From Regret to Joy-48 hours of Surprises in Marrakesh

As my mother reminded me on the phone Saturday night, hindsight is 20/20. Mine feels painfully crystal clear, perhaps 20/10? Sort of like I gained freakishly good eyesight and can now see everything in a more vibrant color scheme than other humans. What does this hindsight tell me? Put simply, I should have listened to my gut. I had arrived at the airport nearly five hours before my flight and had been twiddling my thumbs for the entire time. As the boarding time grew closer, I felt increasingly off but couldn't put my finger on the reason. I had been watching the airport system, listening to the announcements and even in my fatigued state, was confident that I knew how it worked.

It was only after the boarding time had passed without announcement that I knew something was really off. I wasn't surrounded by other passengers, everything was shutting down and I hadn't heard an announcement for nearly an hour. I kept telling myself not to be paranoid, there is only one terminal, and there is no way I can be missing anything - I was wrong. Had I listened to that gnawing fear, I would have gotten on my flight without delay and arrived in Seville an hour later. Sadly, I was ten minutes too late and the staff was unforgiving. Twenty minutes later, I had my backpack on and was $200 poorer after purchasing a brand new flight. Shock, frustration, anger.

At this point, it was nearly 10 pm and I was faced with getting back to the hotel by myself. I immediately found a taxi and traveled back into the city, anxious to get into bed and communicate the night's events with my family. Returning to the hotel where I had stayed the previous evening, I was shocked to learn that it was full. Considering I was one of three guests the night before, this seemed alarming. No matter, there were several hostels on the same block and surely one would be free. Wrong again. Sunday morning was the world famous Marrakesh marathon and everything was booked. How I long for the ease of apparition (thanks, Leah!)

At the final hostel, I was offered a bed on the roof or in the lobby. At this point, I really didn't care. After an hour of conversation with the owners and my family, I settled into my tiny mattress behind the reception desk. This is not where I had expected to sleep and I just wanted to shut everything off and make it all go away. Cruel reality and boisterous guests kept me awake for the majority of the night, but I still managed to get a few bad dreams into the mix.

Left to my own accord, I may have stayed in a private room and felt bad for myself the following day. As I had no room of my own, I merely got dressed and started talking with the nephew of the hotel owner. From my lobby room, I witnessed the bartering techniques of deaf Moroccans and the hospitality of the owner's family. Over breakfast and tea, I was complimented on my Darija and enjoyed the company of the owner's English-speaking nephews. Instead of wallowing in regret and self-pity, I thanked God for this family who let me sleep on the floor and fed me the next morning. It's good to be reminded of why I love this country, even when my heart is in Seville.

Sunday morning, waiting for the cleaning staff to work on my room, I met three British men on a week holiday in Morocco. While they were only in town for the afternoon, we spent the time exploring the mosque El-Fna, witnessing the end of the marathon and wandering through the Medina. I found the men to be engaging, intelligent and most importantly, interested in daily life in Morocco. During our hours together, I was able to share the things I love most about this country as well as the routine difficulties of being a woman in the Arab world. Spending the afternoon in their presence, I was reminded of my love for education and cultural exchange - I feel high as a kite when I get to explain the intricacies of a culture to others.

After subsisting on nothing but peanuts, Chebekia, oranges and coffee throughout the day, I strolled into the Medina for a Moroccan meal among the tourists. Almost immediately after being seated, I was joined by a family practitioner from North Wales and roughly ten Swedish women who had just completed the marathon. They had all arrived in Morocco within the last 24 hours and were enthusiastic about the prospect of a few days in the country. Once again, I shared my work and my love of the country while offering them tips to enjoy their stay. After a day of culture-induced adrenaline, I collapsed into bed physically exhausted but emotionally and mentally elated.

Today I am once again preparing to travel to the airport and try to board a plane. While the past 48 hours in Marrakesh were not in my plan, I know that I stayed for a reason. Sharing my experience with passing tourists, the good and the bad, allows me to process my time through a different lens. I leave Morocco a little bit poorer, humbled, and dirty, but with the knowledge that my last ten months has been well spent. Tonight's arrival in Spain will be all the sweeter. Inshallah.

I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore.

Dave had missed his flight. Making my way from Charles de Gaule airport to our apartment, I wasn't thrilled about the solo hour long metro trip at 5 o'clock Friday or the obligatory return trip at 5 am the following morning. The metro was packed, I carried a large bag and it was first my time being truly alone in a big city since the incident last August. Sweaty and exhausted, I stumbled into my temporary home where I was shown the surroundings, given the key and complemented on my French by the apartment owner. Jacky was polite, kind and most importantly, didn't invite me over for dinner or express his sadness that I would be "all alone" for the next twelve hours. Deep breath, I am not in Morocco anymore.

