Death and All His Friends

Transportation accidents may be the highest cause of the death in the developing world, but I think 'daily life' should come in at a close second. This term may be vague, but then again, who knows when it will strike!? A short list of the bodily perils of the past few weeks, for your holiday reading pleasure:

1) Need I remind you of 'ye olde ladder' which gave me nightmares of being eaten alive by cats? I think not. 

2) While attempting to fix my toilet, my handy dandy landlord offered me what looked like a bottle of wine. Had I been in a non-Muslim country, I might have instantly tucked it away for consumption. Considering my surroundings, I took a look before storing it underneath my sink and realized it was extremely strong poison/chemical intended to destroy the inside of anything. Perhaps a more distinguishable container would be effective?

3) While using my buta gas oven for the first time, I apparently turned the gas on too high and practically burned by eyebrows off when the flames shot out at all directions. The worst part was not the heart attack which immediately followed, but that I destroyed by banana date flax seed bread that I had spent two months collecting the ingredients for. I continued my oven debacles by over-salting and under cooking my granola. Back to the stove, the oven is too much for me.

4) Walking back from the weekly market (souq), a kind housewife threw a bucket of dirty water directly in front of me, missing my body by inches. She was horrified and spout out two minutes of apologies before letting me go on my way. In retrospect, I can't believe that I didn't get an invitation for tea...strange.

5) After a particularly vigorous aerobics class, I walked to a friend's home and discussed the water outage on my side of town. Shortly after entering her home, she offered me a plastic bottle with a clear liquid. Assuming it was water (aerobics, water outage, yes), I opened the bottle and went to take a drink. Just before the 'water' hit my lips I was overcome by the smell of chemical death and my friends' scream. Turns out this 'water' bottle was holding the paint thinner she had mentioned several days ago, which I could use to clean various parts of my house. Thank goodness for a sense of smell. 

6) Shortly after returning home with my bottle of poison, I tipped it over and spilled the paint thinner all over my kitchen floor. Not being overly familiar with the clean-up of paint thinner, I let my friend take the lead. She promptly took my sponge (which I use to clean dishes) and poured bleach in a bowl (again, which I use to clean dishes) and then soaked up the paint thinner with a combination of bleach and dish detergent. No explosion on this one, but I prepared myself for the end. I have since demoted the sponge to new toilet-related opportunities...the bowl may still be in use.

7) For roughly two weeks following the paint and paint thinner incidents, my house reeked of chemicals. It was too cold to constantly keep the windows open, so I ventilated for a few hours in the afternoon and then closed my bedroom door in the evening to try and keep the smell out. It didn't work. I may have been teaching English unintentionally high as a kite that week.

 

8) My new hot water heater has the fun side effect of sparking every time my upstairs neighbors use their water. When I tried to fix the problem, the heater simply stopped working. After consulting the installation guy, I've decided to let it spark. How bad can it be? And no, I have not yet set up my carbon monoxide detector. I swear it's on my list!

9) The birds flying in my house used to be cute, until they started perching on my door frames waiting to take me during a particularly intense 'Zeus' weekend. Chasing them out has become increasingly difficult and I get the sense they are working together with the flies - a plot is afoot! 

10) Finally, my neighbors started construction of my roof this week everyday from sunrise to sunset. It seems they are changing my dearly loved and needed roof into a home for their extended family. Did they tell me? No. Is there anything that I can do? Not really. It's pretty frustrating on a number of levels. Getting back to the point, the men doing the construction aren't overly concerned with the items constantly 'getting away from them' on the rooftop. There have been a few times where I hear the explosion of bricks or thump of wood hitting the ground just moments after stepping into my apartment building. There are no words.

Hopefully my luck changes after my upcoming vacation and time away from site. Despite the dangers of transportation, I am unconvinced it can be worse than walking outside my house, drinking my water or cleaning in Morocco. All I want for Christmas is to make it to next Sunday! 

A Sort of Homecoming

Two months ago my Moroccan apartment was filled with dead cockroaches, dirty walls and explosive plumbing. One month ago my salon was nothing more than a pile of stuff waiting to be sorted and a kitchen of unknown spices and sauces. In the last two weeks, I have successfully turned the corner from a mskina (poor) volunteer coming home to a ugly cement block to a disorganized, busy woman who is in the midst of vast home improvements. It feels good. While the apartment is still a work in progress, I am increasingly returning to a place that I am proud to call my own.

Project 1 -  The Hot Water Heater and Shower
Initially started in late October, this project has consisted of moving a working hot water heater from my former site mate's apartment to my home on the other side of town. Relegated to the sidelines for weeks, this project finally got underway when Olivia was officially leaving (aka, the heater needed a new home) and it was starting to turn chillier in the South. Weeks passed with the heater sitting outside of my bathroom. The man who was supposed to do the installation was initially out of town on holiday, then I was out of town for work, followed by a week or two of me simply not caring about heat.

Two weeks ago, I decided that enough was enough and I wasn't about to take another cold bucket bath in this house. Ahmed turned out to be a master of his craft. We had a terribly confusing discussion in Darija regarding the installation process (pretty sure I agreed to simply 'everything' to make matters easier). For roughly six hours Ahmed and his worker bee, a man who turned out to be the creepy stalker from the oven incident, turned my sad bathroom into a glorious hammam of warmth and western luxuries. I couldn't understand a single word on the bill, but I was happy to pay this man-angel whatever amount he asked for since he brought me hot water at the touch of a button and the first shower I had taken in two months. Take my firstborn, Ahmed, it's totally worth it.

Project 2 - Painting the Walls
Everyone told me to simply pay someone to paint my walls - labor is inexpensive, the work is long and I didn't have any of the materials. Maybe it's because my mom loves to paint so much, but the idea of asking someone else to do that manual labor seemed silly. Looking back, it might have been the better option. I've never painted household walls before, let alone in the developing world. I quickly discovered that I hadn't the foggiest idea how to go about doing this. I knew that I wanted strong colors, I would need a ladder, and it would take time - besides that I was totally clueless.

