will you do it for me? In Morocco, it was a fight to have the slightest bit of control over what photos got printed from the USB. I am yearning to go to the hammam; it has been 2 months since I last went. My body is still adjusting to multiple showers a week and the lack of a kis (the rough scrubbing glove).
I am keeping 2 running lists—one of things I find perplexing about America, another of things I LOVE about America. For example, toilet paper. There is so much tissue on one roll and it is available everywhere. While I decry public restrooms for not having Turkish toilets, I love walking into a gas station bathroom with the expectation that toilet paper will be there.
As January nears its end, I am slowly forcing myself to deal with the future. It is a struggle. I feel I should be traveling to Azrou once a week. I want to text Kathy, Anna and Colin to ask if they want to meet at Abdou’s or Bilal to play Piffle. Where did my daily routine of coffee, breakfast, post office, hanut, and checking in with the fam go? I want to hold onto as much of Morocco as I can while starting a life for myself below the Mason-Dixon line—some sort of Southern-Moroccan fusion.
I thought I would have more figured out by now. I feel lost or maybe it is a different form of wanderlust; I do not know. I signed up for the LSAT two weeks from now. The studying has given me something to do—anything to take my mind off from pondering just how weird America is.
Much of this month has been spent on the road. One thing I LOVE about being back is the ability to get behind the wheel of my car and go, just go. No grand taxis, no worries about being a single woman traveling, and no Peace Corps rules. Liberating is the right word. After all the Christmas mayhem (and my numerous rants about consumerism), I went on a much-needed road trip to North Carolina. I spent time with family I have not seen in several years reconnecting with them, for the first-time as an adult. A small RPCV reunion was arranged in Charlotte complete with great food, drinks and Anny’s cooking. I visited an old friend in Augusta, GA; our evening featured an art show—the medium was printmaking, the theme fused the South with humanitarian causes (really cool)—and wine tasting. Only to be followed with dinner, homemade sangria and the Augusta nightlife. Amazing.
Mentally, I feel like I am in 2007—not 2010 like everyone else around me. I find myself questioning why America is not the same as it was in summer 2007. I missed out on so much but had adventures that those around me cannot fathom. Compensating or reconciling these two realities is what I find challenging in the day to day. This is all a winding way to say that readjustment is much harder than I imagined. Maybe I was not quite as ready to leave Morocco as I thought I was.
I am keeping 2 running lists—one of things I find perplexing about America, another of things I LOVE about America. For example, toilet paper. There is so much tissue on one roll and it is available everywhere. While I decry public restrooms for not having Turkish toilets, I love walking into a gas station bathroom with the expectation that toilet paper will be there.
As January nears its end, I am slowly forcing myself to deal with the future. It is a struggle. I feel I should be traveling to Azrou once a week. I want to text Kathy, Anna and Colin to ask if they want to meet at Abdou’s or Bilal to play Piffle. Where did my daily routine of coffee, breakfast, post office, hanut, and checking in with the fam go? I want to hold onto as much of Morocco as I can while starting a life for myself below the Mason-Dixon line—some sort of Southern-Moroccan fusion.
I thought I would have more figured out by now. I feel lost or maybe it is a different form of wanderlust; I do not know. I signed up for the LSAT two weeks from now. The studying has given me something to do—anything to take my mind off from pondering just how weird America is.
Much of this month has been spent on the road. One thing I LOVE about being back is the ability to get behind the wheel of my car and go, just go. No grand taxis, no worries about being a single woman traveling, and no Peace Corps rules. Liberating is the right word. After all the Christmas mayhem (and my numerous rants about consumerism), I went on a much-needed road trip to North Carolina. I spent time with family I have not seen in several years reconnecting with them, for the first-time as an adult. A small RPCV reunion was arranged in Charlotte complete with great food, drinks and Anny’s cooking. I visited an old friend in Augusta, GA; our evening featured an art show—the medium was printmaking, the theme fused the South with humanitarian causes (really cool)—and wine tasting. Only to be followed with dinner, homemade sangria and the Augusta nightlife. Amazing.
Mentally, I feel like I am in 2007—not 2010 like everyone else around me. I find myself questioning why America is not the same as it was in summer 2007. I missed out on so much but had adventures that those around me cannot fathom. Compensating or reconciling these two realities is what I find challenging in the day to day. This is all a winding way to say that readjustment is much harder than I imagined. Maybe I was not quite as ready to leave Morocco as I thought I was.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Home. There's No Place Like Home.
Well…I am home. Home as in America. Home as in Florida. Home as in Panama City—in the house I grew up in and will be stationed for an indeterminate amount of time.
It has been a month since I left site. While emotional, the goodbyes were not overwhelmingly sad. In fact, they went much better than I was expecting. I know (and my host family knows) that I will be back someday. Just when that day will be is anyone’s guess—well, on second thought, it is MY guess as to when I will return so all I can say is inshallah. When saying goodbye to Naima—what I anticipated to be the second-hardest goodbye, she told me to go to America, go back to school, learn as much as I can since I have the opportunity to do just that, and tell people about Morocco. When I do all that, it will be time to return to the little mountain village that arguably was a better teaching tool than any formal learning environment could have offered.
Amazingly enough, I held it together during Naima's little speech. Even more amazing considering that just 2 days before, I found out that she was attending the first ever (written Arabic) literacy classes for women to be held in town. Of all the wonderful women I had the pleasure of getting to know in the last 2 and half years, she was, by far, the most wonderful.
The two times I came close to breaking down during the goodbyes was when my host family presented me with a pair of beautiful earrings after throwing a large neighborhood party in my honor; and on my final morning, when Ali woke up, ran up to me, kissed me and said “Sbah Lxir, Ilham” (translation: good morning, my Arabic name).
The last few days in country were a whirlwind as I tried to wrap up all sorts of Peace Corps administrative items in Rabat. The mix of feelings surrounding COS is hard to convey but it seemed like the 40 other soon-to-be RPCVs were (and currently are) going through the same thing. Maybe this is why it is difficult to talk about the last 2 years now that I am home and moving about town.
In the intervening 4 weeks between finishing Peace Corps and returning home, I spent a week in London with my sisters. They were the first to experience my awkwardness in the Western world. I’m sure they will attest to my struggles with English and being on “African time”.
Just in time, I flew to Barcelona and was back in a semi-comfort zone as I joined 16 other RPCVs from Morocco, 2 from Peace Corps Cameroon, and (a completely coincidence) 2 from Peace Corps Niger. We boarded a boat sailing around the Mediterranean and across the Atlantic. This was the best way (for me) to return to the US and finish off my Peace Corps time. 21 of us, all in the same situations, having a carefree time, enjoying each other’s company and while we all know each very well, growing just a little bit closer. Not too mention, the practice of talking with other passengers about our experiences these last 2 years and our plans going forward was invaluable.
Now, the carefree, no-hassles travel is over. No longer can I delay re-adjustment or hide from reverse culture shock. The life I have led for the last 2 and half years is over (maybe the more I say it, the more I will start to feel it). I must deal with reality (in America), assess the job situation, and do all the little housekeeping items—like getting car insurance.
I am trying to reconcile the parts of Moroccan life I loved with the parts of America I love. Inshallah, I will arrive at a place I have carved for myself and a life with a healthy balance. It helps to know that I have opportunities available, that I have a great network of family and friends in Panama City, and that I can pick up the phone and call one of the 40 other RPCVs going through the same process I am.
