Meditation Retreat

In early November, I decided to try my hand at meditation. Having attempted both self guided meditation and podcast meditation, I was prepared to admit that I needed help. While meditation doesn't come easily to anyone, I felt like I was in desperate need of professional guidance if I was to improve. Chiang Mai in northern Thailand is home to countless Buddhist temples, with several of them offering meditation programs lasting anywhere from 24 hours to several weeks. In the past the only way to try your hand at silence and meditation was to sign up for a 14 day retreat. Apparently the monks saw enough foreigners lose their minds that they decided to offer 'entry level' meditation for the mildly curious and cautious types. After speaking with a local Buddhist Monk at a program called, 'Monk chat,' I signed up for the two day meditation experience and was eager to get my zen on. 

On the Tuesday of the retreat, I arrived at the Buddhist temple. Having filled out the appropriate paperwork, I collected my white clothes and watched a YouTube video of one of the few female Buddhist monks. Being a fairly large group of 24, we waited for the other participants to arrive before starting introductions and learning the rules of the temple. By early afternoon we were in the back of small red trucks and making our way to the meditation center, roughly an hour outside the city. 

Arriving at the center, we were matched up with someone of the same gender and sent to our rooms. The rooms consisted of simple beds, a small dresser and a small bathroom. Void of decoration or unnecessary items, it was a space created to keep your mind empty. We were told to take showers and change into our white pants and white shirts before the gong rang at five pm. Speaking briefly to my Chinese roommate, we made quick introductions before conjecturing about the coming hours of meditation. Neither of us had tried a silent retreat or serious meditation and we were both eager to see how we reacted to the experience. At five pm, the gong rang loudly and we all moved from our individual rooms to the space in the center of the complex. The gong also signified the beginning of silence between all participants, a practice that would last until the following day at noon. 

Evening meditation practice

Entering into the space, we located small white cushions and were instructed to sit cross-legged in preparation for the first meditation. The monk, who had been meditating as we entered the building, opened his eyes and explained the basics of sitting meditation. He encouraged us to remember that meditation is a difficult practice that will take time to improve. The purpose of the practice is to 'calm your monkey mind'  from all the places it wants to travel and bring it into stillness. You begin by focusing on breathing and when the mind begins to wander, you can focus on the thing that's distracting. When you start to think of a to-do list you repeat the mantra 'thinking, thinking,  thinking'  until you return to your breathe. If you are distracted by the sounds of the ticking clock or a person speaking, you repeat the mantra 'hearing, hearing, hearing' until the sound is no longer bothering you. If you have a pain in your knee or a tickle in your ear, you repeat the mantra 'feeling, feeling, feeling' until the physical distraction is a distant memory. Following his explanation, we recitated a short text and began a short group seated meditation guided by the monk. Next we tried a short standing meditation, essentially the same as a sitting meditation but a little easier when your knees and back aren't accustomed to sitting for long periods of time. Finally we did a walking meditation in which you speak your physical actions, ie, 'I'm walking, I'm walking, I'm walking, I'm turning, I'm turning, I'm walking...' The walking meditation is often easier for beginners since it combines the physical and mental exercise, and has the same benefit while feeling easier to your aching body. After two hours of meditation practice, we were instructed to repeat a common phrase to the Buddha, bow accordingly, and head to dinner. I found the bowing and recitation to be strange given that Buddha is not considered a god, but I learned that it was meant to be a sign of respect. 

Group Picture 

Practicing a walking meditation to dinner, we moved silently and slowly in the dark. Small white bodies moving within feet of each other, although totally separate. Quietly taking our dinners of vegetarian curry with water and fruit, we spoke the dinner recitation before beginning the meal. The recitation reminded us that food is meant for nourishment, not fun and that its purpose is sustenance and should be eaten thoughtfully. During our meals, we were also encouraged to meditate on the act of eating, repeating the mantra 'chewing, chewing, chewing.'  

Following dinner, we returned to the large meditation chamber and continued practicing various forms of group meditation. By nine pm, we had silently returned to our rooms and the lights were dimmed. Despite missing my practice of sharing every thought with those closest to me, I quickly fell asleep. Sooner than expected, the 4:30 am gong rang.

Practicing giving alms to Monks - a daily practice in Thailand

The following day consisted of several hours of individual meditations, a small breakfast and a short group discussion. During the group discussion we were finally allowed to break our silence and speak at length about our experiences. Even though we'd only been silent for roughly 16 hours, I was relieved to hear voices again. The discussion started with individual stories of the practice; some practitioners were frustrated by their inability to 'control their mind' while others were surprised at the discomfort felt by their bodies. I spoke of my ability to fall asleep during any meditation and was pleasantly surprised to learn that it was a great sign. The monk smiled and congratulated me for feeling relaxed and listening to the needs of my body.

As the retreat came to an end, we participated in a few final meditation rounds and listened to the parting words of the monk. Returning to the city, once again dressed in colorful clothes and able to speak freely, we discussed the retreat. While I appreciated many core aspects of mindfulness and meditation including increased awareness of what you put in your body, how you move and actively training your mind, there were other aspects with which I struggled. The nature of detachment feels robotic to me. We were encouraged to move our minds away from not only painful thoughts, but also to create distance between our minds and happy thoughts. Monks are not meant to dwell on joy, good food, dancing and pleasure. While I understand the value in not allowing these pleasures to control you, they are also an essential part of what makes humanity beautiful. I never want to detach myself from the beauty of a magnificent sunset, the truly complex glass of wine or the joy of seeing my niece. These sparks of love are small glimpses of a greater power and a connectedness between humans everywhere.

Group Discussion

Furthermore, I disagree with the role of women in Theravada Buddhism. Unlike in Burma and Sri Lanka, the lineage of women monastics was never established in Thailand. Women primarily participate in religious life either as lay participants in collective merit-making rituals or by doing domestic work around temples. A small number of women choose to become maechi, non-ordained religious specialists who permanently observe the Precepts but do not receive the level of support given to their male counterparts and their position in Thai society (wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddhism_in_Thailand). Additionally, women are never allowed to enter certain temples and are asked to refrain from visiting others due to their periods. We are never allowed to shake a monk's hand are targeted for wearing 'the wrong sorts of clothing' at temples more frequently than men.

More than anything, this meditation retreat forced me to think critically about religious traditions around the world. These limitations and benefits are not specific to this particular form of Buddhism and it's important to learn the the effects that religious devotion has on a culture. Spending time in focused meditation, I was free to feel emotions which had been hiding under the surface and to engage with my surroundings in an intentional way. My meditation practice has been inconsistent since continuing my travels, but I left the retreat with a greater understanding of another religion and the tools I need to continue to broaden my horizons and think clearly about everything that passes before my eyes.

The things I would tell him.

Living far from my father since I was ten, I learned to cherish our good conversations and precious quality time. Those days when he lost track of time and became immersed in the topic. When we dug deeper into our relationship, sorted out painful memories from the past or just thoroughly enjoyed each other's company. The conversations over a meal at Russ' or Arnie's grew in depth as I aged and our relationship shifted from mandatory to intentional. Shared meals evolved from a strict one hour time frame to slow afternoons where we sat for hours and grudgingly said goodbye when other commitments pressed upon us. While living in the USA, every Saturday afternoon he would call. Whether we spoke for ten minutes or an hour was largely dependent on his energy and the quantity of family news to communicate. At times this arrangement was convenient due to my own time constraints, yet in other seasons it was hurtful when I sought his worthy opinion or a listening ear. I suppose you could say he was human and communicated accordingly. When I lived in Zambia, he was difficult to reach online,  but by the time I found myself in Morocco, he was one of my most consistent skype partners. Providing wonderful insight into the Muslim world, we explored the way religions interact with culture. He delighted in my daily joys and listened after particularly soul-crushing experiences. After a full year of talking about Morocco, he made the effort to visit my small town and walked a few miles in my shoes. That trip will forever be one of my most cherished memories of my father.  

