The Way To A Moroccan’s Heart

…is sugar cookies, inshallah. This week has been one of the most frustrating of my time here. Due to circumstances out of my control, my reputation here took a big hit. I can't go into why on this blog (but if you want to know, send me an email and I would be happy to vent). So I needed to in some way try to repair it. Damage control. Taking the advice of another volunteer, I decided to bake cookies for people in the community. I baked 5 dozen sugar cookies and passed them out to my neighbors, little girls, and others in the community who have been helpful to me recently. Inshallah, this works. If not, I am prepared for backup—brownies, chocolate chuck cookies, and snickerdoodles.

 

Summer Season

I know I begged for summer. I begged for its warmth, its sunshine, and its familiarity. I take it back. I take it all back. I don’t like summer here.

In summer, I must deal with an increase in shady Moroccan men. This warm weather encourages them to be more “friendly.” I have come to some sort of acceptance with the verbal harassment. It was always present in the winter but compared to now, winter harassment season is mild. In summer harassment season, I must deal with explicit French and English phrases; being touched (re: grabbed, which has now reached into the double digits); and the obvious staring (and staring).

Sooner or later, the harassment (or I) is going to reach a tipping point. But for now, I have accepted that it is going to get worse before it gets better.

Friday Morning :)

I went running today!

Up at 6:15.
Out my door at 6:30.
Back in my house at 7.
Drinking my coffee by 7:15.

I doubt I can keep this 6:15 business up too long but I am going to try.

Running With Dad

I went running. With my Dad. In Morocco.
And it was one of the best things I have done here. It was my first run in 10 months. A month or so ago, I sent Dad an email telling him to pack his running shoes; we were going to try to run in Fez. We were all set to do it but with like everything else here, there was a little hiccup to our plan…Mom and Dad’s luggage arrived a day after they did.
We finally got the opportunity to run in the last few days of their stay. In a chill beach town on the Atlantic coast, we strapped on our shoes and set out to explore the town. One foot in front of the other. Sweat dripping down my forehead. Raising my heart rate. It was a glorious feeling. And sharing the experience with my Dad was even better.
While here, I have been lazy in working out. Partly because it has been easy to be that way and partly because no one in my village does any sort of outside exercise especially women. Women work in their homes and take no delight in doing anything outside.
After dropping the family off in Casablanca, I returned to my house with a new resolution. I am going to go for a run.

Katherine In Morocco

In a few previous posts, I have mentioned the fact that my younger sister Katherine is visiting me for a month. She is currently halfway through her stay in my little Berber village. I offered her the option to write a post here and I am glad she took it up. Here is what she has to say:

The words of Katherine Whitton:

To start with: I have not quite decided if I like Morocco yet. Obviously, I don’t love it, or I would be able to look past its faults. I knew coming here that everything I was comfortable with at home probably was not going to be within reach. I knew it was a whole new culture; unique from any I have ever experienced. Yet I still was….uncomfortable.

I don’t use that word because I was having problems with the lack of hygiene or because the beds were lumpy. I will admit I needed some time to adjust to the Turkish toilet, which I knew was coming, but that came with practice and out of necessity. Uncomfortable is how I felt the first week or so in Morocco. I think what struck me was that I felt helpless. I stood idly by and let my sister speak to people because I don’t know the language. Often I do not know what they are saying, but I am sometimes able to pick up the gist of it. Luckily, Moroccans like to talk with their hands.

Though I did know Liz would be dealing with the locals, I didn’t think about the impact it would have on me. It’s not something you can prepare yourself for because it’s almost a feeling of isolation, yet, there are tons of people around. I also didn’t think about eating or what I was going to do to occupy my days in my sister’s house. For some one who usually over thinks everything I did not seem to think about anything. I won’t lie, this thought socked me. So it has taken me longer to adjust to Morocco than I would have liked. I have had headaches and have been annoyed and been lazy, but I am getting the hang of things. It is a practice of character and courage that I needed and still need to put myself through. So my decision is that I am undecided. Maybe when I write again I will have a better answer.

Travels With Katherine

Katherine and I have just returned from a little vacation in Tangier and Spain. Now, we are chilling in my town until my parents’ arrive next week.

Our travels were full of adventures:
-shady characters on the train: the guy with one arm; the stoner who was in his own little world but liked to impediate in ours; and the Moroccan woman of questionable morals
-coffee in a real Starbucks store
-ATM angst in Spain
-pubs where people interact and women are not stared at
-standing in Africa, looking out over the Straits of Gibraltar and staring at Spain

Flickr is finally updated but for a quick snapshot:


With Starbucks coffee and the International Herald Tribune


Katherine staring at the water

Shock

After 2 solid weeks of travel, I am back in town. I spent nights in both Marrakech and Essaouira on my way to Agadir for an in-service training. From Agadir, I flew to Edinburgh where I met up with Katherine. Traveling in Morocco is one thing, but as I learned, traveling abroad is something else altogether.

In the last few weeks before I left, my attitude had turned a little cynical and bitter so I was eager to get out and experience the western world. I just had no idea how difficult that would be. I think the best world would be “shock.” I experienced cultural shock, people shock, and conversation shock.

Culture shock: Not being stared at; Not being heckled by men; and the multitude of food, clothes, books options available

People shock: Being with non-Peace Corps Americans and Being in social settings again

Conversation shock: With the exception of Twinkle, I have not had a face-to-face conversation with a non-Peace Corps English-speaking native in 9 months. Trying to hold a normal conversation was difficult. I kept wanting to interject Arabic/Tamazight words into the conversation. And who knew speaking in complete sentences would be so hard.

Just as I started to adjust, it was time to leave. Next time, I am going to have to stay out of country a few days longer. Leaving the country taught me that I need to leave more often. How exactly, I am not sure but I know that it is needed. In my little Moroccan bubble, I tend to get too comfortable and shut off from the outside world. In the first part of the year, I probably would have considered this a good thing but now I realize, this is bad thing and it will be an internal struggle that I am going to face for the next 18 months.