It has been a month since I left site. While emotional, the goodbyes were not overwhelmingly sad. In fact, they went much better than I was expecting. I know (and my host family knows) that I will be back someday. Just when that day will be is anyone’s guess—well, on second thought, it is MY guess as to when I will return so all I can say is inshallah. When saying goodbye to Naima—what I anticipated to be the second-hardest goodbye, she told me to go to America, go back to school, learn as much as I can since I have the opportunity to do just that, and tell people about Morocco. When I do all that, it will be time to return to the little mountain village that arguably was a better teaching tool than any formal learning environment could have offered.
Amazingly enough, I held it together during Naima's little speech. Even more amazing considering that just 2 days before, I found out that she was attending the first ever (written Arabic) literacy classes for women to be held in town. Of all the wonderful women I had the pleasure of getting to know in the last 2 and half years, she was, by far, the most wonderful.
The two times I came close to breaking down during the goodbyes was when my host family presented me with a pair of beautiful earrings after throwing a large neighborhood party in my honor; and on my final morning, when Ali woke up, ran up to me, kissed me and said “Sbah Lxir, Ilham” (translation: good morning, my Arabic name).
The last few days in country were a whirlwind as I tried to wrap up all sorts of Peace Corps administrative items in Rabat. The mix of feelings surrounding COS is hard to convey but it seemed like the 40 other soon-to-be RPCVs were (and currently are) going through the same thing. Maybe this is why it is difficult to talk about the last 2 years now that I am home and moving about town.
In the intervening 4 weeks between finishing Peace Corps and returning home, I spent a week in London with my sisters. They were the first to experience my awkwardness in the Western world. I’m sure they will attest to my struggles with English and being on “African time”.
Just in time, I flew to Barcelona and was back in a semi-comfort zone as I joined 16 other RPCVs from Morocco, 2 from Peace Corps Cameroon, and (a completely coincidence) 2 from Peace Corps Niger. We boarded a boat sailing around the Mediterranean and across the Atlantic. This was the best way (for me) to return to the US and finish off my Peace Corps time. 21 of us, all in the same situations, having a carefree time, enjoying each other’s company and while we all know each very well, growing just a little bit closer. Not too mention, the practice of talking with other passengers about our experiences these last 2 years and our plans going forward was invaluable.
Now, the carefree, no-hassles travel is over. No longer can I delay re-adjustment or hide from reverse culture shock. The life I have led for the last 2 and half years is over (maybe the more I say it, the more I will start to feel it). I must deal with reality (in America), assess the job situation, and do all the little housekeeping items—like getting car insurance.
I am trying to reconcile the parts of Moroccan life I loved with the parts of America I love. Inshallah, I will arrive at a place I have carved for myself and a life with a healthy balance. It helps to know that I have opportunities available, that I have a great network of family and friends in Panama City, and that I can pick up the phone and call one of the 40 other RPCVs going through the same process I am.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
saying goodbye, travel plans and updates
Unless I can find the words to describe all the emotions and feelings running rampant at this moment, this will be the last blog post from Morocco. There is just too much going on right now to write but if the Internet cooperates, the Flickr page will be updated today. I have every intention to continue blogging after my return to the good ole USA. So in a month, look for more posts featuring more reflection, more wrap-up, and possibly my COS travels.
In a week, I leave site. How do I say goodbye to a village that has fed me, cared for me, and taught me what a textbook cannot? For so long, I have considered myself “ready” to leave. And I am ready to leave Peace Corps and to move on from Morocco. But actually packing to leave and saying goodbye is another story. This is painful.
November 20th is the day I “stamp out” and become a RPCV—stands for Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. On the 21st, I am on a plane to London where I will spend a week with Ellen and Katherine. This will be the first time my sisters and I have been together since September 2007 when I embarked on this adventure.
Just how will I get to Amerikah? I will be sailing the ocean blue, like Columbus, sharing the voyage with 19 other RPCVs!. Instead of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, the ship is named the Norwegian Gem—part of the Norwegian Cruise Line. I will arrive in the “New World”, after sailing past the Statue of Liberty, on December 12th and fly home on the 13th. For those of you in Panama City and surrounding areas, let’s set up some coffee dates or chats at Hofbrau. Please.
Moving forward, my vision for this blog is to continue to write and post updates about the re-adjustment process and future (and as yet unplanned) travel adventures—why I gave the blog a more general title than a Moroccan-themed title. Re-adjustment is going to be difficult. With each word I write about re-adjusting, the more scared I get. I have trouble with English—what words need to be used when, pronunciation, not slipping in random God phrases and Arabic words, etc. I am not used to being around Americans. I have forgotten how to act in social situations.
This year, Thanksgiving falls in the middle of the hectic COS travel period for my stage and is the same day as Leid Kbir for all those PCVs with time left in their service. Well, Halloween just happened to fall on a Saturday. So, Anna, a PCV close to me, decided to celebrate Thanksgiving at Halloween. Best. Idea. Ever. It was wonderful to talk about COS’ing with my fellow stagemates, share experiences with other PCVs, eat delightful food, and attend my last PCV party.
A friend of mine from UA came to visit last weekend and I used the opportunity to see Marrakech and Casablanca for the last time and Imlil for the first time. Adam is currently a Mitchell scholar in Belfast, Ireland studying rural development. (For the record, he can attest to my lack of social skills, pitiful knowledge of pop culture, and vocabulary/pronunciation issues.) We had a great visit seeing the sites of Marrakech; getting hushed because we screamed “Roll Tide” several times during the Bama-LSU game; discussing rural issues as we hiked around Imlil; talking politics, grad school, and law school; and just how do we get to where we want to go.
In a week, I leave site. How do I say goodbye to a village that has fed me, cared for me, and taught me what a textbook cannot? For so long, I have considered myself “ready” to leave. And I am ready to leave Peace Corps and to move on from Morocco. But actually packing to leave and saying goodbye is another story. This is painful.
November 20th is the day I “stamp out” and become a RPCV—stands for Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. On the 21st, I am on a plane to London where I will spend a week with Ellen and Katherine. This will be the first time my sisters and I have been together since September 2007 when I embarked on this adventure.
Just how will I get to Amerikah? I will be sailing the ocean blue, like Columbus, sharing the voyage with 19 other RPCVs!. Instead of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, the ship is named the Norwegian Gem—part of the Norwegian Cruise Line. I will arrive in the “New World”, after sailing past the Statue of Liberty, on December 12th and fly home on the 13th. For those of you in Panama City and surrounding areas, let’s set up some coffee dates or chats at Hofbrau. Please.
Moving forward, my vision for this blog is to continue to write and post updates about the re-adjustment process and future (and as yet unplanned) travel adventures—why I gave the blog a more general title than a Moroccan-themed title. Re-adjustment is going to be difficult. With each word I write about re-adjusting, the more scared I get. I have trouble with English—what words need to be used when, pronunciation, not slipping in random God phrases and Arabic words, etc. I am not used to being around Americans. I have forgotten how to act in social situations.
This year, Thanksgiving falls in the middle of the hectic COS travel period for my stage and is the same day as Leid Kbir for all those PCVs with time left in their service. Well, Halloween just happened to fall on a Saturday. So, Anna, a PCV close to me, decided to celebrate Thanksgiving at Halloween. Best. Idea. Ever. It was wonderful to talk about COS’ing with my fellow stagemates, share experiences with other PCVs, eat delightful food, and attend my last PCV party.