After his illness and death in 2015, the most acute loss has been that no one calls on Saturday afternoons. That the world around me continues, but I've lost one of my favorite people to reflect upon it with. That in all things good and bad, I still wait for his well reasoned response and am left wondering, 'what would my dad think?' 

A woman well versed in loss once told me that when I miss him, I should still try to communicate. Whether it's outloud, in a quiet prayer or in my writing, I can present my thoughts and see if I receive an answer. Although the practice often feels strange, it's also comforting and cathartic. During the course of my travels this fall, there have been countless occasions when I've sent my thoughts to him, hoping that someone is listening. Here are a few of the things I'd tell him.

If my dad was enjoying his morning cup of coffee, I'd tell him that I finally understand what he loved about the depths of the ocean. The initial fear and excitement of entering the water and the faith that you'll be able to breathe as you descend meter after meter. That the Indonesian waters are rich with fusiliers, clown fish, eels, tiny mantis shrimp and sea cucumbers. That I can barely wrap my head around the vibrant colors of the coral and the grace of the sea turtles. I'd ask him about his research in Oregon and what drew him to the ocean. We'd talk about how different our lives would have been if he'd stayed in marine biology. Maybe we'd even plan a diving trip together. I think he would have liked that. 

If we were sharing coconut ice cream after some spicy pad thai, I'd tell him about how much I loved spending time in another Muslim country. How the people of Indonesia were incredibly kind, accepting and open and how it was fascinating to see how the world's largest Muslim country operates. How I'd love to live there and explore the islands for years. I'd ask him about the differences between the primary forms of Buddhism in Asia. How frustrated I was that women can't be monks and that I couldn't enter certain temples because I was considered 'unclean.' How those gender norms still exist in Christianity and how damaging it is for women. 

If he were smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of whiskey, I'd tell him about my shock that our country has turned to bigotry and xenophobia. That I cried when I heard about the results of the election and couldn't believe that we elected a man without wisdom or courage. That I fear for the safety of my friends who are black, Muslim, queer, and immigrants. That I fear that my reproductive rights are in question and that we've elected a man who is openly misogynistic. That I feel attacked for being a feminist. That I thought the church stood for the widow, the orphan and the alien rather than for power. That I don't recognize our country and am fearful of the darkness on our doorstep and on the horizon. 

If we were walking on the beach together,  I'd tell him that I'm grateful for the opportunities I've had to travel, but would have traded a few more years with him for all the sunsets in Myanmar. That I'm thankful he gave me an education and encouraged me to think critically about the world around me. That I can't wait to start grad school and it wouldn't be possible without him. That he taught me to love the outsider and advocate for justice and that I plan on continuing that work after school. That even though the world feels scary, he taught me to stand firm and fight for the rights of the disenfranchised. That I miss him, but know that he's with me through the darkness and the light. 

Tales of the Moto

Waking up on the shores of the largest lake in South East Asia, I was looking for an adventure. My fellow backpackers told me the scooter, or moto, was the only way to get around the island of Samosir without perpetually waiting for public transportation and despite my desire to take a 'local ' route from point A to point B, this was the way the locals traveled as well. My hands were tied and I was secretly thrilled to test my skills on the Moto: the most notoriously dangerous yet widely used form of transport in Asia. 

The woman across the street gave me a crash course on the fundamentals of the Moto, having me drive up and down the street once before she let me take her bike. Thankfully she was distracted by another customer when I gently ran the bike into the curb (whoops). Having a total of ten seconds of riding under my belt,  I was ready for the streets of Samosir. The woman reminded me that there was no insurance , ie, I'm responsible for all damages and encouraged me to buy magic mushrooms from her after I returned the bike. Don't be too surprised; magic mushrooms are on the pizzas, in the shakes and are readily available everywhere on Lake Toba. Maybe that's why the people are always singing and dancing  . . . I digress . 

With my overconfident attitude and uninsured bike, I was on my way. Cruising along a well maintained and straight road, I was on cloud nine. To my left, the hillside of Samosir replete with the shrines of the Batak people. To my right, small villages and fields nestled in snuggly before the shoreline. With the wind in my hair, no set destination in mind and two of my favorite French backpackers sharing the moto in front of me, it was a pure moment of absolute freedom and happiness. This was what all the fuss was about. 

Samosir Island, or technically the peninsula, is roughly the size of Singapore and is home to the Batak people. According to Lonely Planet, 'The Bataks were among the most warlike people in Sumatra. . . They were so mistrustful that they did not build or maintain natural paths between villages, or construct bridges.' Cannibalism was practiced until 1816, although it was combined with the Christian faith thanks to German missionaries. Today the Batak people still incorporate animistic beliefs with their Protestant faith and shrines and elaborate graves are found throughout the island. This 'proud, debaucherous Christian people who love a drink'  are fascinating to engage in conversation and even more fun to sing along with. 

Finding a few of the locals along the side of the road, the French girls and I stopped for a spicy lunch of fish and cola. We came for the food, but stayed for the large groups of older men who were fascinated by our height, blond hair and love of riding fast bikes around their home. Sitting down to lunch with the foreigners, they asked standard questions about why we came to Toba, where we're from and what we think of their country. Stomachs full, we jumped on the bikes and continued toward our final destination - the hot springs. 

Two hours later, we hadn't found the hot springs and had run out of gas. Happily we found ourselves on a gravel road just a few kilometers from the nearest gas station and exactly where we wanted to be. In a few short kilometers, the views changed from urban Sumatra to the land before time. Drastic cliffs rising from the lake set the scene. Some were foraged by local woman, others were just on fire. A few weeks before the beginning of the rainy season, these cliffs caught on fire daily and burned until the rains began. Waiting for the liter of gas, we exchanged stories of travel and discussed our hopes for the future. Hopes to see more, to experience the world in a richer way, and to never settle for lives that didn't fit us. Astonished by the natural, harsh beauty surrounding us, we were thankful for the road that brought us here.

All too soon, our motos were refilled and we continued off the hillside. Finally locating the hot springs, we took a quick dip before speeding back to our side of the massive peninsula. We returned to the hostel without incident, and I didn't even wreck my motorbike until the following morning. That's a story for another blog. That afternoon on Lake Toba, we let the day choose our path and were delighted with the outcome. Another reminder that the destination is just that, a destination after a rewarding journey. 

Persons of the Forest

Friendly people, powerful volcanoes and cheap massage; Bali and Java had not disappointed. Traveling westward via one of Southeast Asia's many budget airlines, Sumatra loomed large in my mind. Family and fellow travelers had assured me that the island was amazing 15 years ago and continued to be a must-see, despite the low number of backpackers. 

My first impression wasn't good. Medan, the biggest city on Sumatra and main travel hub, is considered one of the grittier places in Indonesia. Arriving at a central bus hub, I was met with an immediate scam from an uncharacteristically hostile man at the bus station. Thankfully the interaction was short and within 20 minutes I was wildly bouncing around in the back of a local minibus. Mildly entertained by the scratched, skipping music videos produced by 'Medan Media Publications,' it was only when we left the noise of the city behind that I caught my first glimpse of the Sumatran countryside. Small villages punctuated vast expanses of palm tree forest while local children yelled 'hallo!' while chasing the minivan. An hour into the ride, the villages remained uniform while the forest dwindled. We had entered the area dominated by the Palm oil industry where huge portions of land are routinely burned to produce the valuable substance found in western beauty products. The industry is responsible for huge deforestation in both Sumatra and Kalimantan, another Indonesian island blessed and cursed by its rich jungle. The industry pushes into the Gunung Leuser National Park, one of the richest tropical ecosystems in the world and one of the few remaining habitats for orangutans. 