The search for supplies began at the end of October when I narrowed down the only store in town that sold paint, mind you, it took me another two weeks before I was able to ascertain what colors they sold. Little by little, I managed to purchase brushes, oil-based colors, dilution and a GIANT can of white paint which I had to enlist Leah's help in carrying back to my apartment. Between the two of us, it was still an unreasonable feat.

While Leah's dad skype-questioned my choice in colors (hot pink bathroom!) and inquired as to whether the paints were oil or water-based, I realized I hadn't the foggiest idea what I got myself into. During the mixing process I sacrificed several spoons and scissors since I couldn't find paint sticks, several useful buckets previously used for laundry and bathing as well as an endless number of shirts and linens. Using my refrigerator as a ladder, Leah and I managed to paint my bedroom walls purple. We have may encountered chunks of the wall falling off and a slight disaster with the back wall turning a completely different shade, but overall it was deemed "good enough!"

Traveling, the start of classes and cold weather left me in a tight spot for continued painting. I wanted to pursue the project, however late November was clearly not the best time. Since I had obtained a giant ladder from approximately 1954, I decided to attack the kitchen with a bold green before winter set in.The mixing and set-up process was much smoother the second time around and I was thrilled not to be pushing my giant refrigerator from place to place every five minutes. Paint in hand and classic rock blaring, I clambered up the rickety ladder with a smile on my face. Surely, this has "American success" written all over it!

Then I fell off. No really. About ten minutes into the process, the ladder wobbled as I tried to place my weight on a non-existent step and collapsed onto the ground. Quickly scanning my body and surroundings, I determined that my right knee and back were sore and I had hit my head; in spite of it all, there didn't seem to be permanent damage and I hadn't even spilled my paint. Lying on the kitchen floor, I thought of possible other outcomes of this situation and was relieved that Moroccans knock on my door several times a day. Best not to be found three days later, eaten by cats.

A few minutes later Boushra had arrived at my doorstep and we continued the painting process in tandem. She proved to be a quick and efficient worker, not to mention she was giving up her free afternoon to help the American girl with unnecessary labor. Not sure how many of us would do the same. Between the two of us, we finished the spearmint green kitchen in less than three hours while listening to Adele on repeat. After a long clean-up process, I said goodbye to Boushra and strolled into my wonderful shower for the first time. Thanks to the help of my Moroccan and American friends, my apartment was one step closer to being a home.

Project 3 - Decorating for Christmas, Hanging up photos,etc etc etc

Leah learns the hard way that oil-based paint doesn't come out easily. Redrum.

After adding the dilution, my purple paint turned into a lovely shade of  feces

My kitchen that lives in the entryway...

Another chance at success on the ladder

I will get there, but it might take a few weeks...

There was pie.

This year marked my fourth Thanksgiving overseas and I've gotten fairly used to missing the normal Turkey day festivities of the States. Fortunately, it's never been my favorite holiday and missing the day doesn't particularly pull at my heart strings. While I love spending Christmas with my family, Thanksgiving has always been that awkward holiday where one side of the family is visiting in-laws, the other is on the other side of the country, and I am left having to make choices between members of my nuclear family. I look forward to someday reclaiming the holiday with my own family, but for now I find pleasure in sharing the customs and oddities of the day with foreigners.

I spent the week of Thanksgiving giving mini descriptions of the holiday to family, friends and students in Morocco. In the shortened version, I focused on the amount of food people eat, spending time with family and of course saying 'thanks to God' for all the good things we have in life. After creating a two part lesson plan, split into the history of Thanksgiving and modern day celebrations, I was able to discuss the holiday at length with some of my Bac students. I showed students pictures of the Macy's Parade, volunteering at a soup kitchen and the all important turkey. After delving into these important subjects, I digressed into fun cultural points such as the best way to eat pumpkin pie and why people sleep outside Walmart on Black Friday.

In general my students reacted with interest to the holiday, even getting into their roles as "Pilgrims" or "Native Americans" in creative writing. One student noted they learned that the Pilgrims eventually killed Native Americans and wanted to know what exactly we were celebrating. Isn't history fun?! Another student made the remark that Moroccans don't need a specific holiday to 'thank God' because they give thanks to God everyday. I was surprised by the number of older Moroccans who were familiar with the idea of Black Friday and wanted to know if this insanity actually occurred. Let's just say the 'crazy' hand gesture was used frequently in these conversations.

As for my American celebration, I was invited to a nearby volunteer's home for a weekend of food, company and solid relaxation. Our amazing cooks had boxed stuffing, cranberry, canned pumpkin and marshmallows sent from the States, making it a fantastically American meal. We substituted chicken for turkey since they are hard to come by in the south and the vegetarians feasted on a veggie quiche. Complete with green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, and two types of pie, the meal was a success.

Palmerie photo op

The view from above, drool!

Hello lovely

Susan and I stopping for sustenance on the way up

Before and after meals, a few of the volunteers explored the town's palmerie and hiked the nearby mountains. Both of these activities are available to me on a daily basis in Tazarine, however, it's not always the best idea to do solo adventures in the rocky desert, regardless of the country. Fresh air, good company and the beautiful terrain relaxed and refocused me for the upcoming holiday season. This year, I am thankful for real pumpkin pie, watching the Muppets and desert mountain hikes with engaging volunteers. Ahamdullilah!

Zeus the Parasite, Pre-Thanksgiving Thanks Pt. 2

In case you are curious, I've got a parasite living in my intestines and its' name is Zeus. For whatever reason, I find this to be more amusing than disturbing. Perhaps it's a result of already experiencing a "de-worming" in Zambia and that many Peace Corps volunteers spend their two years with a tiny friend in their body. For me, the diagnosis was a confirmation of my persistent symptoms rather than a revelation. Giardia is a fact of life in the developing world, especially when you are trying to fully engage in the culture. Sure, I could probably avoid an infection if I never ate delicious street food and avoided spending time (aka eating) with Moroccans, but that would take away all the fun! Far better to accept that I will get sick, things will be dirty and that everybody poops. 