A friend of mine from UA came to visit last weekend and I used the opportunity to see Marrakech and Casablanca for the last time and Imlil for the first time. Adam is currently a Mitchell scholar in Belfast, Ireland studying rural development. (For the record, he can attest to my lack of social skills, pitiful knowledge of pop culture, and vocabulary/pronunciation issues.) We had a great visit seeing the sites of Marrakech; getting hushed because we screamed “Roll Tide” several times during the Bama-LSU game; discussing rural issues as we hiked around Imlil; talking politics, grad school, and law school; and just how do we get to where we want to go.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Trainges and Changes
To those of you who did not have the pleasure of traveling with me to the Mediterranean beach town of Ras la Ma, trainges is the act of changing trains (as defined by Urban Dictionary) and in PCV-speak, usually caused by a train derailment.
Much like that journey to the Mediterranean, a long train journey can describe these last two years. For any journey, one hopes for smooth passage but expects a few bumps along the road. Travel to my wonderful site did not involve an actual train so just metaphorically speaking, two years ago, I jumped on a train and began this crazy journey of being a Peace Corps volunteer.
So often, the journey seems to moving along just fine. The train moves at a methodical pace until all of a sudden, it does not. My Peace Corps journey seems to progress at a steady, albeit slow, pace until all of a sudden a “trainge” happens. I can point to specific examples where a “trainge” has been required: adjusting to my CBT site; the failure of the cooperative and switching work assignments to the computer literacy classes; and the most current, no new PCV in my area--what was supposed to happen. This latest halt on the tracks is forcing me to change how I deal with the last three weeks in site. I need to prepare the women starting an association to have no PCV support as they continue, figure out how to break the news to people I have grown to love, and come to terms with leaving and letting go.
The quote above is apt to what I have experienced the last few months and what is about to happen as I begin the difficult task of re-adjusting to America and Panama City. The first time this hit me was at COS conference in the Hotel Chellah—the same hotel we stayed at upon first arriving in country. Two years ago, it was “what do you think the next two years are going to be like” and the typical getting to know you/Peace Corps stuff. This time around, it was “what an amazing two years,” “can you believe it is over” and “this hotel is so much nicer than I remember.” (Oh what two years of budget, bug-infested hotels will do to you.)
It is a weird feeling knowing while everything seems the same, it is not. My host family has an old black and white photo of our town. Comparing that picture to the scene today, one sees schools where none previously existed; beautiful government buildings, power lines, and overall, a more prosperous-looking town. Unseen to the naked eye is the knowledge that laundry is still washed the same way; the food is the same, eaten and cooked the same way; and the daily routines and gender roles are still in force. I tend to focus on the bigger picture instead of looking at the little but important details. I am fairly certain that I can return here in 20 years and think everything is the same. All that I will need to do is look around and see how that 20-year gap has affected my perspective and look beyond to see ways in which this amazing place, my version of the simple life, has changed.
And for Panama City...I will be returning to live in my hometown after 3 years of college and 2 ½ years abroad. Panama City is not an unchanged place but I am afraid it will seem that way to me after the initial excitement of coming home wears off. That said, how nice will it be to walk down the beach, stare at the empty condo buildings, look out at the ocean and see “ways in which I have altered?”
In six weeks, I return to America. This current journey ends and another begins. I will see the alterations I have made to myself, learn the ways my perspective has changed, and just how the re-adjustment process will go. I am sure “trainges” will occur; bring them on.
Much like that journey to the Mediterranean, a long train journey can describe these last two years. For any journey, one hopes for smooth passage but expects a few bumps along the road. Travel to my wonderful site did not involve an actual train so just metaphorically speaking, two years ago, I jumped on a train and began this crazy journey of being a Peace Corps volunteer.
So often, the journey seems to moving along just fine. The train moves at a methodical pace until all of a sudden, it does not. My Peace Corps journey seems to progress at a steady, albeit slow, pace until all of a sudden a “trainge” happens. I can point to specific examples where a “trainge” has been required: adjusting to my CBT site; the failure of the cooperative and switching work assignments to the computer literacy classes; and the most current, no new PCV in my area--what was supposed to happen. This latest halt on the tracks is forcing me to change how I deal with the last three weeks in site. I need to prepare the women starting an association to have no PCV support as they continue, figure out how to break the news to people I have grown to love, and come to terms with leaving and letting go.
There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find ways in which you yourself have altered.
Nelson Mandela
The quote above is apt to what I have experienced the last few months and what is about to happen as I begin the difficult task of re-adjusting to America and Panama City. The first time this hit me was at COS conference in the Hotel Chellah—the same hotel we stayed at upon first arriving in country. Two years ago, it was “what do you think the next two years are going to be like” and the typical getting to know you/Peace Corps stuff. This time around, it was “what an amazing two years,” “can you believe it is over” and “this hotel is so much nicer than I remember.” (Oh what two years of budget, bug-infested hotels will do to you.)
It is a weird feeling knowing while everything seems the same, it is not. My host family has an old black and white photo of our town. Comparing that picture to the scene today, one sees schools where none previously existed; beautiful government buildings, power lines, and overall, a more prosperous-looking town. Unseen to the naked eye is the knowledge that laundry is still washed the same way; the food is the same, eaten and cooked the same way; and the daily routines and gender roles are still in force. I tend to focus on the bigger picture instead of looking at the little but important details. I am fairly certain that I can return here in 20 years and think everything is the same. All that I will need to do is look around and see how that 20-year gap has affected my perspective and look beyond to see ways in which this amazing place, my version of the simple life, has changed.
And for Panama City...I will be returning to live in my hometown after 3 years of college and 2 ½ years abroad. Panama City is not an unchanged place but I am afraid it will seem that way to me after the initial excitement of coming home wears off. That said, how nice will it be to walk down the beach, stare at the empty condo buildings, look out at the ocean and see “ways in which I have altered?”
In six weeks, I return to America. This current journey ends and another begins. I will see the alterations I have made to myself, learn the ways my perspective has changed, and just how the re-adjustment process will go. I am sure “trainges” will occur; bring them on.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Looking in the Rearview Mirror
The many times I dreamed about COS’ing, I envisioned being very Zen. Life here would approach its natural conclusion and all I would need to do was enjoy the moment. Well, less than a month to go and I am filled with anxiety, disbelief, and doing everything possible to not be wack-evac’d.
Anxious about the next volunteer in my area…Will she like it? What if she thinks the site is too rough (bone-chillingly cold in the winter and no running water)? Her site—it’s 10K away from me—will be tough. The community is wonderful. Something could happen, though, and a deserving community will be without a PCV. I am nervous and a little bit scared about that possibility.
Writing the required description of service, finishing the site journals for future volunteers in the area and going through my old journals has me looking in the rearview mirror. At the beginning of this journey, the best adjective to describe me would be ‘naïve.’ I was SO naïve that it is hard to believe such a high level of naivety exists. All my bold, long-term visions? Ha. Absolutely laughable. Still, I have retained most of my idealism (I think) but it is more of a hardened idealism if there is such a thing. I was 9 months into service when the bottom dropped out, my ignorance was painfully gone, and it became clear: I had no idea how HARD Peace Corps would be.
The fact that I have almost completed the 27-month service committment is surreal. In my dark, depressive periods I was ready to call programming staff and say “I cannot take it anymore. I want to go home” My long-term visions turned into a focus on short, immediate results. The women’s computer literacy project took off and has been wildly successful. The women graduated and started their own business—a bakery for the traditional Ramadan sweets!!! And now they are trying to start two more ventures.