The orangutan, or 'person of the forest' in Bahasa Indonesian, is threatened by extinction in both Kalimantan and Sumatra. An intelligent and solitary creature whose mostly vegetarian diet include nuts, fruits and leaves, the orangutan is threatened due to extensive habitat loss from the logging and palm oil industry. Combined with the seven year nursing period where mothers pass on all essential information to their offspring, the orangutans are in serious danger. Like similar conservation efforts in Southeast Asia, the industrious people of Bukit Lawang have worked to create a tourist experience with the hopes that finances earned from tourism will outweigh the benefits of deforestation and will loosen the grip of the palm oil industry. Despite the additional complication of exposing orangutans to human illness, of which they are highly susceptible, the effort has been successful. 

Arriving in Bukit Lawang, a small village deep in the heart of Sumatra, I located a charming guesthouse and arranged my jungle trek. Like most tourists, I opted for a two day, one night jungle experience. Starting early the following morning, our small group encountered our first orangutan within roughly twenty minutes of entering the jungle. As part of the rehabilitative process in the National Park, orangutans were fed at a local feeding station for years before the population was considered strong enough to survive on its own. A recent change, several of the orangutans in the area are considered to be 'semi-wild' and are more comfortable coming down from the forest canopy to take a look at the visitors. Weening the orangutans off human food is challenging, especially as commitment to the cause varies between trekking companies. While my guide refused to feed the orangutans just to please his western guests, many of the guides feel pressure from their groups to feed orangutans so the group is able to get a better photo or even a selfie with the animal. This practice is damaging for the orangutans who don't develop a healthy fear of humans and won't pass along basic survival skills to their young. 

Encountering these magnificent creatures was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. While slow moving on the ground, once they take the arm or bag of a human, you won't get it back until they choose to return it. While close to orangutans, we were told to keep our bags closed at all times. When an orangutan decides to take a bag, it will carry it to the top of a tree, empty its contents, take any food, and then leave the bag hanging at the top of the tree, almost like a small warning flag for tourists. After the orangutans spent a few minutes on the forest floor, examining its guests, it would quickly return to the safety of the canopy and move gracefully through the forest. In addition to seeing a variety of orangutans, we heard the call of the black Gibbons, played with the pink-haired Tomas monkey who is only found in this National Park, spotted huge turtles and witnessed Sumatran peacocks call to each other in the dense jungle. 

Later in the evening, after a large dinner with abundant tea and spicy cuisine, I sat under the stars and asked one of the guides about life on the edge of this fragile ecosystem. Bukit Lawang is built on the banks of a gushing River that separates it from the National Park. The locals wash, play and drink from its rushing waters, but it hasn't always been a purely positive relationship. Early in the morning in November 2003, when Omar was a young man, he warned his mother that the river looked higher than normal and that they should leave their home on the banks of the riverbed to be safe. Gathering a few nearby family members, Omar and his mother ran to higher ground. During a flash flood upstream, a natural dam broke and sent the river raging through the community of Bukit Lawang. After the water settled, 239 people were killed and most of the riverfront development was destroyed. Omar lost family, but like so many other community members, he had to move forward. Today the basic infrastructure has been rebuilt and the tourists are slowly returning. Omar and his fellow guides seem to look forward to the future of Bukit Lawang and Gunung Leuser National Park, rather than to the tragedy of the past. They seek to protect the natural habitat of the orangutan from exploitative interests, to maintain their rich way of life and to invite the outside world to their home in the hopes that we will see the value in the jungles of Sumatra apart from oil and logging. 

Trump talk over ginger tea

Just an hour before our Friday evening plans, the text came through that he was suffering from a bout of food poisoning. Having already spent the day sightseeing alone, my extroverted self was uninterested in a quiet dinner. Deflated, I decided to continue my research into Sumatra on the communal rooftop prior to seeking out sustenance. As circumstances typically unfold in Indonesia, the solo dinner never took place. Joe, an Australian currently talking a break from teaching bahasa Indonesia to high schoolers, was also looking for a dinner partner. After bonding on the roof over our mutual love of the country and desire to eat all the street food, we made our way to a glorious hole-in-the-wall resto. Having finished dinner, although no longer having an appetite, we couldn't resist taking in the sights and smells of Malioboro street. On the first night of the Eid Al Fitr holiday weekend, the biggest celebration in the Muslim world, the road was pulsing with live pythons, street performers, plastic-wrapped clothing and every type of sweet javanese cuisine available. Standing at an appropriate distance from the seemingly docile pile of snakes, we met Anton.

 

A first generation Indonesian immigrant to Texas, Anton was dutifully visiting his family in Yogyakarta. One of only a handful of visits he's been able to make over the 16 years he's lived in the USA. Anton was initially concerned that I wouldn't believe that he was an American; maybe because he looks like an Indonesian, maybe because he's used to convincing his fellow Texans of his citizenship. Despite his heritage, Anton feels like an outsider here. It's good to visit his aunt and sister, but Java isn't home anymore. He works in the criminal justice system in Texas and is worried that the United States won't be able to compete globally with China or India while incarcerating a huge number of young people who should be contributing to the economy. He thinks that Trump will fix this. Or not necessarily this problem, but that he's certainly the best man for the job. He doesn't think Trump's hate speech regarding Mexicans, many of whom he works with, women, one of whom he was previously married to, or Muslims, which he identifies as, is sincere. Anton doesn't always agree with Trump's statements, but he thinks Trump's bold character is what the country needs. Anton represents another important part of the far right movement. Besides white men, first generation immigrants make up a significant portion of parties favoring a closed door policy in Europe and the United States. The last people to benefit from the open immigration of a country seem to be amongst the first to rapidly close the door behind them. From my conversation with Anton, his desire for closed borders rests on economic insecurity and a real fear that he will be left without a job. After he finished apologizing for his support of Trump, which he did a number of times throughout our discussion, I told him that I respect his opinion and that it's good that he's putting thought into his vote. As a young woman in the States, I refuse to vote for a candidate who has normalized hate speech towards huge portions of the population, including myself. That Trump's policy is non-existent, that he's a failure of a business man and his speeches promote violence and bigotry. While I'm not in love with Hilary Clinton, I don't have to be. Even though I don't want to have a beer with her, I believe she is over qualified for the job and will be a measured, stable president. She's unlikely to start a third world war and may even prove to be a fantastic Commander - in - Chief if we can stomach the idea of a woman running the country. Anton and I discuss the role of the media in this election, the vitriol present in political discourse. We agree that America has a lot of problems, but support different methods for how to best solve them. Most importantly, we talk about the polarization of politics and the fact that in a normal election cycle, neither of us hear or engage in many intelligent conversations with the opposing side about the state of the country. Perhaps if we spent less time criticizing the backwards ideas of the 'other, ' we might be able to form a consensus. In my distant memories, I recall learning about the importance of listening and compromise, in politics and life. Neither Anton nor myself are sure about where those values have gone. 

 

Now the three of us, an Australian and two Americans, continue down Malioboro street. Pivoting from politics, Anton tells us local stories of pet snakes fasting so they can eat their masters and the supposed healing powers of drinking cobra's blood. Vitality! Virality! Kids cuddle up to characters from Transformers while other children choose to wrap a python around their neck for a photo. Yikes. 