Also, this is a fantastic representation of life in the Peace Corps:

http://whatshouldpcvscallme.tumblr.com/post/34301699230/when-i-have-giardia

For those of you who have given up on my mental and physical well-being after this post, perhaps a story of something less graphic and more encouraging. Today was a big and beautiful day! I had my first bowl of cereal since leaving the states two months ago (!!!) The lucky cereal is basically a chocolate version of golden grahams and it's delicious coated in whole milk. I could hardly contain myself from grinning while I devoured my tiny bowl of heaven and caught up on Glee. I love mornings.

After a quick trip to the weekly market, I successfully taught my first class at the Dar Cheba (youth center). While only two students attended, it felt wonderful to get started. My introductory class, entitled "All About Me" allows me to assess the level of the students and introduce some American culture into the discussion. In my opinion grammar, reading and writing are all important, but are much easier to pick up from a non-native speaker. Therefore, I will focus on improving oral communication skills, knowledge of American culture and encouraging creativity in daily life; areas which I feel I have a unique perspective or ability. 

This morning's lesson did not disappoint. I'm a fairly animated person, especially when teaching, and if nothing else I think the students were fascinated by my facial expressions. Hey, it's a start! I had a great time describing the wonder of cereal to kids who have exclusively eaten bread for breakfast and later managed to explain the difference between "to slaughter" and "to kill." Don't ask me how this subject came up...

The afternoon went quickly with a Darija tutoring session, homework help with Bac students and discussion with a fellow teacher regarding the differences between studying law in Morocco and studying law in the States. At 6 pm, I rallied for tea, rice and soap operas with a family in town and was informed that I need to be married in four years and then quickly produce four to five children. This was gracious by Moroccan standards, but I soon realized the mom thought I was between 18 and 20 years old. I am guessing that she will have shortened my freedom to six months by the next time I return. After practicing proverbs in Darija and Tamazight, the Berber language spoken in my town, and drawing stick figures to explain a fellow volunteer's current struggles at home (the words for 'dog' and 'heart' are disturbingly close), I was released to walk home.

Upon my return, it became clear that my recently returned landlord and neighbor had mistakenly locked me out of the apartment. His grandson was sent to retrieve me and before I knew it my grandpa landlord, who is roughly one foot shorter than me, was demanding that I immediately climb the stairs and eat dinner with them while simultaneously apologizing for the inconvenience of the locked door. Prepared for his kind attack of endless hospitality, I negotiated a trade from dinner this evening to a tea tomorrow morning. Boo-yah. 

Climbing into bed this evening with my cup of tea and premature Christmas music, I realized that on the eve before Thanksgiving, I have so much to be thankful for this year. Here's to many more days of tea, learning and Moroccan grandpas. Bring it on, parasites.

Pre-Thanksgiving Thanks.

Good news- I got the weekend of cinnamon rolls, American sitcoms and friendship that I needed. Michelle proved to be a wonderful host and I was thrilled to explore her palmerie, souq and simply relax in her home. Returning to site on Monday afternoon, I felt a renewed sense of comfort and the worries of last week faded into my distant memory. This week proved to be the beginning of what I hope the next six months will feel like in my site - challenging, busy and full of Moroccan companionship. Here is a brief summary and some highlights of the past few days:

- First two meetings with my Moroccan tutor, a fantastic English teacher who shares my cross-cultural interests and is excited to get involved with clubs and teaching at the Dar Chebab (youth center). He is patient with my inability to roll an "r" and knows more about phonetics and English than I do. He is currently working on his PhD focusing on the Western stereotypes of the East specifically in Sheikh Desert Romance Literature.

- Finally set a schedule with my supervisor for work at the Dar Chebab and will begin teaching roughly 15 hours in the upcoming week with additional hours at the Dar Taliba (the equivalent of a girls' boarding school), Aerobics at my host families' Tae Kwon Do studio and additional clubs beginning in the next month. Can't wait to get in front of the class!

- Tracking down the Darija word for "nutmeg," finding the correct stall at souq and being totally confused by the shell that my nutmeg came in. Still trying to figure out how to transfer this sort of nutmeg into what I can use for homemade Chai tea and loving the challenge.

- Fantastic fish dinner with my landlords' family including you tube videos and conversation in French regarding politics and the implications of Obama's re-election. We also discussed the possibility of an adult English class at the Dar Chebab, which I am anxious to get moving.

- Gift of homemade butter from the owner of the market, packaged especially for me!

- Getting lost in conversation with my host mom - five hours later realizing that I needed to move on to my next appointment and feeling generally disappointed that I had to leave.

- Skype sessions with baby Zoe, dad and Chanda - it's wonderful to have family and decent Internet.

- Being asked by a Moroccan friend to teach her how to read music. Hell yes!

Everyday this week I have returned home feeling exhausted but satisfied with my day. I feel incredibly blessed to share the lives of my Moroccan friends and know that good things are in store. I am right where I am meant to be. What an appropriate time for Thanksgiving!

*Big sigh of gratitude*

The Best Laid Schemes o' Mice and Women

Wednesday Plans (as seen in tiny notebook): Pay water bill, go to Dar Chebab, meet with supervisor, kaskrut with supervisor's family, meet with tutor and set a schedule for tutoring times, organize time to visit English classes at local high school, visit family in town for Wednesday fish dinner, start working on Peace Corps paperwork (site locator form, etc), yoga or walk.

Actual Wednesday events: Woke up at 5:30 am and couldn't fall back asleep. Yoga! Spent two hours at the money gram office waiting with twenty Moroccan men to pay my water bill. Starving. Ran into super nice (and tiny) man who works at local commune and agreed to have lunch with his family. Met family, watched Moroccan coverage of American Presidential election, chatted with kids. Man left (to apparently have lunch with other people?) and I had mutton and bread with his wife. Call from tutor, he is out of town and will return my call and meet with me on Thursday.