Compared to all the days behind me in site, it seems like the few remaining days should be a piece of cake. Wrong. Last week at the post office, I had the nerve to ask my postman to look the mailroom for a package that should have arrived awhile ago. He was not happy with my request and said so, loudly and rudely. All I could do was mutter--to myself--the number of days left in site.
Looking back at the aspiration statement I was required to write shortly before arriving in Morocco, these were the first 2 lines: “During my Peace Corps service, I hope to affect the lives of those in my host community and leave a mark on those around me. Also, I know that everyone I meet will leave their mark on me.” That second sentence…I am a better person today because of all those around me. Yes, I have gained professional experience and invaluable grassroots/community development knowledge but what has helped me mature and grow into an adult are the friendships I have made with women in the weaving cooperative, the women in the computer classes, various families in town, my wonderful host family, and easily, the most inspirational, best group of people I have ever met, my fellow PCVs.
Anxious about the next volunteer in my area…Will she like it? What if she thinks the site is too rough (bone-chillingly cold in the winter and no running water)? Her site—it’s 10K away from me—will be tough. The community is wonderful. Something could happen, though, and a deserving community will be without a PCV. I am nervous and a little bit scared about that possibility.
Writing the required description of service, finishing the site journals for future volunteers in the area and going through my old journals has me looking in the rearview mirror. At the beginning of this journey, the best adjective to describe me would be ‘naïve.’ I was SO naïve that it is hard to believe such a high level of naivety exists. All my bold, long-term visions? Ha. Absolutely laughable. Still, I have retained most of my idealism (I think) but it is more of a hardened idealism if there is such a thing. I was 9 months into service when the bottom dropped out, my ignorance was painfully gone, and it became clear: I had no idea how HARD Peace Corps would be.
The fact that I have almost completed the 27-month service committment is surreal. In my dark, depressive periods I was ready to call programming staff and say “I cannot take it anymore. I want to go home” My long-term visions turned into a focus on short, immediate results. The women’s computer literacy project took off and has been wildly successful. The women graduated and started their own business—a bakery for the traditional Ramadan sweets!!! And now they are trying to start two more ventures.
Compared to all the days behind me in site, it seems like the few remaining days should be a piece of cake. Wrong. Last week at the post office, I had the nerve to ask my postman to look the mailroom for a package that should have arrived awhile ago. He was not happy with my request and said so, loudly and rudely. All I could do was mutter--to myself--the number of days left in site.
Looking back at the aspiration statement I was required to write shortly before arriving in Morocco, these were the first 2 lines: “During my Peace Corps service, I hope to affect the lives of those in my host community and leave a mark on those around me. Also, I know that everyone I meet will leave their mark on me.” That second sentence…I am a better person today because of all those around me. Yes, I have gained professional experience and invaluable grassroots/community development knowledge but what has helped me mature and grow into an adult are the friendships I have made with women in the weaving cooperative, the women in the computer classes, various families in town, my wonderful host family, and easily, the most inspirational, best group of people I have ever met, my fellow PCVs.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Ahhh, Fall
I love fall. Gone is the oppressiveness of summer, Ramadan, and nights full of noisy celebrations. In style, currently: sunny days with a slight chill in the air, busy days and leisurely nights, and my favorite fruit season—pomegranates and apples.
Walking around town is such a pleasure these days. I see stacks of wood and say “lhamdullah” to myself, because I will do not have to endure another Middle Atlas winter. But on the chillier nights, I see smoke rising from forno pipes, smell the roasting wood and think about how much I will miss the simplicity of this place.
The time has come for me to sit down and try to put the last 2 years in perspective. So a couple hours a day, I sit on a park bench here,
going through my old journals, from the first page of journal #1 to the last page of journal #4 (currently writing in #5); developing site journals for the new volunteer and future volunteers, and reading.
Occasionally, I pause to stare at the hills and wonder if snow will fall before I leave—in just 36 days. My thoughts go from excitement regarding my COS travel plans to anxious about the re-adjustment process. Of course, since it is college football season, the fact that Alabama is now ranked #2 is never far away. Roll Tide!
Walking around town is such a pleasure these days. I see stacks of wood and say “lhamdullah” to myself, because I will do not have to endure another Middle Atlas winter. But on the chillier nights, I see smoke rising from forno pipes, smell the roasting wood and think about how much I will miss the simplicity of this place.
The time has come for me to sit down and try to put the last 2 years in perspective. So a couple hours a day, I sit on a park bench here,
going through my old journals, from the first page of journal #1 to the last page of journal #4 (currently writing in #5); developing site journals for the new volunteer and future volunteers, and reading.
Occasionally, I pause to stare at the hills and wonder if snow will fall before I leave—in just 36 days. My thoughts go from excitement regarding my COS travel plans to anxious about the re-adjustment process. Of course, since it is college football season, the fact that Alabama is now ranked #2 is never far away. Roll Tide!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Coolest Thing
What’s the coolest thing you have done in Morocco?
Ummmm, how exactly does one answer this question? I have lived in this country for 750 days, give or take a day, learning the language, traveling extensively, living with the locals. My time here has been filled with experiences I could not have imagined when I applied for Peace Corps.
Some background on the question: The volunteers who will be replacing my group arrived in country a few weeks ago. Several of them are training in Azrou. On Saturday, the PCV in Azrou organized a hike for the trainees and the volunteers in the region. Close to the summit of our favorite hike in Azrou, one of the new arrivals asked me, “what’s the coolest thing you have done in Morocco?”
I was quick to say that I could not pick “the coolest thing” because I have done so many “cool things” the last two years. I ended up describing my 50-foot cliff jump into the Mediterranean Sea as the coolest thing I had done in the last 4 months.
Now that I have had a couple of days to sit on the question, I have compiled a list of my “coolest things”:
(in order of occurrence)
• Building a snowman with SiMo, complete with a Bama hat on its’ head
• Shaking the hand of a princess and exchanging small talk with her
• Seeing King Mohammed VI live and in the flesh
• Watching hard-working, illiterate women meet the king and receive a large grant
• Being asked if I “speak kayak” before being allowed to paddle in the Atlantic Ocean
• Showing my host family my election ballot
• Riding a camel through the Merzouga dunes
• Running in 2 organized 5Ks
• Watching women graduate from literacy classes
• And most recent, visiting the chill beach town of Ras La Ma near Saidia. If you want a beach town comparison, think Grayton Beach. Ras La Ma is home to the aforementioned cliffs. Jumping off the 50-footer was terrifying but morphed into exhilaration about halfway down. And surfacing, shaking my head trying to get my bearings was a thrill like none other.
Ummmm, how exactly does one answer this question? I have lived in this country for 750 days, give or take a day, learning the language, traveling extensively, living with the locals. My time here has been filled with experiences I could not have imagined when I applied for Peace Corps.
Some background on the question: The volunteers who will be replacing my group arrived in country a few weeks ago. Several of them are training in Azrou. On Saturday, the PCV in Azrou organized a hike for the trainees and the volunteers in the region. Close to the summit of our favorite hike in Azrou, one of the new arrivals asked me, “what’s the coolest thing you have done in Morocco?”
I was quick to say that I could not pick “the coolest thing” because I have done so many “cool things” the last two years. I ended up describing my 50-foot cliff jump into the Mediterranean Sea as the coolest thing I had done in the last 4 months.