Anton asks us questions about our travels in Indonesia. Do we feel safe? Are people nice to us? Do we get cheated by the local bus boys? How about the spicy food? He says that Americans feel scared of Muslims in Indonesia and in the States. That his co-workers are accepting of him, but have more complicated feelings about Islam. Eager to try a ginger tea with unknown jellies and other added sweeteners, I look to the street vendors for options. Taking a more conservative approach to the local food, Anton insists on an inside venue. Just off Malioboro, we find a small coffee shop and music venue. It's just past 11pm and the chairs are filling up quickly. Anton insists on ordering the drinks for us in case they try to charge us extra. We take the hot ginger milk tea and locate a table near the band. Despite numerous attempts to pay him back, Anton stubbornly refuses stating that we are his guests in Indonesia and he is responsible for us. While I sip the incredibly sweet tea, the band finishes tuning and starts off their set with Hotel California. Apparently everyone in Indonesia knows the song and a genuine sing-a-long begins. Conservative university students take selfies while older women in revealing shirts start to dance with their husbands. Quiet families watch the ordeal from the side tables and the wait staff grooves in the back. The band pivots toward sone popular Indonesian music and the crowd goes wild again, dancing and singing late into their Friday night. 

Listening to the band play Indonesian pop mixed with American classic rock, I started to wonder about my fellow Americans. Having only met three during my first month of traveling, it does seem like we are an underrepresented group of backpackers in the country. The Germans, Dutch and French are everywhere. You find a Spaniard, Brit, Aussie and Canadian in most locations. Considering the size and wealth of the USA, we are not equally present in Indonesia. This is purely anecdotal, but I hear the same observation from many of my fellow travelers. In the eyes of the world, Americans are scared of Muslims.

It's a simplistic conclusion, but I think Americans are being taught to accept easy answers to difficult questions. Who took your jobs? Immigrants. Who are these terrorists? Muslims. How do you stop gun violence? A good guy with a gun. When we are fed a story of a black and white world, it becomes challenging to see the countless shades of gray. And how would Americans react to the  the diverse religious environment in Indonesia? It's by no means perfect, but conservative areas with sharia law exist near tourist beach resorts. Hijab-clad women sit next to their sisters in shorts. There is no monolithic Islam practiced here; just as Christianity encompasses hard-line Baptists and tattooed millenials who don't believe in heaven or hell. Seeing this level of diversity in a religion forces us to think deeply about our own prejudices, the roots of extremism and our own fears.  If we are truly a nation that fears Muslims, what is the larger consequence of this fear? What experiences do we miss and what conversations do we avoid? As stated by the wonderful Bob Garfield of the 'On the Media' podcast,  "You are more likely to be killed by a white Christian, your spouse or your bathtub than by a Muslim stranger." We spend so much time worrying about a small group of extremists that we allow the dark parts of humanity to win. Xenophobia, prejudice and bigotry start driving us rather than a nuanced view of a complicated world. 

The band continues to rock, but the ginger milk tea is putting me to sleep. Stepping into the street after midnight, we say goodbye to Anton, thanking him for his hospitality and company. Although our paths may never cross again, we'll always have this Friday night in Jogya where we ate, drank and celebrated what unites rather than divides us. 

Back to the Start

Nearly a month into my travels in Indonesia, I still have to pinch  myself and realize that I'm on a train in the middle of a sprawling archipelago. Picturing life at thirty years old, I assumed that I would be settled into a regular routine and perhaps already have completed my master's degree. How did I get to this island on the other side of my world? 

After an outstanding Peace Corps COS trip, or close of service trip, with Eugene through more than 25 National Parks, we decided to try life together in Philadelphia. Finally moving in late November to the hipster neighborhood of Northern Liberties, we celebrated Thanksgiving and started to explore our new home. We felt lucky to have located a fantastic apartment, secured an interesting new job for me and for Eugene's pending position at the Department of State. 

Almost immediately, life unraveled. My father and cousin were diagnosed with cancer and I stated to learn about the fragility of my new employment. During a tense holiday season, we waited for test results and treatment plans. While visiting my sister in Vienna, my father was hospitalized and on the eve of 2015, he called to inform us that the cancer was everywhere. Within two weeks, my siblings and I descended into Minneapolis to say goodbye. His condition deteriorated rapidly and we spent most of our time in the hospital waiting for his pain to subside. Daily crises were the new normal. We cried with visiting relatives, got angry at strangers, spoke like zombies to servers and tried our best to support each other. We watched our father tearfully say goodbye to our grandfather and joyously reconcile with our mother. We told stories to pass the time, asking our dad to recall memories of his own childhood, young married life and of our youth. At times he was lucid, coherent and himself. More often he would drift off during conversation and not return to us for hours. After three weeks in Minneapolis, we said our final goodbyes, knowing that we'd be unable to be at his side during his final moments of life. Just after midnight on February 15, the call came. 

The weeks continued as a blur of grieving and pain. My step-father was diagnosed with cancer shortly before my father's funeral, both paternal grandparents passed away and my cousin's illness continued to win battles. By the time I was laid off from my job in mid - June, I had no shits left to give. Having toiled pointlessly for months, it was a relief to give up the charade. The day after my 29th birthday, I was jobless, grieving and desperately needed a break. 

This is not to say that everything was terrible. While life felt aimless, there were wonderful people who supported me endlessly in Philly. Eugene was patient and loving despite my violent mood swings. He cooked me dinner, encouraged me to connect with family and watched any TV show that I wanted. Together we ordered pepperoni pizzas and binge watched Netflix and Ken burns documentaries. At work, several of my coworkers shared stories of their personal losses and allowed space for me to open up over coffee. Caitlin danced with me, Miranda hugged me and so many others sat with me. Despite being in a new city, I had abundant support. 

As the months passed, life in Philly became easier. I found a new job, started studying for the grad school entrance exam, and began thinking about life after the losses. Following the year anniversary of my father's passing, I started to experience familiar levels of energy, albeit with obvious terrible no good very bad days sprinkled in. Grad school acceptance letters started to arrive and I could see a change building on the horizon. Choosing to accept a spot in a program in Rotterdam, I considered how to spend my last few months before beginning a new chapter of life. What did I need to feel like myself again?

And that's how I arrived in SE Asia. The best, truest version of myself comes to light when I'm on the road. Meeting new people, riding in rickety trains and operating outside of my comfort zone sparks joy in me. More than a travel adventure, this is my first extended solo backpacking trip. A new challenge to prove to myself that despite the assault and the loss of my father, there is so much good to be found in the world. That while I'm not the same person, I'm becoming a wiser, stronger, more loving version of myself. I'm meeting her during the quiet moments of sadness, in the depths of the ocean and peering into an active volcano. I think that my dad would be proud. 

Full Circle: Healthy Living in the Peace Corps

"Has the assault changed your service? Do you think that your life is on a different trajectory than it was one year ago?"

YES.

At the time it was challenging to respond to the well-meaning question without a touch of sarcasm in my voice. Of course my service and my person were fundamentally changed, how could they not be? Can anyone pass through a traumatic experience unscathed? If you cut me, I bleed - but that's not the end of the story.

Later in the day, I met with members of Peace Corps staff and Volunteer representatives to discuss the plight of volunteers facing medivac, the term used for sending volunteers to the states for treatment or recovery for a medical reason, as well as addressing similar hardships faced while remaining in Morocco. The meeting went smoothly, but it felt like the majority of the committees were stuck in the mud of turnover and bureaucracy. Nearly a year after my assault and medivac, I was still receiving calls about volunteers whose experiences paralleled my own. Volunteers who were isolated in Rabat, volunteers who felt their mental health concerns were diminished and volunteers who returned to site without a follow-up call or way forward.

Peace Corps staffing and training depended on approval from Washington, budgets and bureaucracy. Having voiced my concerns multiple times, I decided it was time to stop waiting for Washington to catch up and act on my own. Turning my focus from staff concerns to volunteer-to-volunteer action, I began working on the first "Health Living Workshop." Collaborating with Melanie, an insightful volunteer who is well-versed in dance therapy and mental health, we began discussions on the gaps in volunteer support and where our knowledge and passion could be utilized.