Regroup, Thursday is the new Wednesday.

Thursday Plans (again, as seen in tiny notebook): Go to Dar Chebab, meet with supervisor, kaskrut with supervisor's family, meet with tutor and set a schedule for tutoring times, organize time to visit English classes at local high school, visit family in town for Thursday kaskrut, start working on Peace Corps paperwork (site locator form, etc), yoga or walk.

Actual Thursday events: Morning yoga (!), go to Dar Chebab (closed), go to supervisor's house for morning kaskrut with family. Supervisor is nowhere to be found, instead find the house full of unknown women and children. Eat bread, drink tea, repeat while possibly being invited to a wedding (?), take my leave and return home. Return to Dar Chebab in the afternoon - no supervisor, some of my keys don't work and confusion reigns. Call from Bouchra (high school girl) and we hold an evening tutoring session on how to write a song and make plans to work on parody of "The One that Got Away" together. Evening kaskrut with her wonderful family. Return home, feeling pretty fantastic. No call from tutor.

Regroup, still working towards these goals, but most likely not happening this week...is it nearly the weekend after all.

Friday Plans (still in tiny notebook): Go to Dar Chebab, meet with supervisor, meet with tutor and set a schedule for tutoring times, organize time to visit English classes at local high school, visit host family for couscous lunch, start working on Peace Corps paperwork (site locator form, etc), yoga or walk.

Actual Friday events: Rainy morning and an unpleasant reminder that it's been three months since the assault. Tears. Life-giving phone call with fellow volunteer and virtual hug. Tears. Downloaded NPR podcasts while wishing that my family was around. Felt alone and exhausted. A few more phone calls and realized it was time to let myself have a break. Bought a bus ticket to N'Kob, ate with Moroccan friends, packed my bags.

Weekend plans: Rest and rejuvenation with a fellow volunteer. Read a book, watch a movie, eat popcorn, feel loved.

The plans might seem totally useless, but they give me some sort of structure in an otherwise structure less existence. Unlike in the States, I make a list of things to do knowing full well that at best 1/3 of these will be accomplished. I often find that by stepping outside of my house, I get swept up in events and occasions that are much greater than what I had "planned." Other times, I realize that my emotional and mental health have an agenda of their own. Morocco challenges me daily to open my hands and simply let life happen, for better or worse. This weekend that means planning to let myself mourn, relax and hopefully come back to site on Monday ready for another week of my "plans" while acknowledging the daily struggles and triumphs of life in Tazarine. 

Ridin' Solo

I am not a solitary person. Growing up, I was the girl who wanted to do everything with friends or family - shopping, eating, studying, watching TV,  playing outside, traveling, etc. Simple errands were more fun with Sabrina, swimming was better with Anna and no TRL show was successful without Christy by my side. As I've gotten older, I've been forced to do these activities as an individual. Not necessarily because I wanted to, but because I consistently put myself in situations where I had to sink or swim - solo. Semesters abroad and eventually living abroad taught me that I needed to spend more time alone in order to balance the overwhelming nature of conforming to a new culture. This has always been my greatest challenge - being a natural extrovert who has chosen to live in isolating circumstances. 

I remember my first Peace Corps interview - so excited to start on the path to this lifelong dream, but also aware that it would be my greatest challenge yet. Every time recruiters asked for my greatest fear regarding service, I knew it was isolation and loneliness. A few weeks into my return to Morocco and a week after my site mate's departure, I struggle with the combination of boredom, isolation and feeling disconnected from the world I live in. There are times when I feel on top of the world; having lunch with my community, connecting with the local shopkeeper, having tea with my landlord's extended family or even small personal challenges of finishing literature or connecting with a friend in the States. There are other times when I want nothing more than to get in a car, drive to the nearest big city and freaking having a beer and a cheeseburger with Americans. These feelings normally occur on the exact same day, or certainly within the same week. In a given day, I can praise God while I watch the sunrise and curse my restlessness during the sunset. It's not the same intense fluctuation as during training or my first month in site, but it's a child-sized roller coaster on certain days.

The interesting part about service is not that I am actually alone. When I choose it, I can be surrounded by my community all day long (or even all night long, if it suits my mood). My host family frequently asks if I am lonely, and I know that I am considered to be part of multiple families around town. Being with them makes me feel connected, loved and comfortable. It also makes me feel tired, inept with language and empty. I feel at ease in their presence, but also desire the comfort of my own home, dress and choice in food.

I am slowly learning to balance my own familiar need of connectedness with my newer desire for introverted self reflection. At this point, I take several hours a day to read literature, do devotions, sing, talk with family or friends and cook while also visiting members of my community during the afternoon or lunch hour. My hope is that as I begin to teach and gain energy from being passionate about my students' education, I will have additional energy to be involved in the lives' of the community members. Soon I won't have to read for three hours a day, but will be content with only a an hour of "me" time. 

At this point, I am doing my best to be patient with myself and my own transition into site and daily life in Morocco. I try to be kind when I don't have the energy for a Moroccan wedding, but also say "yes" to as many invitations as possible. It's a slow learning process, but I can feel myself growing stronger as the days pass me by. I grow accustomed to sitting and doing seemingly "nothing" for hours on end with Moroccans, to  cherish my rooftops sunsets and to be cheered with a successful trip to the patisserie. For the first time in Morocco, I feel content.

The Big Holiday, My First Eid al-Adha

After a few weeks of travel to both Marrakesh and Ouarzazate, I finally found myself back home in Tazarine. Since returning to country was a challenge, I feared that returning to my site would hold more of the same. I was pleasantly surprised when returning to Tazarine actually felt like returning home. Not the kind of home where everything is easy, there is a hot shower and a box of mac and cheese waiting for you (at least not yet), but a type of home nonetheless. After a few days of settling into apartment and finding a sense of rhythm, I began to make my visitation rounds to my friends and family in the community. This was great timing since I returned home just in time for the biggest holiday of the year known as Eid al-Adha or Eid al-Kabir (literally the Greater Holiday, as compared to the smaller holiday commemorating the end of Ramadan). 