Now that I have had a couple of days to sit on the question, I have compiled a list of my “coolest things”:
(in order of occurrence)
• Building a snowman with SiMo, complete with a Bama hat on its’ head
• Shaking the hand of a princess and exchanging small talk with her
• Seeing King Mohammed VI live and in the flesh
• Watching hard-working, illiterate women meet the king and receive a large grant
• Being asked if I “speak kayak” before being allowed to paddle in the Atlantic Ocean
• Showing my host family my election ballot
• Riding a camel through the Merzouga dunes
• Running in 2 organized 5Ks
• Watching women graduate from literacy classes
• And most recent, visiting the chill beach town of Ras La Ma near Saidia. If you want a beach town comparison, think Grayton Beach. Ras La Ma is home to the aforementioned cliffs. Jumping off the 50-footer was terrifying but morphed into exhilaration about halfway down. And surfacing, shaking my head trying to get my bearings was a thrill like none other.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Summer Hikes
Summer is officially over! What did I do when not traveling in the UK and around the Mediterranean? I went hiking around the Azrou area! Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here is a photo montage of the beautiful Middle Atlas landscape (plus a few Lake District hikes just 'cause):
As you can see, summer = brown. Sadly, the lush green of spring has faded away.
The cedar forest
Ah, the sunset
I am watching the sunset and thinking about how the sun is starting to set on my service
Mom, Dad and I at the top of Castlehead in the Lake District
Parents, Twink and I at Latrigg with the town of Keswick and Derwentwater behind us—FYI, I highly recommend a trip to the Lake District of England. Spectacular scenery, LOTS of outdoor adventures, and great pubs. What more could you want?
As you can see, summer = brown. Sadly, the lush green of spring has faded away.
The cedar forest
Ah, the sunset
I am watching the sunset and thinking about how the sun is starting to set on my service
Mom, Dad and I at the top of Castlehead in the Lake District
Parents, Twink and I at Latrigg with the town of Keswick and Derwentwater behind us—FYI, I highly recommend a trip to the Lake District of England. Spectacular scenery, LOTS of outdoor adventures, and great pubs. What more could you want?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Site Updates
'Tis been awhile since I have updated y'all on the comings and goings in my site. So, here you go.
- In terms of importance, this is number one. Well, not really when you consider the other news I have to share but its my favorite. Ali (he's 2 now!) has finally said my name. Back in November, a PCV who writes poetry asked my stage (training group) to finish the follow sentence: Before I Leave. One of the things I mentioned was Ali saying my name. 10 months later, it has finally occurred. A couple of weeks ago, I was impatiently watching the seconds' hand on the clock tick before lftur at the host family's. Ali ran up to me, pulled on my shirt and said "E-ham." While this is not exactly how to pronounce my Arabic name (Ilham) but its close enough. I looked at Naima, Ali's mom, and she confirmed that he was saying "Ilham" the best way a 2-year-old can.
Its been a long time comin' (I use this phrase merely because its one of my favorite) but trash cans have finally arrived. Yep, that is right. I can now dispose of my trash in a respectable manner 2 blocks from my front door. When I arrived so long ago, there were a couple of plastic buckets nailed to lamp posts but after a few months, they disappeared. For the last 18 months or so, I have been carrying my trash to the nearest dumpster, 30 k away. Not anymore!
A piece of land that was covered in trash, rocks, and feces was bulldozed when the king came. Then a haphazard fence went up and just in the last few months, work was been underway to make it into a small promenade complete with park benches and trashcans. A public land beautification project—something I would not have expected two years ago and something to lessen my cynicism and increase my optimism.
Another trash-related item: I watched Ali throw away his trash. In a place where trash is just thrown out the window or dropped on the ground, Ali's action is important to me. He finished his yogurt, walked over to the trash can, lifted the lid, and threw away the empty carton. I jumped up and engulfed him in a big hug, startling him and making the others laugh.
Upon settling in, I quickly realized that one of the best things I could do as a Peace Corps volunteer was to be a good influence, especially for Ali and SiMo (he is now 9). This sounds smug and portrays me as a bit of a high horse but honestly, I do not care. Part of my job description is to act as a cross-cultural ambassador. Those boys need better influences than the boys who throw rocks at me, than the men who whistle, honk and shout sexually-explicit phrases at me, than the ones who disdain education. For the record, they do have great male role models in their family. Side Note: The new school year started yesterday. For a week now, it is all SiMo can talk about. His enthusiasm is contagious and makes me excited about the next 2 months.
- A bakery has opened, operated by the women who graduated from the computer classes! They wrote up the business proposal in Microsoft Word, a budget in Excel, and presented it to the commune president who donated the use of a building and storefront until the end of Ramadan. Using skills they learned in class, they have started to bring supplemental income to the community.
Little by little, goals are accomplished in this mountain village. It is hard to think about education, marketing options, and the environment when wood is scarce but crucial to surviving the harsh winter and food prices increase due to higher transport costs. But in 4 years (as far back as my information goes), the Internet has arrived, literacy classes have begun, women are forming associations and starting businesses, an inn has opened, INDH (the Moroccan version of UNDP) has built an office, and a large project is underway to bring water to every home. Yes, little by little or as we say here, "shiwya b shiwya."
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
my last Ramadan
19 days down, 11 to go.
My third and final Ramadan began during my vacation to the Mediterranean so these 19 days have had me on the move. Between vacation and COS conference, I returned to site a week into Ramadan. Traveling during fasting is no fun. Fights break out. For those not fasting, it is inappropriate to drink water, much less eat. The best place to be is in site—although without travel, the time seems to go slower.
My favorite part of Ramadan: the food. Many of the dishes are only cooked during Ramadan—mostly because they are expensive—and the third time around, I have learned to cherish the savory treats.
Just what exactly is the Ramadan food? Here is a montage of pictures I took while breaking the fast with my host family.
The table with hard-boiled eggs, shebekia, zmita, dates, regular bread, and tea
Shebekia: dough mainly consisting of sugar, fried and soaked in honey
Zmita: mixture of sugar, dates, sesame seeds and a few other things I do not know
The main breads
In the foreground is melawi (a bready-type thick pancake) drizzled with melted butter and honey. By far, my favorite Ramadan food.
In the background is what volunteers have termed fat bread. It is melawi with a mixture of sheep fat (so literally, fat bread), onions, and cilantro in the middle.
Not pictured: harira, a minestrone-like soup with chickpeas. Super yummy.
While at lftur (means ‘breakfast’) last week, my host brother talked about President Obama’s short message to Muslims on the eve of Ramadan. I asked if he knew that Obama hosted a Lftur at the White House. Everyone at the table’s eyes got big and started asking questions. Did he fast? Did his wife (for the record, she has many fans here) fast? Who went? What foods did they eat? My answers: I do not know; I think Michelle did not go; lots of people in government, Muslims, non-Muslims, etc; I don’t know foods were served, respectively. When I mentioned the Lftur to a PCV last weekend, the first thing out of her mouth, “Did President Obama eat fat bread?!” Obviously, you can tell what we care about most. We want to know if our young, energetic president ate fried bread stuffed with animal fat. If it was on the menu, I am sure he passed on the opportunity. Not that I blame him. I only eat Xalti Helima’s.