Workshops inspired from our shared experiences and struggles began to emerge. Incorporating yoga, meditation, art therapy and group discussions to the curriculum, we set our intentions beyond mental health concerns and focused on the overall well-being of the volunteer. After several months of preparation, we concluded that the focus of the workshops would be to :

• Learn techniques to maintain health and manage stress
• Provide support to volunteers through shared experiences across training groups
• Raise awareness about how to navigate mental health issues in Peace Corps Morocco
• Help volunteers find joy in Peace Corps life, not just ‘get through it’

Retreats took place in Tissint and Foum Oudi, reaching volunteers from various training groups, mental health backgrounds and life experiences. Together we acknowledged the painful moments which led us to participate in these workshops, our current struggles and motivated each other to move past the hurt and into a better version of ourselves. We cried together, breathed together and encouraged each other. 

I have been blessed by these retreats - it feels selfish that I get to continually benefit from the keen insights of my resilient friends and co-workers. They inspire me to leap forward, to smile more and to never stop believing in the beauty of the volunteer experience. My cup runneth over. 

After two successful rounds of workshops with volunteers in Tissint and Foum Oudi, it was clear that this retreat was beneficial to the Peace Corps community. Encouraged by the volunteer testimonials, we created a curriculum that was passed on to the next group of facilitators in a 'training of the trainers' workshop in early April. It was bittersweet to watch the new facilitators to plan their first retreat; I felt proud that my workshops would continue to improve the lives of volunteers, but saddened that I wouldn't be part of the process after April 30. 

"Has the assault changed your service? Do you think that your life is on a different trajectory than it was one year ago?"

Yes, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Certificates for Everyone, On Me!

First Annual Greater Tazarine English Teacher's Conference 

While taking the final pictures at the teacher's conference, I looked around and realized that I've never been so proud of my Peace Corps service. After two years of discussions over tea, classroom demonstrations, meetings with the Ministry of Education and brainstorming sessions, my counterparts and I were handing out certificates of participation to 13 local teachers. This is only the beginning.

Two years ago I was teaching English classes at the youth center, frustrated by the inconsistent attendance and being asked to 'teach someone English' in just a few weeks so they could pass an exam.  I was a native speaker surrounded by well-trained English teachers; sure I had the upper hand on pronunciation and slang but what do I know about passive voice, modals or the present perfect? What am I doing offering free tutoring to students when they have capable teachers next door? After finishing my classes for the first year, I decided to forgo the unsustainable model and proceed with promoting capacity-building for English teachers.

Mohamed, my amazing tutor and future counterpart, did his best to keep me focused during our Darija (Moroccan Arabic) tutoring sessions, but I always managed to start a discussion on the role of teachers in the high school, the lack of training available for new teachers and stereotypes that teachers face. Public school teachers are sent anywhere in the country after passing their exam and frequently asked to teach a subject they have not been trained in. The French teacher studied economics, the Math teacher majored in English and the Physics teacher has a predilection for Arabic studies. Frequently on strike for inconsistent government policies, teachers are perceived as lazy outsiders in their communities. They earn less than the uneducated owner of the local market and are charged 'outsider' fees. American teachers may be undervalued and underpaid, but no one argues that they are essential to the future of the U.S. or don't earn their meager paycheck.

Mohamed and I started sharing our experiences as teachers, formally and informally. Recognizing my passion for an engaging classroom atmosphere, Mohamed invited me to observe his English class and eventually run activities with the students. After comparing our complementary teaching styles, we discussed the need for this ongoing development in the Zagora province. The public schools of Zagora experience roughly a 70% teacher turnover rate every year; many new teachers lack a basic understanding of lesson planning and learning styles and could benefit from further training. In addition, veteran teachers lack excitement for their subject matter. Teaching to the baccalaureate exam a lecture-focused pedagogy prevents them from helping students fall in love with funny idiomatic expressions or the quadratic equation.

Originally focused on the Zagora province, Mohamed and I traveled south to gain the approval of the Ministry for a provincial teacher's conference. Several months later we realized that the never-ending red tape, bi-lingual applications and cancelled meetings had gone too far. We could no longer conceivably get Peace Corps grant approval and Ministry approval in the short time remaining before I finished my service. Frustrated from months of arduous meetings and travel between the two sites, we opted for a break. The conference felt daunting for one tired volunteer and a man expecting his first baby - maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

Refreshed from vacation, Mohamed and I met again to re-examine teacher development in Tazarine. Engaging a few other teachers and counterparts in the meeting, it was decided that a local teachers' conference could have the same impact for the community. Four hours of brainstorming workshops, presentations, time, location and pitfalls brought us to a conference at the end of March...less than one month away. Slightly panicked we started making calls, setting meetings and mapping out the conference. My counterparts were impressive - we played equal roles in the planning process and they never missed a meeting or failed to complete their work.

Sunday, March 30th finally arrived and so did the participants. The morning started with three presentations covering the topics of ITC, integrating art in the classroom and the benefits of educational videos for English students and continued with a workshop on icebreakers, energizers and games. Participants and presenters bonded and laughed over a big lunch of chicken, salad, lentils and fruit before heading back to the afternoon sessions. The afternoon commenced with my workshop on the practical classroom uses of Multiple Intelligence theory and ended with another volunteer's enjoyable take on drama activities. Following a brief evaluation, certificate ceremony and the obligatory group picture, the conference came to a close.
While assessing the final to-do list for the conference, I looked around at my counterparts and realized that they were my Peace Corps service. My second year has been dedicated to long nights of discussion and planning at the cafe, helping them locate resources, encouraging their ideas and making them advocates for excellent teaching techniques in the English classroom. My work may be coming to and end, but their work has only just begin. In their presence I am never 'the token female American;' I am a respected colleague and friend. Mohamed O, Mourad, Amin, Mohamed E and Said, among others, remind me that the young Moroccan harassing me on the bus is the exception, not the rule. When I leave Morocco in one month, more than anything, I will miss laughing hysterically with my friends. Tbark3la llikum.

They are the best.

Satellite Call

The call. The email. The facebook message.

They all begin the same way, “I’m sorry but I have some bad news;” your stomach drops, your heartbeat quickens and you go through the worst case scenarios. There are the ones that you’ve ‘prepared’ for as much as anyone can prepare for bad news, the ones that aren’t as terrible as you suspected and then there are the losses that you never saw coming. In one quick communication, everything changes. That workshop you were worrying about? It doesn’t really matter. That amazing trip you are planning? Seems like more of a nuisance than an invigorating journey. That meeting in 20 minutes? Could it matter any less right now? You hang up the phone, close the email, exit facebook and feel the shock and disbelief. So many things to do but you are sitting on the wrong side of the world.

I was recently asked how one makes the choice to leave home while there are so many people who want you to stay. Yesterday I would have responded with a banal ‘follow your heart’ and a monologue on the many benefits of starting over and embracing adventure as an adult. That was yesterday. This morning I woke up cursing my independent streak, overwhelmed by feelings of selfishness for my habitual absence. I woke up with my heart hurting for my gentle friend, her generous family and their terrible loss. I woke up wanting nothing more than to give her the biggest bear hug and with the power to undo the past.

As much as I want to dwell in self-pity, I recognize there is nothing I could “do” on the other side of the ocean except simply be present. Mourning is meant to be done communally, not fighting tears alone in the apartment. Today I want nothing more than to invade the home of a friend for forty days. To sit with her, her family and friends and share tears, memories, hugs and melancholy laughter. To just be present. Instead, I mourn the best that I can, sending love, lights, prayers and thoughts to Michigan. A great, big bear hug is just over six weeks away.

This one’s for the lonely child

Broken hearted, running wild

This was written for the one to blame

One who believes they are the cause of chaos and everything

You may find yourself in the dead of night

Lost somewhere up in the great big beautiful sky

You were all just perfect little satellites

Spinning round and round this broken earthly life

This is so you’ll know the sound

Of someone who loves you from the ground

Tonight you’re not alone at all

This is me sending out my satellite call

This is so you’ll know the sound

Of someone who loves you from the ground

Tonight you’re not alone at all

This is me sending out my satellite call

Sara Bareilles' "Satellite Call"

I am a Muslim but I am not...