To save you the trouble of google/wikipedia, Eid al-Adha is celebrated by Muslims worldwide to honor the willingness of the prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) to sacrifice his young first-born son, Ismail (Ishmael) as an act of submission to God's command and his son's acceptance to being sacrificed, before God intervened to provide Abraham with a ram to sacrifice instead. The holidays is exactly two months and ten days after the end of Ramadan and the overlap/conflict with Christianity is relatively obvious. In Morocco, the day begins with new clothes for the kids and watching the King slaughter his sheep on TV. Unfortunately, I spent the morning with a family whose TV was not working so I actually missed this epic event. Youtube couldn't help me out with this one, but if you want to sheep slaughtered, there are some lovely videos for you to choose from!

The butcher has his way with the sheep

Getting back on track, after the King slaughters his sheep, the rest of the country is free to do the same. This may be done by the local butcher, a neighbor or your dad. Whoever feels the urge, I suppose? I learned that my supervisor at the local youth center slaughtered every sheep on his block - props. Well, I missed the initial slitting of the throat since I was having my 8th cup of tea and 13th cookie of the morning with a neighbor, but I returned just in time to see the sheep thrashing around in its' own blood. Soon it was hoisted from the closest tree, its' legs were broken and it was skinned. Next the belly was slit, the insides were separated and the butcher even blew air through the intestines. Hungry yet? The city vegetarian in me could have done without the slitting of throat and the breaking of the legs, BUT the girls who loves biology really got into seeing the anatomy and watching air and poop travel through the entire system. It was both totally crazy and awesome. Not to mention that my community got a kick out of watching me be fascinated/horrified with this process since I don't exactly hide my emotions well.

Me, a neighbor of the family and two sheep heads.

After the slaughter, my site mate and I started a day of extreme visitation, Moroccan style. We spent time with her host family's cousins, the supervisor of the dar chebab (youth center), my landlord's extended family, a student at the high school and enjoyed a few other stops along the way. Olivia ate endless amounts of barbecued sheep (cooked on a small indoor grill) while I had LOADS of cake, cookies and tea. My body pretty much wanted to die at the end of the day, but I didn't have to eat liver wrapped in fat- win some, lose some.

This actually felt grosser than it looks, guu!

Ironically, I ended up getting ridiculously sick that same evening. I am guessing it was something lingering in my system, but the day of eating nothing but sugar surely didn't help. Despite my impending physical downward spiral, I had a sense of feeling connected to my community and had successfully participated in the biggest holiday of the year without throwing up or fainting. And yes, that is considered a success in the Peace Corps.

The Unexpected Journey Home

...It didn't start as well as I hoped. No amount of wine, sleeping wills and boring British films could put me to sleep on the plane. I spent the vast majority of my time shivering and staring into space which made a seven hour flight last a lifetime. Descending into Chicago, tears of relief streamed down my face. Home was close and my mother was closer. It was nearly eleven pm by the time I was greeted by Starbucks and my mom in the airport lobby (luckily trail mix, pita chips and Twizzlers were waiting in the car for me as well). Deflated, I slumped into my car seat and settled in for the last part of the trip.

A new pattern arose from the exhaustion: twelves hours of sleep plus an afternoon nap, periods of chatter followed by aimless staring into space, general culture shock and feeling overwhelmed by the phone and communication. I avoided phone calls from dear friends, couldn't focus on watching TV and wasn't even listening to music. My brain was overloaded and it rejected any form of distraction. Friends and family tip-toed around me, unsure of what to do with the introverted, quiet form of myself. Truthfully, I didn't know what to do with myself either.

Post-surgery Kyla

Over the next two weeks, I began to speak more frequently, listen to the concerns of others, and the crying tapered off. Surgery came and went and eventually I had purged myself of the fatigue and bad memories which haunted my night. There was no exact cure for the trauma, but the combination of a safe environment, incredibly supportive family and friends and time allowed for me to begin the healing process.

Ever the patient woman, I had an intense list of things "to do" while in Michigan and proceeded to check items off this list regardless of my gimp leg. I spent my days visiting apple orchards, wine tasting in Traverse City, shopping for gifts and taking an eating/drinking tour of West Michigan. Soon everything felt comfortable, easy and relaxing. I could drive where I wanted, speak English and say "no" whenever I felt like it. In six weeks, I rediscovered my independence and sense of identity. I had missed being me and it was good to be back.

Family and beer!

One of my many "to do" lists

Before I knew it, the transition home turned into a transition back to Morocco. I had barely regained my sense of self before I had to go through the goodbyes and tears that I initially faced just six months prior. The panic of "having so many things I want to do and so many people to see and knowing there is no way I can enjoy everything I want in the next week" set in. I constantly reminded myself that it was my choice to return to Morocco, mostly because the only thing harder than returning would be to not return at all. That sounds convoluted, but I swear it's a thing.

Choosing to return was a renewal of my Peace Corps vows, or more importantly, my vow to myself and the people of Tazarine. I would continue to choose this life everyday in spite of the tears, separation and hardship. I had also made a promise to my fellow volunteers; friends who were depending of my support and presence for the next two years just as I depended on them. I am particularly thankful to Leah, who in response to my expression that I "felt as though I belonged nowhere," responded simply "you belong here."

Celebrating Fall

 Despite my fear of returning to the place where I was assaulted, my longing for a comfortable life in Michigan and the close proximity of family and friends, I got on the plane that Monday evening. After a final Starbucks Chai and two difficult goodbyes, I took my seat and cried during the entire flight from Grand Rapids to Detroit. I closed my eyes again and prayed for relief; I was granted sleep.

Something I miss.

What Happens in August, Stays in August

It's taken me over two months to write this blog entry. It's not because I didn't have access to the Internet or the ability to talk about my experiences - it's because I couldn't stand the thought of spending one more minute dwelling on my distracting, painful and lonely ten days in Rabat. Rest, tears and time have finally given me the energy to delve back into this moment in time. Here goes nothing.