My third and final Ramadan began during my vacation to the Mediterranean so these 19 days have had me on the move. Between vacation and COS conference, I returned to site a week into Ramadan. Traveling during fasting is no fun. Fights break out. For those not fasting, it is inappropriate to drink water, much less eat. The best place to be is in site—although without travel, the time seems to go slower.
My favorite part of Ramadan: the food. Many of the dishes are only cooked during Ramadan—mostly because they are expensive—and the third time around, I have learned to cherish the savory treats.
Just what exactly is the Ramadan food? Here is a montage of pictures I took while breaking the fast with my host family.
The table with hard-boiled eggs, shebekia, zmita, dates, regular bread, and tea
Shebekia: dough mainly consisting of sugar, fried and soaked in honey
Zmita: mixture of sugar, dates, sesame seeds and a few other things I do not know
The main breads
In the foreground is melawi (a bready-type thick pancake) drizzled with melted butter and honey. By far, my favorite Ramadan food.
In the background is what volunteers have termed fat bread. It is melawi with a mixture of sheep fat (so literally, fat bread), onions, and cilantro in the middle.
Not pictured: harira, a minestrone-like soup with chickpeas. Super yummy.
While at lftur (means ‘breakfast’) last week, my host brother talked about President Obama’s short message to Muslims on the eve of Ramadan. I asked if he knew that Obama hosted a Lftur at the White House. Everyone at the table’s eyes got big and started asking questions. Did he fast? Did his wife (for the record, she has many fans here) fast? Who went? What foods did they eat? My answers: I do not know; I think Michelle did not go; lots of people in government, Muslims, non-Muslims, etc; I don’t know foods were served, respectively. When I mentioned the Lftur to a PCV last weekend, the first thing out of her mouth, “Did President Obama eat fat bread?!” Obviously, you can tell what we care about most. We want to know if our young, energetic president ate fried bread stuffed with animal fat. If it was on the menu, I am sure he passed on the opportunity. Not that I blame him. I only eat Xalti Helima’s.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
If the shoe fits, buy it in every color?
Two years in Morocco can significantly affect on one’s view of materialism. As I spend the next few months (maybe years) trying to describe my experience here, the lessons learned, the insights gained, etc., I can say with ease that one of the best and maybe earliest lesson learned is an in-depth understanding of the difference between needs and wants. Of course, my parents were great teachers during my childhood and still are. “Daddy, I need a reliable car that looks nice.” “No, Liz, what you need is a car that gets you from Point A to B (in my case, a 1987 Chevy Nova—may it rest in peace). What you want is another car.” This is an example with an easy distinction but living here—where one learns the value of basic needs that so many of us take for granted—has taught me about the sometimes fuzzy line between needs and wants. Example: I want running water on a constant basis. Furthermore, I want the tap to flow with hot water (ha!). All I need, though, is running water. (I have not been able to see running water as a want yet—as opposed to the basic need for clean water. I’m not sure I want to get to that point.)
Soon, when I am back in America—land of abundance and aisles full of cereal—comes the real test on how Morocco has changed my view of materialism. Just last weekend while Skyping with Mom and Dad (Mom-Sorry to leave you out on the last post! Love you!), talk turned to cell phones and what will be the proper plan for me. Dad made the comment jokingly (I think) that maybe I should look at getting a Blackberry or an Iphone. It seems many young people are getting them nowadays. I asked why I would need such a thing and Dad said, that maybe, I will want to stay connected all the time. No thank you. But I digress…
I must now do mundane housekeeping things including going through my house and deciding what items stay here and what gets shipped home. For most things, I am happy to leave them here for others to enjoy. But other things are trickier. Which books are shipped home? Do I have clothes with lots more wear left? (yes but am I tired of looking at them and will they ever be worn again?) How much more shopping do I have? (By the way, if anyone wants Moroccan goodies, get your orders in soon.) What is considered the acceptable amount of olive oil, argan oil, jellaba jewelry, rugs, etc. to ship home? At the moment, though, my biggest debate is about a pair of shoes.
Nothing too special but simplicity is one of their qualities. Why should I put into words what the eloquent Garrison Keillor already has? But these boots are special to me. One of the best things—if not the best—I brought back from the States during my visit last Christmas. Without these boots, who knows, I may not still be in Morocco. I have serious doubts I could have survived winter without them. Winter was so long, so cold, and too snowy (6 meters total!). Before the boots’ arrival in Morocco, it was hard to leave my house—one day I literally could not because the door was frozen shut.
The logical, soon-to-be RPCV in me says “Boots with leather uppers and rubber bottoms are widely available in America at a price less than what it would cost you to ship these bad boys home.” The other voice says “these boots are one-of-a-kind for how they helped you get through winter; they are caked in Moroccan dirt—dirt that has taught you so much; and will be a physical reminder for how you survived the harsh winter and persevered when you thought you could not.”
Lacing up those boots and walking around town, feeling the snow crunch under my feet, was magical. The town was in distress as helicopters dropped emergency supplies in a nearby village—necessary because the roads were impassable—and people worried about the alarmingly low wood supply but in my head I was calm, happy, and feeling invincible. My basic needs were being met. I was not hungry, I was warm (as warm as one can be under meters of snow with no heat), and I had people eager to host me for tea. Memories like these are why I want to keep them. Logic will win this battle, I know, and the boots will be passed to another volunteer in the hopes that the boots will be magical to them too. But the materialistic hoarder in me tells me that the “I wants” need to win one, just one.
Soon, when I am back in America—land of abundance and aisles full of cereal—comes the real test on how Morocco has changed my view of materialism. Just last weekend while Skyping with Mom and Dad (Mom-Sorry to leave you out on the last post! Love you!), talk turned to cell phones and what will be the proper plan for me. Dad made the comment jokingly (I think) that maybe I should look at getting a Blackberry or an Iphone. It seems many young people are getting them nowadays. I asked why I would need such a thing and Dad said, that maybe, I will want to stay connected all the time. No thank you. But I digress…
I must now do mundane housekeeping things including going through my house and deciding what items stay here and what gets shipped home. For most things, I am happy to leave them here for others to enjoy. But other things are trickier. Which books are shipped home? Do I have clothes with lots more wear left? (yes but am I tired of looking at them and will they ever be worn again?) How much more shopping do I have? (By the way, if anyone wants Moroccan goodies, get your orders in soon.) What is considered the acceptable amount of olive oil, argan oil, jellaba jewelry, rugs, etc. to ship home? At the moment, though, my biggest debate is about a pair of shoes.
Nothing too special but simplicity is one of their qualities. Why should I put into words what the eloquent Garrison Keillor already has? But these boots are special to me. One of the best things—if not the best—I brought back from the States during my visit last Christmas. Without these boots, who knows, I may not still be in Morocco. I have serious doubts I could have survived winter without them. Winter was so long, so cold, and too snowy (6 meters total!). Before the boots’ arrival in Morocco, it was hard to leave my house—one day I literally could not because the door was frozen shut.
The logical, soon-to-be RPCV in me says “Boots with leather uppers and rubber bottoms are widely available in America at a price less than what it would cost you to ship these bad boys home.” The other voice says “these boots are one-of-a-kind for how they helped you get through winter; they are caked in Moroccan dirt—dirt that has taught you so much; and will be a physical reminder for how you survived the harsh winter and persevered when you thought you could not.”