Shortly after I had settled in, I wandered over to the local grocery store where I spent nearly thirty minutes taking in the array of cheese, wine, beer, frozen foods, ice cream, cereal and almond milk which was all available for purchase from the friendly market owner. After a friendly and easy exchange in French, I made myself a simple and comforting sandwich full of items not found in Tazarine. Sliced bread! Hummus! Tzatiziki! Baby tomatoes! Spinach! Wine! Well, not on the sandwich, but still important. My body tensed as I heard a neighbor walk by, ready for the imminent knock on the door and intrusion into my solitude. Another deep breath, I am not in Morocco anymore.

Following a hot shower (!!!) and a TV marathon, I fell asleep for a few short hours before waking unexpectedly at 3 am. Was it stress? Was it excitement? Was it hunger? For whatever reason, my body was done sleeping and ready to get back on the metro to the airport. Later that morning on the steps of Sacre Coeur, delighting in a second breakfast of croissants, quiche and mulled wine with Dave, I realized that my shoulders were starting to relax. It wasn't until that moment when I discovered my actual level of stress in Morocco.

As much as I love my town, my work, and my community, I feel a never-ending sense of duty, obligation and discomfort. My life is full of "shoulds." I 'should' stay in site over the weekend, I 'should' go have lunch with this family I've been avoiding, I 'should' finally start classes at the Dar Taliba, I 'should' study more Tashelheit, I 'should' do this, that, and everything. I expect myself to be a completely balanced wonder woman at all times: learning three languages without fatigue, visiting families I have nothing in common with on a daily basis, and competently teaching English grammar, theater, dance and music which I have never been trained in. Metric's lyrics play over in my head, "Is it ever gonna be enough?"

On this last weekend of January, with no cell phone and no connection to work, I took a deep breath and decided to simply soak in the beauty and wonder of Paris. Tazarine was waiting, work was waiting, the "should" feeling was waiting, but this week was free. Another glass of mulled wine and ten days with a fantastic man? Don't mind if I do!

Christmas in the Olive Groves

Christmas is my favorite time of year - period. I love the carols, decorations, parties, food, snow and celebratory atmosphere. I start listening to my 27 hour Christmas playlist in mid-November and will hear nothing but Amy Grant until the New Year. Driving through a winter storm on the way to a Christmas party is my ideal Saturday night: the friends, warmth and love on the other side of the drive make it worth the effort. Despite my freezing fingers and toes, I always feel internally warm during the holiday season.

This year it was slightly more difficult to get into the spirit of things. I frequently played my Christmas playlist, but it rarely felt appropriate. I watched "Love Actually" and "Elf" which made me cry more than get me in the mood. I even taught Christmas traditions to my classes, but I still felt far away. Spending Christmas in the desert is simply not normal for me. I found the last week in site particularly difficult; the combination of being far from home, general fatigue from work and anticipation of an extended vacation made every day feel long. As much as I love my Moroccan home, I was ready for a break.

After a long weekend of classes, cleaning and saying my goodbyes, I collapsed on the CTM on the morning of December 23. Arriving early in Ouarzazate, I spent the day singing Christmas carols and reminiscing about Christmas past with Susan and Emily. Wearing winter coats and gloves in the kitchen, we powered our way through delicious Christmas treats and tried our best to remember the lyrics. After a short night of sleep, we dragged ourselves onto a morning bus to Beni Mellal.

Morning yoga

Roughly eight hours later we arrived in the center of Morocco where Leah (our host) and Elizabeth met us with a bag of Christmas cookies and cheer. We jumped in a taxi to Leah's site, a few km outside of the city, and prepared for Christmas eve. The apartment smelled like ginger, molasses and love. Leah and Elizabeth had spent the better part of the day baking and preparing for our arrival, including decorating the apartment and hanging up stockings. After mulled wine and cookies we snuggled into our beds. Despite my headache (exhaustion, stress, lack of normal nutrition), I was grateful to be among friends.

Christmas morning we rolled out of bed, devouring countless date balls and cookies before morning yoga. Upon Leah's return from class we made pancakes and poured on epic amounts of the real maple syrup so rarely found in Morocco. We opened stockings, took pictures and eventually went on a walk around Leah's site. Despite being far from home, I felt loved and happy with my Moroccan family.

All snuggled in for stockings

On our final day in Leah's site (Boxing Day), we were invited to visit the olive groves of Leah's host uncle. After a morning kaskrut (snack/tea time) of freshly baked bread, freshly pressed oil and honey, we wandered through the groves. After three months in the south, seeing mountains, grass and animals was enough of a treat! We learned how to shake out the olives from the trees, explored the countryside and surrounding groves before finishing off with lunch. As we exited their home, Leah's family offered us each a liter of olive oil - such an amazing gift - not to mention the tastiest oil in the world!

At the Olive press

Host uncle's olive groves and bee hives

We finished our day with a trip to the olive press. After a final night of relaxation, we said our goodbyes. There was no snow, minimal decorations and no one else in the city celebrated the holiday; however, I celebrated a unique and magical Christmas with my fellow volunteers and lovely Moroccans. So grateful.

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.