I arrived in Rabat with mixed emotions. A close friend had permanently returned to the U.S., I was drained from reaching the halfway point in Ramadan but I also had spent the last five days with an amazing Moroccan family and felt that my prayer life had grown exponentially during this period of hardship. My right knee had been a source of constant pain since my arrival in Morocco and I looked forward to discovering the culprit and continuing on with my summer of camps, travel and general avoidance of the heat.

Monday morning at the radiologist came and went, Kyla's first MRI! I celebrated my success with a trip to the Rabat American school swimming pool to forget about the lack of food in my stomach. After an invigorating afternoon of swimming, reading and napping, I decided to stroll through the suburbs of Agdal on my way back to the hotel (the best distraction just before I broke fast). Soon I became lost in my thoughts; humming and thanking God for allowing me to be in such a beautiful place. Believe me, these are moments of scarcity in the first few months of Peace Corps, let alone Ramadan. Around 6:30 pm across from the National Library, a young Moroccan man approached me from my left side, grabbing my arm and attempting to steal my purse. We played a violent tug-o-war for nearly twenty seconds before a few cars stopped and good Samaritans chased the assailant away. I dropped my purse, realizing that blood covered my arms, knees and was coming from my chest. I hadn't seen a weapon, I hadn't seen his face, I had simply fought.

The crowd herded me into one family's car where I tried to explain what I needed in a garbled mess of Darija, French and English. Holding napkins to my arms, I tried to control my breathing and speak while tears cascaded down my cheeks. The family spotted a police car on the way to the Peace Corps office and decided that would be the best place for me. I said my thank yous, called Peace Corps in a panic and waited impatiently on the busy street corner for help. The Moroccan police wanted to escort me to the station to file a report, which I firmly declined given that I was still bleeding excessively. We all have our priorities. Pedestrians passed me on the street inquiring if I was okay and assuring me that not all Moroccans were like "this." My actions elicited a mixed response; it was clear the police thought I should have let the assailant take my bag while Moroccan women cheered me on, "you are a strong woman!"

Eventually a Peace Corps staff member collected me from the mayhem. The rest of the night included a failed stop to the local clinic where the doctors and nurses were unavailable to provide care since everyone was breaking fast, a lonely walk back and forth to the tram around 10:30 pm and a difficult conversation with my mother. I collapsed into bed around midnight, exhausted from the trauma and devastation of the last twelve hours.

The rest of the week was unrelenting. As the shock wore off, I came to realize that the assailant had a plastic knife and razor blade which he used to try and cut my bag off, cutting my arms and chest in the process. My physical pain was constant. Ramadan fasting was no longer a possibility since I had to consume a steady amount of pain medication to fight off the inflammation. Bathing and basic care out of the question. I struggled to get out of bed but couldn't sleep due to anxiety and nightmares. My days were spent in a daze at the Peace Corps office or police station giving statements, trying to identify my assailant and having my wounds cleaned. I felt like a zombie; never fully awake or asleep, just stuck in a never-ending nightmare.

The week unfolded with more bad news - Thursday afternoon I learned that I had a torn meniscus in my right knee and needed surgery. I was the victim of a small and public sexual assault Friday evening while trying to relax with another volunteer. By the weekend, I was past the point of no return. I had gone from a daze to full-blown anger and anxiety. I stopped consistently eating and sleeping. Most days were spent on the phone with my parents and friends, simply crying. Did you know that you can dehydrate yourself when you cry that much? I felt trapped, alone and completely helpless like the walls of my hotel room were collapsing in on me. It was a period of intense darkness and I needed someone to pull me out.

Through a series of teary eyed conversations, the staff and I agreed that I needed family, support and home.  Less than ten days after the initial assault, I was on a plane back home to Michigan. Dazed and confused, I had 45 days to have knee surgery, therapy and recover before returning to Morocco. I closed my eyes on the trans-Atlantic flight, knowing that I would wake up somewhere safe.

Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel

Last Thursday afternoon, I sat across from one of my best friends "B" while she poured out her deepest fears and struggles regarding her faith. Studying the Bible had once again lead into a discussion regarding the spiritual drought surrounding our first few months of service and the loneliness associated with forced separation from our religious communities and support networks. My friend had been searching for signs and guidance from God, but she felt that He had been silent in her recent struggles. Where is God when you are alone and scared in a foreign country? Why does He hide His face when you need Him the most? Pushing aside my own feelings of inadequacy and helplessness, I prayed over my friend and begged God for the right words to say. After an hour of hugs and tears, we emerged with red noses (tissues are expensive, napkins are a cheaper although harsher alternative) and feeling a slight sense of catharsis. We may be lost, but we aren't alone.

Feeling like God had already started to answer our prayers, we set out to a new Moroccan friend's home to break Ramadan fast with her family. "B" and "N" had barely met, but we soon learned that they had once lived just a few miles apart in the US. As the conversation progressed, we learned that their significant others ran in the same circles, they had attended the same place of worship, they shared mutual friends and their wedding anniversary dates were identical. They had so much in common, it's likely they had passed each other on the street numerous times. "N" was an answer to our prayers. Within a few short hours, "B" went from feeling disconnected in Morocco to discussing her favorite places to eat in California with her new Moroccan sister. The similarities were astounding and tears welled in our eyes: this was more than a coincidence, this was clearly the work of God.

Unfortunately, this glimpse of heaven on earth was interrupted by a week of turmoil. I fully believe that God only gives you as much as you can handle, but I found myself wishing that He had a little less faith in my strength. Adding to the stress of fasting during Ramadan and trying to work on various projects, it became clear that Peace Corps was no longer the place for "B." While I am not at liberty to describe the entire ordeal, please know that we went through an emotional and mental ringer. Four trying days after our blessed meal with "N,' I found myself collapsed on a bed and begging her family to let me stay at their home. I was sucked dry. Drained. All I could do was hope for mercy and a place to temporarily rest my head. "N" and her family graciously welcomed me to their home when I had no other place to turn.