Lacing up those boots and walking around town, feeling the snow crunch under my feet, was magical. The town was in distress as helicopters dropped emergency supplies in a nearby village—necessary because the roads were impassable—and people worried about the alarmingly low wood supply but in my head I was calm, happy, and feeling invincible. My basic needs were being met. I was not hungry, I was warm (as warm as one can be under meters of snow with no heat), and I had people eager to host me for tea. Memories like these are why I want to keep them. Logic will win this battle, I know, and the boots will be passed to another volunteer in the hopes that the boots will be magical to them too. But the materialistic hoarder in me tells me that the “I wants” need to win one, just one.
Friday, August 28, 2009
From Us to You
The majority of my time this week was spent in Rabat to attend "Close of Service" conference. The sessions were full of reflection and the subject of "Moving On"—more to come on the event as I resettle into village life and Ramadan. First though, I want to share a list compiled by my stagemates (training group) and I. Maybe my loyal readers (thanks Dad!) will enjoy or find it useful. We were asked to complete the following sentence: something I've learned from this experience that I really want friends and family back home to understand…
Here are some of the answers:
--that a mud house in the mountains with a well and no bathroom does not mean a bad life
--appreciation for all the free and beautiful gifts we receive each day
--the best way to learn is through first-hand discovery
--the importance of family above all
--a sense of community is important for the well-being of an individual
--we are all connected and we cannot afford to be close-minded about our differences
--the turk is not gross-it's awesome
--how much energy is needed to make hot water
--that I experience the world differently, uniquely
--the similarities between Moroccan and American worldviews—we both preach peace, universalism, and acceptance/respect for people who are different from us. Unfortunately, we too often frown upon each other because we tend to focus on when the other is not following those ideals
--we may look different, have different beliefs but underneath it all, we all have the same needs and desires
--it's not savage and uncivilized to eat with your hands
--Reduce, Reuse, Recycle (mine)
I'm lucky that my family and friends back home already understand many of these concepts. It's the others who make hateful and false statements that scare me about returning home. Sounds like there is lots of third goal work ahead for me.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
A Lesson in Patience
These long summer days give me a lot of time to wonder and, lately, I have been wondering if my new-found high level of patience (usually) will continue in America's work culture. Will I stay calm and collected when a deadline is missed, placing trust in my fellow man to do his job, or given a seemingly impossible deadline, believing I can meet it? When something unforeseen happens, will I accept it, handle it, and move on? I sure hope so despite a recent event and my reaction.
The patience I sorely lacked growing up has slowly come to me during my long stay here. The last 23 months have taught me more about frustration and patience than any other experience. Sure, I have fought battles I should not have. They were losing battles before I arrived and they will be losing battles well into the future, decades after I have left. I have fought the occasional winnable battles, triumphing in some and not in others. Trying to set a firm meeting time can be the week's biggest frustration. While negotiating and trying to narrow down a meeting's start time to a 2-hour time frame, internally, I just want to cry out "set a firm start time like Western, civilized countries do" thinking this little outburst comparing cultures will help me. For the sake of all those involved and my relationship with community counterparts, I am able to refrain from these ruinous remarks. It is these times that teach me how to be patient, to stay calm and collected, and to smile like everything is going to be okay—I may not believe it to be at that moment but eventually, things will be okay.
Patience does prevail and more often than not, I find things that would have bothered me or gotten under my skin in the States do not do so here. When ants crawl near my head while I sleep, I calmly pick up my mattress, mop the floor, and fill in the holes in the wall with an ant-killing blue powder. And I silently endure all the harassment—the catcalls, the rocks, etc. I just go about my daily business no matter how degraded I feel. And when salsa spills ruining a $50 polo shirt, I just shrug and move on. This is the attitude and approach I want to take back to America.
So what happens during one of my ponderings about patience, and flight or fight: I see a rat sneak through the cracked door, a confident swagger into my bedroom.
Do I react rationally and calmly by trying to corner the rat or gently push it out the door? No, I hurriedly closed the door and ran to my host family's. No one was available so I timidly returned to my house and notice that I had not fully closed the bedroom door. Realizing the rat could be anywhere in my house, I curled into the fetal position on the couch and sent SOS emails. Responding to nature's call, I got the courage to leave the couch. As I am about to flush water down my Turkish toilet, I see the rat—I sure as hell hope it was the same rat—stick its' head out of the toilet. I screamed, threw an entire bucket of water down the hole and plugged it with a spare water bottle.
My scream brought Naima running to the window. She asked what was wrong and unable to hold it in any longer, I broke down. Between sobs, I tried to explain that there was rat in my bathroom. Without knowing the word for rat, I started to describe it and got as far as "there was a thing in my bathroom that was small like a kitten but it was not a kitten." Naima immediately understood and tried to reassure me that it was gone and would not come back. Not convinced and still terrified there could a rat in the house, I unsuccessfully tried to sleep and headed to Azrou the first chance I could. I can honestly say I have never been more scared in my house than the next morning when I had to pee.
During an 18KM hike yesterday, I mentioned the rat scare to other volunteers. One asked if I immediately ran to my host family's and when I replied "of course" she said that was exactly what she would have done. If she said that purely to give me a little comfort, it worked. Still wondering how I was going to go to the bathroom in peace, I got very valuable advice from a local. I returned to my house later in the day and poured a half-liter of hydrochloric acid down the toilet.
Thanks to the mental health break in Azrou, the hike with other volunteers, and a strong chemical, I woke feeling refreshed and eager for coffee and the Sunday papers. My flight or fight response failed me this time but I still have 100 days to ponder, reflect, and work on patience and the ability to stay calm and collected when problems arise.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Today I Say...
Lhamdullah for NPR, its' podcasts and free Newport Folk playlist. And to Wana for ability to download all these in the comfort of my own home without which none would have been possible.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
In the Here and Now
With less than four months to go in Morocco, it is a constant struggle to stay present in my life here. Work is coming to an end. Summer is brutal. Ramadan is looming.
I have recently returned from a long vacation in England and Ireland. It was blissful walking through the streets of London, reading in the parks, soaking up the great outdoors in the Lake District, and drinking Guinness while listening to Irish folk in the pubs. Towards the end of the trip, I had the realization that no one had whistled at me, or honked, or said inappropriate phrases. A sad realization, really, because I knew I had to return to Morocco where verbal harassment is commonplace especially in the summer. This was confirmed when I didn’t even make it out of the train station in Meknes before inappropriate phrases came my way.
I so much want to enjoy my last 121 days here. I really do. I want to live in the present soaking up early evening tea dates, taking advantage of summer’s stillness to read, and finishing up the PCPP reporting. But all I can do is think about what happens 122 days from now…
I have recently returned from a long vacation in England and Ireland. It was blissful walking through the streets of London, reading in the parks, soaking up the great outdoors in the Lake District, and drinking Guinness while listening to Irish folk in the pubs. Towards the end of the trip, I had the realization that no one had whistled at me, or honked, or said inappropriate phrases. A sad realization, really, because I knew I had to return to Morocco where verbal harassment is commonplace especially in the summer. This was confirmed when I didn’t even make it out of the train station in Meknes before inappropriate phrases came my way.
I so much want to enjoy my last 121 days here. I really do. I want to live in the present soaking up early evening tea dates, taking advantage of summer’s stillness to read, and finishing up the PCPP reporting. But all I can do is think about what happens 122 days from now…
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
the loooong summer days
Summer is here and so far so good. In these long hours of daylight, I have found many ways to keep myself busy. And in just 5 short days I will be with Mom and Ellen in London!