Mohamed is a teacher in Tazarine. He is well-educated, articulate and incredibly devoted to his students. Mohamed got married last Spring and his wife is five months pregnant. They live in a small apartment and I often sit with them for tea, for lavish vegetarian meals and to catch up on Turkish soap operas. They are a young couple in North Africa hoping for a bright future for their growing child. Mohamed is not an extremist.

Aicha is a housewife and mother. She attends my aerobics classes, loves her children dearly and is one of the funniest people I've met in Morocco. Despite the language barrier, she waits patiently as I stumble over my explanations and I can hear her sarcasm through the misunderstandings. Aicha has threatened to tie me up and not let me return to the U.S. - in the nicest way possible. Aicha never misses a single prayer, but has never hinted at my conversion to Islam. Aicha is not a fundamentalist. 

Boushra is a senior in high school, hoping to pass her exams and study English in Rabat next year. She listens to Green Day and the Killers, loves Adam Lambert and would fit in better as a punk child in the 1980's than as a veiled teenager in Tazarine. She writes, reads and lives in other worlds - hoping to study her way into a different path than her mother. Boushra's father has abandoned the family for another life in Europe, but her mother continues to support her four children in their education. Boushra is not a terrorist.

During a recent cultural session in Rabat young educated Moroccans were asked to complete this sentence, "I am a Muslim but I am not..." The responses were honest, heart-breaking and predictable. To the West, Muslims are viewed as a single entity of fundamentalists and radicals. Despite our own religious diversity, we fail to see that the same nuances exist in a major world religion. It appears that our open culture has its' limits: "Nearly half of Americans would be uncomfortable with a woman wearing a burqa, a mosque being built in their neighborhood or Muslim men praying at the airport. Forty-one percent would be uncomfortable if a teacher at the elementary school in their community were Muslim(1)." Land of the selectively free.

I've recently become addicted to the TV series "Homeland" which follows a CIA agent specializing in the Middle East and a recently returned POW turned national hero. The drama is exciting, but it is the show's portrayal of Islam that interests me the most. At times the religion is treated with respect, at other moments it feels like Islam is the primary villain in the series. A female veiled Muslim CIA agent was introduced in the third season - her opening shot was one of suspicion, judgement and hatred from the camera. After the 'second 9/11' the acting head of the CIA tells her "You wearing that thing on your head (hijab) is one big 'fuck you' to the people who would have been your co-workers." From the perspective of her co-workers, she is guilty until proven innocent.

For more, check out this article: http://www.salon.com/2013/11/05/homeland_has_a_muslim_problem/.

Perhaps unfairly, I expect more from religious Americans. Growing up in a conservative Christian area, I like to think that all the friendly families would be open-minded about Muslims moving into the neighborhood. Surely discrimination and bigotry are trumped by a good dose of Church, right? Sadly I've found that some of the most religious people I know are also the most narrow-minded about U.S. Muslims. Instead of seeing what we share in common, they are focused on what divides us. Interestingly, "Nearly two-thirds of US Muslims, 63 percent, say there is no inherent tension between being devout and living in a modern society. A nearly identical proportion of American Christians, 64 percent, feel that way(2)." US Muslims are some of the most progressive in the world, in fact, I would probably find some of their acceptable 'behaviors' to be shocking after living in Morocco.

The religious and cultural tensions between Muslims and non-Muslims, the Middle East and the West aren't disappearing quickly. Technology continues to make the world smaller, but that doesn't mean our hearts and minds follow. I have my list of grievances against Islam, but Moroccans struggle with their faith and country as well. The outside world stereotypes them as terrorists, fundamentalists, Islamists and fanatics instead of mothers, artists, revolutionaries, and dreamers. Over the last two years, I've asked Moroccans to see me as a person and not just as an American, an outsider. It's my hope that we extend the same courtesy.

1) http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2011/09/06/poll-many-americans-uncomfortable-with-muslims/

2) http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2013/0501/How-US-Muslims-are-different-Pew-poll-sheds-light-on-global-contrasts

Wonderful Christmastime

The Christmas music started somewhere in Mid-November, right around the first time it dipped below 70 degrees. Fall in the desert lasts for roughly two weeks, so I quickly turned over my wardrobe and anticipated a solid four months of Fall/Winter/Spring before the heat reemerges. Pulling on my Santa socks while listening to Elvis crone 'Blue Christmas,' homesickness crept in. 

Battling the elements during a Michigan winter

During the holidays, nothing compares to blasting Amy Grant while baking Christmas cookies and getting a little too drunk off egg nog with the family. I have images of my Grand Rapids home decked in cranberry red, forest green and glittering silver while snow twinkles down from the sky. Brushing my car off to run a few last minute errands and coming uncomfortably close to skidding into the ditch. Candlelight services and Christmas carols that never grow old, even while the congregations age. Putting on my snowflake headband and passing out the gifts underneath the tree because in my family I am the perpetual youngest sibling. Most importantly breathing in the love and togetherness of family and friends, despite the conflicts or immature fights which linger on.

Old-fashioned family fun

I didn't think seriously about returning home this holiday season; just five months before my service in Morocco is complete, I wanted to use the time to show my family where I've been spending all my time. Mom visited less than a month ago and both Chanda and Olivier will be visiting for Christmas and New Years, so my actual holiday loneliness is non-existent. Yet, my pining for home remains. In reality, my yearning for an old-fashioned, fun-filled Griswald family Christmas is nothing more than an beautiful illusion. With my home on the market, mom across the state, dad in Minnesota, sister in Europe, 'sister from another mother' touring South East Asia (all carting along their respective partners), Christmas would pale in comparison to my memories. I'm not missing this old-fashioned family Christmas, it simply doesn't exist this year. 

Christmas in Morocco 2012, no internal heating but lots of love!

Christmas in Zambia 2009, swimming and presents!

So what's a girl to do? First of all, avoid songs like "Winter Wonderland" and "Let it Snow" which seem ironic in the desert and focus instead on the Beach Boys holiday hits. Move "I'll be home for Christmas" off the playlist immediately - every version - it's waiting for you to break down and eat the entire pie in one sitting. Purchase your own Santa hat, hang up your single string of bells, stuff your homemade stocking with candy canes and watch Love Actually on repeat. Finally, get your hands dirty with the best homemade versions of pumpkin soup, ginger molasses cookies and chai tea that you can manage. Nothing says the holidays like baking up a storm, not to mention it heats the house for several hours! Smile and remember that the holidays are filled with nostalgia, melancholy and wonder no matter the continent, that family is never that far away and that next year you will have another chance to celebrate again. 

Hard not to miss these faces and headbands

A First Look: Site Development

Every Peace Corps site starts somewhere: an empty youth center, an enthused supervisor and a hesitant community. Years of conversations over tea, lunch invitations, and endless stares from the locals will hopefully produce a willing host family and a group of supporters ready to engage with the unknown: a random American who will live among them for two years. This American will accidentally eat with their left hand, confuse words and awkwardly struggle towards being a part of the community life. The American will also dance at weddings, hold newborn babies and do their best to enrich the lives of the youth. It's a sacrifice, not just on the part of the volunteer, but on the part of the community. They open themselves up to the outside world and all the strangeness and conflict that comes with advantages.

Yesterday, my site-mate and I became a part of this delicate and exciting process. Biking three hours to a town nestled between Tazarine and Zagora, we discovered a unspoiled village of 5,000 people. A paved road has opened in the area in the last five years, but even with this advancement, foreigners are rarely seen. Melanie and I peddled our bikes past dilapidated kasbahs, groups of women brilliantly dressed in shades of crimson all the while children called after us in broken French for pens or money. After asking various members of the community, we were led to the youth center. Devouring snickers and water, we waited patiently for the man with the keys.