I quickly learned that this was more than an act of hospitality. "N" had been unfairly deported from the US over three years ago. She had been humiliated and disgraced; treated like an animal and separated from her husband who is gainfully employed in the States. For the past few years, she has been working in Canada and jumping through the never-ending hoops of immigration. Her husband is only able to visit two days per month and they haven't spent a single holiday, birthday or anniversary together in nearly four years. This intelligent, giving and energetic young Muslim woman has been forced to create a new life across a seemingly meaningless human border.

Despite her gross mistreatment at the hands of the American government, her family opened their home to two American girls who symbolize a painful period in their daughter's life. They have shared their food, their beds, their religion and their lives with us, asking for nothing in return. I will never forget their generosity and kindness and pray that I can give back in a meaningful way.

In some ways, I feel like a helpless volunteer with no connections in congress or friends in immigration who can expedite her hardship paperwork. Yet I know that every time you bang on a door, it becomes more difficult for people to ignore your cry. My Moroccan sister has been banging on door after door for over three years and today I am adding my voice. 

The Communal Experience: Ramadan Begins

When I tried to fast in Zambia, big epic failures occurred. Staring at my co-workers while they ate piles of white bread and mangos didn’t lend itself to keeping my sanity throughout the long, hot and empty afternoon. By the end of the day, I found myself wondering about my motives and unsure that this spiritual discipline was for me.

On the flipside, fasting with 45 Moroccan kids, several Moroccan counsellors and five very hungry PCVs (not to mention the rest of the country), allows you to rely on others and focus your energy on the real purpose of Ramadan. Team Ramses (Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Heart!) bound together to beat the first few days of Ramadan. Afternoon walks, a Star Wars Marathon and strict rules about when food could be mentioned all aided in our success. We decided that anything said between the hours of 12pm and 7:45pm, was off the record and that we “hated the hunger, not each other.” Did we complain when we woke up for the 3:30am meal? Yes. Did we make pointless conversation directly before the cannon went off? Totally. Did we struggle and succeed together? Absolutely.

Here is a brief itinerary of the first few days, typically the most challenging in a month.

3:30am : Good Morning! It’s time to eat! Bags of bread, sugary yogurt, fake cheese and possibly fruit have been delivered to our room. We slowly roll out of our individual dorm beds and wander onto our communal bed zone (pictures to come). Blake lightly taps his head for a few minutes before speaking, Leah starts working on her water, I babble incessantly and make bad jokes, Cait watches in amusement and Zaana reminds us that she didn’t want to fast in the first place.

4am- Fajr Prayer, pretty sure I fall asleep partway through this one...regardless I try to focus on my spiritual journey and ask God to help me fast successfully and easily throughout the day. 


5:30am: Sunrise, the official fast begins.

10am: Feels too early to wake up, but the clapping has begun.

11am-12:30pm : Zoned out English classes on the side of both the teachers and students. We found group activities kept their attention, not much else. I nearly passed out trying to do the “Peel Bananas” song and “Boom Chicka Boom” in a row.

12:30pm- Dhuhr Prayer, currently my bible study time and reflection on God’s word.

1pm- 4:30pm: Free time! This normally included a trip to the Peace Corps office, swimming in the pool at the American school, napping, slow walks, long naps, meditation, etc.

4:30pm: Asr Prayer – This is a tough one. My body feels like it has atrophied by this point of the day. This prayer goes between listening to praise songs and asking God to look after friends, family.

5pm-7:15pm: Star Wars Marathon! We cloister ourselves onto the communal bed, safely away from other humans and food. Hangriness has taken over our brains. If someone sneezes, I may assault them. It’s best to stay quiet and rest.

7:15pm: (technically 30 minutes before Maghrib prayer). I spend this time in prayer focusing on the least of these; those who struggle with this hunger everyday and won’t get to “break” their fast.


7:45pm: The cannon goes off! The call to prayer begins for the Maghrib (the official signal that the sun has set). It's time to feast! We all take our first date and a sip of milk before digging into harira, chebakia, juice, hard-boiled eggs, fried bread and an assortment of other goodies. God is good and we are starving.


8:15-9:15pm: Digestion. Seriously, we all just sit.


9:15pm: Isha Prayer; I normally sing this one. It's all about Thanksgiving and Praise to God at this point in the day!


9:30pm-12am: Walks around the old Medina, visiting the Marina, talent shows with the kids, eating McFlurries at McDonalds and general happiness. It feels so good to finally be full.


12:30am: More food? Yes please! In Morocco, this is typically the biggest meal of Ramadan. I'm not a fan of the tradition, but am still capable of eating an entire veggie pizza directly before heading to bed.


1am: Time for bed! We are full, exhausted and aware that breakfast comes in two hours. The cycle continues...


Work at the Dar Talib, my second camp of the summer, has come to an end and the first four days of Ramadan are complete. Stay tuned for the rest of Ramadan musings in El Jadida, the adventure continues!

Pre-Ramadan Musings

I miss church. Every other time I’ve spent a considerable amount of time abroad, it’s been in a traditionally Catholic or Christian country. Whether or not I agreed with the country’s individual practice of religion, there was usually some Baptist church, Anglican or Catholic Cathedral where I could rest in the presence of God. After my mixed feelings of practicing state-endorsed Christianity in Zambia, it was a welcome change to land in a country where I don’t feel frustrated by the message preached by my fellow Christians.

Welcome to my new challenge: Islam and Morocco; the two are inseperable. There is no way to engage with the language, the people or the greater community without this basic understanding. The most essential phrases of Darija include: “the Peace of Allah be with you,”  “thanks be to Allah” and “Allah bless your parents” to name a few. Likewise, a volunteer cannot hope to integrate into their local community without numerous conversations about conversion, fasting and prayer. Entering into discussion is an open invitation to be questioned about your belief system and your reasons for not already being a Muslim.