But before I leave for London, one big thing needs to be accomplished. My PCPP grant needs to be filled. I am $288 away from my goal! Any amount of money you are willing to contribute to this worthwhile and deserving project is greatly appreciated!!! The link to donate: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=378-112
More information about the project and the Peace Corps Partnership Program:
For much of the past year, I have been working towards the implementation of computer literacy classes in my village. I wrote a Peace Corps Partnership Proposal to fund the first 6 months of classes. How does the PCPP program work? Volunteers write proposals and once they are approved, the projects are posted online. Friends and family back home can go online, donate to the project, and receive a tax-deduction. The volunteer's project is funded and those who donate receive a tax-deduction. Its a win-win situation for everyone.
The first computer class was held in March. Throughout, the project has had its fits and starts but to see the women go to class 4 days a week, several hours a day and work hard, makes everything worthwhile. The women have learned the ins and outs of the entire Microsoft Office package, blogging, as well as other personal and professional development activities.
If you would like more information, please send me an email and I would be happy to supply you with the full proposal!
Edit: The PCPP has been fully funded!!! Thank you to all those who donated. It means a lot to me and the women!
Monday, June 1, 2009
My Trail Runs!
Without a doubt, the best thing I did this past month was start running on the trails behind my house. And I want to share them with you! Now these are not the rocky, root-laden single track trails the hard-core prefer but they work for me. So without further ado, here is a little picture tour of my running route:
The start of the trail about 5 minutes from my house
Turn right onto this trail
And follow it as it winds around town (total mileage out: between 1.5 and 1.6 miles)
I am running a few times a week, including a long run to build distance and endurance (I got to be able to stay up with Dad in the UK). After neglecting my fitness for the last 21 months, I am slowly starting to get back in shape. My hope is to reach a manageable fitness level, maintain it, and then when I get back to Panama City, build on it. No more excuses!
The start of the trail about 5 minutes from my house
Turn right onto this trail
And follow it as it winds around town (total mileage out: between 1.5 and 1.6 miles)
I am running a few times a week, including a long run to build distance and endurance (I got to be able to stay up with Dad in the UK). After neglecting my fitness for the last 21 months, I am slowly starting to get back in shape. My hope is to reach a manageable fitness level, maintain it, and then when I get back to Panama City, build on it. No more excuses!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
On Graduation
Before I delve into my thoughts about life and current events, let me first say congratulations to Katherine. My little sister graduates from high school today—congratulations! Last year, she came to Morocco and spent a month with me. Not many 17 year olds would have done that. She adjusted to the turk, lack of reliable running water, and the harassment remarkably well. Not afraid to reach outside the box, she handled Morocco’s ups and downs with grace. Now, she heads off to college for more adventures, more ups and downs, and more exploring.
Since it is graduation season, there is so much talk about public service whether it is from congressmen, celebrities, or our President himself. The writer Paul Theroux recently wrote an article about how his Peace Corps experience has affected the rest of his life. Not too long ago, I read Dark Star Safari, a great travel writing memoir about Theroux’s adventures traveling from Cairo to Cape Town. This was his first return to Africa in more than 30 years and throughout the book, he reminiscences and reflects on Africa, Peace Corps, and development in general. Several of the points he made struck home with me and this article hits even closer: http://www.concierge.com/cntraveler/articles/500616 I do take issue with one point though. Today’s PCVs cannot call home whenever they want. It still does not work like that. And for what it is worth, I have met several returned PCVs who say it is harder to be a PCV now because we grew up in a world of increased communication and to suddenly be away from that is more of a challenge than disappearing for 2 years like back in the 60s.
And, finally, today starts the 6-month countdown. In 6 months, I bid Morocco goodbye. I have come so far and yet not far enough. Just in the last couple of weeks did I get the courage to attempt running in broad daylight in my conservative Berber village. With the local government’s permission, I have begun to conquer the trails behind my house. And it feels so good. With 6 months to go, the work projects are winding down and the travel is about to start up again. I am feeling increasing pressure to cross items off my “Morocco To Do” list. I have done a lot but there is still more to do.
Since it is graduation season, there is so much talk about public service whether it is from congressmen, celebrities, or our President himself. The writer Paul Theroux recently wrote an article about how his Peace Corps experience has affected the rest of his life. Not too long ago, I read Dark Star Safari, a great travel writing memoir about Theroux’s adventures traveling from Cairo to Cape Town. This was his first return to Africa in more than 30 years and throughout the book, he reminiscences and reflects on Africa, Peace Corps, and development in general. Several of the points he made struck home with me and this article hits even closer: http://www.concierge.com/cntraveler/articles/500616 I do take issue with one point though. Today’s PCVs cannot call home whenever they want. It still does not work like that. And for what it is worth, I have met several returned PCVs who say it is harder to be a PCV now because we grew up in a world of increased communication and to suddenly be away from that is more of a challenge than disappearing for 2 years like back in the 60s.
And, finally, today starts the 6-month countdown. In 6 months, I bid Morocco goodbye. I have come so far and yet not far enough. Just in the last couple of weeks did I get the courage to attempt running in broad daylight in my conservative Berber village. With the local government’s permission, I have begun to conquer the trails behind my house. And it feels so good. With 6 months to go, the work projects are winding down and the travel is about to start up again. I am feeling increasing pressure to cross items off my “Morocco To Do” list. I have done a lot but there is still more to do.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Summer Is Just A Part Of The Cycle
Well, folks, it seems like summer is quickly approaching and I am trying really hard to not have a repeat of last summer. Those months were the worst part of my time here. They should have been great because my parents and sister came for an extended amount of time but the harassment and lack of work was almost unbearable. This time around, I am determined not to let summer's evils get me down.
I have such conflicting notions about summer. On one hand, I like that each passing day means I am closer to seeing my family. On the other hand, I am not excited about the steadily-increasing harassment.
On one hand, I am closer and closer to my fabulous European vacation with my previously-mentioned family. On the other hand, it's hard to stay positive during wedding season.
On one hand, I inch closer to my COS date (November 20, 2009). On the other hand, I am nearer to the day that I must say goodbye to the place I have called home and the people who have taught me so much the last almost-2 years.
Yes, time is bittersweet.
Right now, though, there is so much to enjoy. The ground is soooo green. So green, in fact that at times, it looks fake. The computer literacy classes that have been my main focus the last 5 months are going extremely well. The women are enjoying themselves and going beyond their pre-defined limits. In my entire time here, this is the one work project that has given me the most excitement. It is what sustains me and will continue to sustain me for the next 6 months. Without the classes and these incredible women, I seriously doubt I would still be here.
Last year at this time was when I started to have my first feelings of cynicism and bitterness towards Peace Corps and Morocco. Since then, these feelings have followed an up and down cycle. Truthfully, it is good for me to show a bit of cynicism and speak with a hint of bitterness. This means I have truly lived in another culture: the experience of the honeymoon phase with all its ignorance, the gradual loss of that ignorance and the internal conflicts it creates, the sloooow acceptance of the cultural norms and customs, and the difficult job of achieving the balancing act necessary to solve the internal conflicts. Some days, I find the perfect balance and some days, I do not.
On the surface and in books, it seems like all these cultural ups and downs are parts of a cycle and eventually, everything will come full circle. In reality, there is so much more to the circle. You cannot go back to the beginning. That would be like forgetting all the trials and tribulations, the triumphs and disappoints of my service. This is the thinking I take into summer while continuously trying to remind myself that summer is just another part of the cycle so take the good with the bad and smile along the way.
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