Taghbalt has remained without a volunteer for several years. There have been previous visits to this town by Peace Corps staff and volunteers, however it's always been determined that the level of poverty is too high. Finding a suitable host family is a struggle and support for the work of the volunteer is lacking. After meeting with the 'supervisor' (the president of a local association who merely holds the keys to the to the youth center), we felt discouraged. Apparently the youth center is being used solely for women's literacy classes and the supervisor doubted that the volunteer would have space to work or even interested children. The fatigue of the morning bike ride and frustration with the supervisor started to set in. Let's have some tea.

Everything changed over our three cups of tea. Suddenly we had not just one member of our Tazarine community with us, but four! We were joined by our supervisor at the Tazarine Dar Chebab, an English teacher in a nearby community and an English teacher working in Tazarine but originally from Taghbalt. To improve matters, this English teacher brought three other teachers in the community for support. Talk about your game changer! Over the next three hours we heard conversations ranging from the creation of an association for the Dar Chebab, work possibilities for the new volunteer and even our Tazarine supervisor gushing about our good work. It was the kind of meeting Peace Corps volunteers dream of: our counterparts convincing other communities that the sacrifice is significant, that our work is worthwhile.

The day ended with not one, but two lunches. At a certain point, it no longer mattered that Melanie and I were present. Our counterparts had the energy and were passionate about working with the youth all over the region. One of the rarely stated goals of Peace Corps is to put ourselves out of business. To make our work sustainable in communities and pass on our skills to the local people instead of depending on a foreigner. Yesterday in Taghbalt, I saw the fruits of our labors. We are rapidly putting ourselves out of business in Tazarine, and I couldn't be happier. 

And I am a Material Girl.

Living in a Material World.

As I made my excuses for leaving early, I realized that I was only sprinting to the door because of my level of discomfort. During a lunch with one of my closest friends in town, she had asked to borrow my internet modem, usb stick, book, guitar, and bike. On top of this, a request for money to build a kitchen sink was requested from both myself and a previous volunteer. Remembering the letters, emails and in-person requests for various items she had sent to both my parents, other volunteers and even parents of other volunteers in recent weeks, I was deflated and frustrated. Do you like me or my resources?

And I am a Material Girl.

Nothing is new about this: I've been asked for my ipod, computer, clothes, hair, money, camera, shoes, water bottle, purse, refrigerator, and pen a million times. Sometimes by kids on the road, "give me a pen!" or "give me a dirham (moroccan currency);" sometimes by people attending my classes, "that ipod is nice, give it to me;" sometimes by friends, "I like your scarf, give it to me when you leave." A teenage girl in Marrakesh even asked for my ice cream cone - that was offensive on a whole new level. I seriously needed that ice cream cone on that day, if only she knew! Despite my current status as a poorly dressed volunteer, something about me screams 'opportunity' to the people around me.

Living in a Material World.

An association of well-meaning French women came to Tazarine last Spring, passing out free pens and notebooks while they traveled. Without being overly critical of their motivations, it's incredibly easy to throw money at people. It's what the developed world has done for years in the form of aid, sponsored children and money in the communion basket. Try to get those same people to mentor a child, and well, "I don't have time for that."

And I am a Material Girl.

One of the ongoing challenges of any Peace Corps volunteer (or any Westerner living in the developing world) is to demonstrate that we are here to work and develop relationships, not as a walking piggy bank. When I first arrived, my supervisor informed me that my legacy would be to get a photocopy machine at the youth center. My rebellious nature immediately and internally countered with a "hell no." I was determined that my legacy would live inside the hearts and minds of the Tazarine people, not as a piece of technology. Is this stubborn and short-sighted? Quite possibly. Could the youth center use a photocopy machine? It sure could, but it would mostly be used by the supervisor as a sign of his great achievements. There are also ten computers in this center that the children weren't allowed to use until this year, so baby steps with technology.

Living in a Material World.

I've grown accustomed to the friendship styles in Tazarine; while it may frustrate me, I acknowledge that gifts and the free exchange of personal goods is part of the game. I bring posters of Adam Lambert from America and she helps me sort out issues with my landlord. My reaction to the kitchen sink request was unusual - it's practical since her mother has severe back issues from using a bucket on the ground for 45 years; yet her recent involvement of my family members has turned me sour. It's okay to bother me with these things, but don't spread the guilt.

And I am a Material Girl.

Maybe that is the rub. Ignoring the nagging guilt has become a habit for me but it becomes real again when family members inquire about it. I've learned to rationalize my wealth; I use my computers and ipods for work, I am accustomed to having a larger wardrobe for different seasons, I need two of everything in case one breaks. There are days when I give freely, and there are days when I am tired of being asked. I don't want my friendship to come with ropes attached. I don't want to be reminded of the massive difference between us.

Living in a Material World.

This is why we flood countries with goods instead of smiling faces and helping hands. Why we have a picture of the sponsored Ugandan girl on our fridge instead of meeting her. Why we give money to the church and stay away from the volunteer center. When we step outside our front door, we realize that we can't justify everything in our living room and bank account. The reality of the have and have-nots can be soul-crushing. Her mom has back pain and just wants a kitchen sink - my Christmas list is comparatively shameful.

And I am a Material Girl.

Buses, Trains and Taxi-mobiles : Vignettes from the Road

A life of transit. This period in Peace Corps can be defined strictly as the passing of time in a bus; staring out the window as you reflect on the previous day and prepare for what lies in front of you. Autumn has been a season lacking in cider, but surprisingly full of new cities, new beds, new cafes, new surroundings, and new passengers. The reaction of family and friends is the same, "you travel so much!" In reality I commute between workshops, medical appointments, trainings, events and festivals. Home becomes 'home base' and holds more of my clothes than my memories. Road cuisine is lacking: a blur of egg sandwiches, ramen noodles, peanut butter and cereal interspersed with take away pizza. Mundane as it may be, here are stories from this weekend's thirty hour rush from Rabat to Tazarine.

Story One: Man Love (Rabat to Marrakesh, 4 1/2 hours)

I rolled over to check my clock, 5:45 am, not quite the full night of sleep I envisioned after 14 hours of travel and a draining and emotional day in Rabat. The first train to Rabat departed, time to get a move. Packing my bag with the supermarket goods of the first world, a terabyte flashdrive I would lug to the desert and the minimal clothing I sported on my three day trip, I quietly left my room and headed to see the damage at the train station. Less than a week prior to l'3id lKbir or 'The big holiday,' this trip would be akin to unplanned travels a few days before Christmas: expensive and packed. After a quick breakfast of eggs, bread and coffee across from the train station, I hopped on the 7:45 am train and was lucky enough to snag a seat in a compartment just 30 minutes into the trip.

This compartment was the perfect combination of ages and sexes to ensure that cultural norms were observed. Jellaba-wearing middle-aged men sat next to women bedazzled in short sleeves and bright colors, I felt right at home. An hour before we arrived in Marrakesh, the compartment emptied. Hoping this meant leg room and no surprises, I relaxed into the window seat and shut my eyes. When I awoke fifteen minutes later, the compartment was occupied by half a soccer team, aka, seven Moroccan men in their early twenties sporting gelled hair and soccer jerseys. The odds were not in my favor. Tensing up for the ride, I readjusted and double-checked my choice of clothing; thank goodness I had chosen the baggy shirt and long pants...better not to be noticed. In the States, a single woman's presence may encourage good behavior and perhaps gentle jousting over who can win her affections; in Morocco, we are gazelles for the lions to play with.