As a Christian, I struggle with the never-ending demands that I submit to the will of Allah. Politely replying that “there is no compulsion in religion” or “you have your religion and I have mine” may do the trick, but it also leaves me feeling that I’ve given an incomplete answer. It’s frustrating that the societal and organizational restraints leave me feeling that the exchange is decidedly one-sided.

Ramadan begins in a few days. I’ve been looking forward to this time of fasting, prayer and reflection for months, but as it draws near I’m overcome by anxiety and panic. Will I be overwhelmed by the hangriness and unable to keep the fast? Will I be able to successfully teach English or speak Darija when I haven’t eaten for 12 hours? Will I have enough energy to focus on my spiritual journey and engage with fellow PCVs as they struggle in theirs? What if I can’t find the words to commune with God five times per day?

Despite my own fears, insecurities and longings, I’ve decided to engage culturally and spiritually with the Moroccan people and join the fast. I don’t know what the next month holds, but I know Who holds it.

(Originally written July 19)

Firsts.

First time living alone

First bird that flew around my apartment, I am Snow White

First cockroach

First power outage

First malfunctioning piece of equipment (fridge)

First night on my own

First time making breakfast using a gas stove

First sandstorm

First turkish toilet issue, eww

First visitor

First night sleeping on the roof

First time doing all my laundry by hand

First time visiting a Moroccan family without being invited

First invitation to a wedding in my community

First "diva" fuster cluck

First attempt at coffee (mostly a failure)

First rain in the desert

First niece (!!!)

First ride in the tranzit

First random tears

First cleansing of the space, super necessary

First afternoon True Blood Marathon

First "conversion" conversation 

First genocide of the flies, oh the carnage

First "natural" hot yoga, no studio needed!

It's been a big week. Hell, it's been a big month. I'm still processing the time between Rabat, Errachidia, Beni Tajite, Ouarzazat and Tazarine: two host families, two sites, high temperatures and higher emotions. It's been a roller-coaster ride, but I couldn't be happier to finally be settled in my new home. The people are wonderful, the work will be fulfilling and the challenge has only just begun. Zwin the Morocco. 

Using French for good (and not evil)

Confession: the first weekend with my host family, I spoke almost exclusively French. I will admit it. I could literally say ten words in Darija and it was too awkward to keep my mouth shut when I had the ability to express myself. A few weeks into CBT, my family switched into full Darija with me; using French only to clarify or teach me a new word. However, if I really struggle or they need to get through to me, they will switch back into French. It can be frustrating when I want to practice, but it can also be a relief when the Darija isn’t there.

The same is true at the taxi stand, the souq, the government office. Moroccans wait patiently as I fumble through my Darija, sometimes arriving at a coherent sentence or sometimes realizing I have been speaking in the totally wrong verb tense. After a few minutes, the driver or store owner calls over a friend who politely asks “parlez-vous Francais?” Simultaneous relief and frustration overwhelm me. I have trained myself to think of French as a crutch; a sign that I have failed in my current language study.

The cat calls compound the vilification of the French language. Boys, teenagers and men frequently hiss, yell or speak to us in the language they assume all Westerners understand. As a young woman, it is inadvisable to respond to the street harassment, leaving me powerless in a language I feel comfortable with. Some days I want nothing more than to school the 14 year-old harassers with vicious French slang, other days I wish I could erase my memory of the entire language.

Today I received a gentle reminder that language doesn’t have to be perfect to be useful. Rachel, my fellow trainee, and I took a small afternoon trip to a nearby lake. We happened upon a conversation with a middle aged French man who is enjoying Morocco for the month of May. Our mixed conversation of French, English and Darija provided two hours of mental gymnastics; unaccustomed to working in three languages at once, my French was merde, Darija was tFu and my English was shit. Yet, despite the poor quality of my verb tenses, it was the most fulfilling experience of the week. And someday, I will share that with my host family. B Darija, Inshallah. 

The Fleeting Normal

Despite ongoing changes and stresses with host families and Darija, life has started to normalize in Immouzer. We have grown accustomed to the daily tasks of eating with our right hand, using a Turk, and the perhaps even found a bit of privacy in the collective world. Every volunteer has their own trick for pursuing sanity: chess in the cafe, daily yoga or jogging sessions, chocolate or maybe a weekly warm bucket bath.

Our “balanced” state of mind is not to be confused with actual normalcy largely found in our hometowns. For many volunteers, including myself, my normal is acknowledging my rollercoaster of emotions throughout the day. I frequently feel excited and confident in Darija in the morning, reflective and/or teary in the afternoon, exhausted by the end of class, and rejuvenated late in the evening. Laundry and simple conversation is overwhelming on Tuesday before discussions and dance parties occur on Wednesday. I consider myself to be emotional in everyday life, but the highs and lows of immersion consistently surprise me. I feel it all.

Adding to the joys and stresses of Community-Based Training is the quasi-high school atmosphere produced by placing young Americans in a stressful situation. We have a way of isolating a victim, nominating a leader and falling into the familiar roles of the “in” and the “out” crowds. Thousands of miles from home, the jock still picks on the band geek. Unfortunately this behaviour does not end with training; we were warned yesterday of the dangers of “Volunteer-on-Volunteer” emotional damage and gossip. It’s sobering to realize that your newly created support system may become your worst enemies. I have already fallen prey to the easy bonding of bashing, criticizing and tearing down others. Thankfully this is the trial run. Inshallah, we have gained enough from training to create a healthier “normal” in our final site, including who to trust and when to keep our mouths shut.

This week marks the transition from PC trainees to PC volunteers. On Saturday morning we will say goodbye to our host families and return to the company of 110 Americans in Rabat. Following final site placement announcements, additional training and relaxation, we will be sworn in as volunteers next Wednesday. The next day, we will part ways to track down transportation to our individual sites, officially marking the beginning of our service. Bslama to the “current normal” and MarHba to Wide Open Spaces of our own.