Through the shadow of my sunglasses, I inconspicuously examined the two young men seated across from me. In typical Arab fashion, their proximity to each other was borderline suffocating. 'Mourad' was increasingly shoved into the window as 'Mohamed' threw his arm around him and mindlessly played with bits of the curtain rod. With their noses lightly grazing and Mourad gently caressing Mohamed's chest, their entanglement can only be described as post-coital. Physical affection between men is normal in the Arab world, but as the scene unfolded my level of claustrophobia increased. Are we there yet?

Unbeknownst to me, another man had entered the scene and immediately demanded my attention. Waving his arms about, he mimed that I must take off my sunglasses and headphones. Foolishly hoping that he had important information to convey, I reluctantly relinquished my privacy. 

Man: "Hello, do you speak English?"

Kyla: "Yes"

M: "Do you speak French?"

K: "Yes"

M: "Where are you from?" (still in English)

K: "The States, where are you from?" (in Darija)

M: Question ignored, "Americans are friendly"

K: "Oh good."

M: "Do you live in Fes or Rabat?"

K: "Neither, I live near Ouarzazate"

M: "Oh, Ouarzazate, Tamazirt (Berber language)"

All the men in the compartment mumble 'Tamazirt' multiple times, proving knowledge of their first language.

M: "The train is late, we will arrive late to Marrakesh"

K: "Yes, thank you, I know" 

M: "You are most welcome to Morocco" Now you may return to your business since I have proven my English skills and interrupted you for no reason. Random man exits compartment.

I may sound harsh, but the extent to which personal space and privacy are ruthlessly invaded still surprises me. After the man's departure, my headphones immediately return. Without turning my music on, I listen to the inevitable conversation. The young men, unable to speak English and unsure of my linguistic abilities, throw around 'buzz words' which they know I understand. The game has begun. For the final stretch of the trip certain words are spoken more clearly than others; "Obama," "Syria," and "Ouarzazate" to name a few. Why? Because I am alone, because they are bored and because they can. An otherwise harmless group of young men remind me why I own an ipod. Thirty minutes to Marrakesh.

Story Two: Riding in Buses with Boys (Marrakesh to Ouarzazate, 5 hours)
Stumbling off the train a free woman, I went in search of food and a toilet (some things don't change). Devouring a snickers bar powered me through the expected frustration that both the CTM and Supratours bus companies tickets to Ouarzazate were sold out for the next five days. A helpful bus driver guided me to the 'local' bus station (aka souk or market) and gave me a friendly wave as I exited. Big smile. One omelette with bread and a few olives later, I walked over to terminal 22 where a bus would presumably be leaving the station at 2:30 pm. Terminal 22 held a number of surprises including a French man who politely introduced himself; in my 'Morocco' mindset it was initially difficult to smile, stand near to him, or stop wondering what our fellow passengers were thinking about but thirty minutes into the wait I rediscovered the Western woman in me and could interact like a human being again. Host mom always told me not to talk with strange boys in public.

Morocco is better served as a communal dish; the details which amuse me are made infinitely better when I can share it with someone else. The souk bus station is a dirty mash-up of men sleeping under buses, sheep hoarded into moving vehicles, guys in plastic sandals yelling the names of cities and honking buses vying for the next passenger. Quite a feast, but not for the faint of stomach. Around 3:15 pm the bus finally arrived; we fought to get our luggage underneath as the bus randomly reversed and accelerated at a moment's notice, nearly running over a few of the weary passengers. Moroccans shoved to get in the front door - par for the course during holiday travel. Spotting two seats, we rejoiced in our good luck until I discovered the massive bag of vomit which had exploded underneath the window seat, making its' leg room unusable, not to mention a little rank.

I must have pulled the short straw. With my knees glued to my chest, the bus started to drive towards the exit. As we slowly rolled towards the road, vendors and beggars meandered on and off the bus to sell their goods, ask for donations and recite the Qua'ran. The man with no arms and minimal teeth won the award for the saddest story, although the crying teenager put on a good show as well. As we say in Morocco, may God make it easy for them.

Cruising out of Marrakesh by 4 pm, my foreign friend dozed off while I searched around for a comfortable position, preparing for a five hour trip through the vomit-inducing route known as the Tishka pass. I've honestly never made it through this trip without a fellow passenger becoming ill. There is a common belief  in Morocco that drinking milk and eating yogurt will help with an upset stomach. Prior to travel you observe men chugging 1/2 liters and small children sipping their dannon, knowing full well the dairy fairy will make another appearance during the trip. Following the boy scouts' motto, 'always be prepared,' I carry an extra plastic bag, a scarf to cover my face and a change of clothes ready for the worst case scenario. A vomit-laden floor was a small price to pay for an otherwise uneventful ride over the Tishka.

Story 3: Malnourished Man Hips (Ouarzazate to Tazarine, 4 hours)
Another night of insomnia. Waking after six hours, I decided to take my breakfast and be on my way. Aching and exhausted I hailed a petit taxi and made polite conversation about the upcoming holiday with the driver. As we pulled into the 'grand taxi' station, I gave him a good ole fashioned God blessing and went on my way. The Grand Taxi stand in Ouarzazate has stolen the better part of my soul; there are days when I have spent over four hours waiting for the taxi to fill up. Like most transport spots in Morocco it is full of beggars, leering men, flies and direct sunlight. This time I get lucky, in under 45 minutes our taxi is full and we zoom off towards my final destination. While the upcoming holiday makes travel busy, it also means that buses and taxis have enough passengers. Shorter waiting times makes for a happy Kyla, even if a little shoving is involved.

Once inside the taxi, the six male passengers immediately inquire about my nationality and language. As the obedient and pleasant foreigner, I respond and make a few quick jokes. Their lighthearted questioning only last for a few minutes before they turn up the radio recitation of the Qua'ran and delve into discussions about the increasing prices of food and fuel. Grand Taxis are often the most expensive form of transport since they carry the smallest number of passengers. Unfortunately they can also be the least comfortable depending on your fellow travelers. If are you unlucky enough to have the 'bitch' seat in the front row, the driver will be ramming the stick into your butt every few minutes as he switches gears. Awkward for everyone involved. The backseat often makes my legs fall asleep or my knees throb depending on the leg room, especially when I have to sit forward in the vehicle to allow for the hips of the more robust passengers. A false sense of intimacy is produced after a 50 year-old's massive breasts are pressed up against you for the better part of a day. Are you my mother?

Counter-intuitively, I love a grand taxi full of young men. Those malnourished boy hips provide the perfect space in the backseat. No need to contend with big jellaba momma's child-bearing, 'I eat to feel joy' hips when teenage boys are in the mix. In addition, the passengers are typically attentive to the behavior of everyone in the vehicle. It's less likely that a man will try and get 'fresh' with me when there are so many witnesses.

Rolling through Agdz, the halfway point of my journey, I asked the driver to stop for a few minutes. "Do you need medicine?!" I politely explained that I had to drop off a package to a co-worker, which the driver interpreted as nonsense. Regardless of his comprehension of Darija (he was clearly speaking Tamazirt and unfortunately my grasp of this fourth language is fuzzy), the tiny old man stopped the vehicle and told me to hurry. During travel, Moroccans frequently run their errands as well as the errands of family, friends and random men on the street. It's not abnormal for a bus driver to stop on the side of the road to purchase apples or a few bags of flour. Taxi drivers typically have a few packages or letters to exchange as they speed in and out of towns. In the desert where transport is infrequent, Moroccans use every opportunity to get things where they need to go.

After an uneventful final leg of my journey, I stumbled into my apartment less than four days after leaving it. Nothing has changed during the brief passing of time, just a little extra dust on the floor. Quickly unpacking and stripping off my layers, I prepare a quick bowl of cereal and collapse into bed. Happy to be back to home base, aware that I will pack up and leave again in 48 hours. So goes this season of transit.