March Madness

Coming off the success of a colorful wall calendar, a few weeks of solid teaching and the first round of a student public speaking competition at the Dar Chebab, I was on cloud nine. For the first time in Tazarine I was simultaneously secure in my community, consistent in my work and solid in the majority of my relationships. Kicking ass and taking names, but you know, in that balanced and healthy way. Nearing the one year mark of my arrival in Morocco, the horizon looked bright and full of promise.

Completed Wall Magazine, love the colors!

 Energized by my new found "normal" in Tazarine, I zoomed off to volunteer for an Interfaith Dialogue hosted 20 minutes outside of Marrakesh in a town named Tamesloht. A Peace Corps volunteer and her amazing counterpart have been working with a local association to hold this event and despite the obvious complications of interfaith work in any context, they managed to obtain the necessary grants and support.

The subject matter of the event centered on cultural and political reasons for the dialogue, the history of both Jews and Christians in Morocco and discussions on appropriate steps for continued exchanges. Given the diverse groups represented, presentations were given in either French, Darija, Standard Arabic or English and then summarized into French by the "MC" or "Animator" of the event. As one of three volunteers with a working knowledge of French, I spent my time translating for others and soaking up the fascinating intertwining of languages present in Morocco.

The event included a delicious couscous lunch under tents stolen from Medieval Times, delicious cookies and even the killer combination of Brie and walnuts. Bread with potatoes can only seduce the palate for so long and it was good to eat a real meal again. I need a small child to come and cook interesting food for me, any takers? All food set aside, the day was restorative from a spiritual side as well. Caught up in the daily life in Tazarine, it's easy to forget some of my larger goals, projects and hopes for my service. Not too long ago, this included an interfaith dialogue among volunteers - a venue for peer education and support. After losing my amazing counterpart over the summer and the devastating long term effects of the assault a few days after, this project was put on hold. How fitting that I should attend this event just over six months after the summer events that tore it apart.

Truthfully, many of my projects have been sidelined by the events of the summer. As much as I try to put it behind me, there are constant reminders of the pain that I experienced and the security that was stolen. The subject comes up without warning: endless scars that time hasn't yet healed. Physical scars serve as a reminder during my morning yoga, mental scars which keep me from traveling alone in cities, emotional scars that come to the surface during phone calls home, spiritual scars which cause me to disregard disciplines for the fear of what will come from further reflection.

Other projects are ready for me - English Club, Theater, Public Speaking, Health workshops, Music class,  Dance and my interest in interfaith work. Yet, none of these can have my full attention until I put the assault to rest. As part of my ongoing March madness, I finished compiling a list of issues surrounding my assault and possible solutions for Peace Corps. I hate to think of another volunteer facing the same lackluster counseling and minimal follow-up following a similar event and I took it as my responsibility to voice this concern. My return to Morocco had everything to do with the tremendous care of other volunteers, family, friends and my faith; I am blessed with such a support system, but not all volunteers are so lucky. Revisiting the details of that day hurt, but I pray that my voice will be heard and will make a difference. Completing the email summary and the subsequent conversation with my country director allowed me to take another step in my recovery. The scars remain, the tears still come, both are fading, but neither are gone.

As I come out of yet another emotional round of healing, it is time to refocus on a few larger goals of my service, starting with the interfaith dialogue. Nearly a year into my service, I refuse to be held hostage by the events of last summer. I pray for the energy to forge into life-giving projects, the courage to take back my service and the strength to sail confidently against the wind.

My Moroccan Slumber Party

Remember middle school slumber parties? Eating your body weight in junk food, weighing the pros and cons of various crushes and watching the Backstreet Boys perform on the Disney channel. I loved the conversations which stretched into the dawn and the feeling of love and acceptance when you woke up surrounded by your best friends. Truthfully, I've had sleepovers well into 20's and don't plan on giving them up anytime soon. Complications arise when your friends are married, children are running around, or everyone has to work in the morning, but I still cherish every opportunity to look back in time. 

My host father frequently travels to Fes for exams relating to his master's degree. He works full time, but this eight hour commute is necessary if he wants to advance his teaching career. While he is gone, my host mother either has family visit or friends stay over to keep her company. On the most recent occurrence, the host grandma returned home unexpectedly to deal with her cow kicking its' baby in the head. Yes, you read that correctly. Apparently only my host grandmother can "get through" to this cow so it doesn't kill its' newborn kid. As a result, I was invited to spend the night with my host family, something I haven't experienced since my arrival in Tazerine. While I typically cherish my evenings at home, this seemed like a great opportunity to bond with my family after extensive traveling over the past few months. 

I returned home mid-afternoon to gather my supplies and was reluctantly escorted by my host mother's friend (who would also be staying over with the family). Despite my countless attempts to free myself of her company, she insisted. I suspect she was eager to see how the American girl lives and she took advantage of her opportunity. During this brief visit into my home, she took the time to rearrange my entire bathroom and medical supply area as well as give me a lecture about how to properly "hide" my things. The argument of this being "my space" and not for the pleasure of others was lost on her. 

The evening consisted of several rounds of dinner, including waking up the kids to eat the final 11 pm meal. I don't think I will ever understand why Moroccans wait until everyone is exhausted to eat the last bowl of spaghetti for the night, but as they like. As we watched the final Turkish soap opera of the evening, I snuck away to brush my teeth; since I've never seen a Moroccan actually do this, I always end up doing the deed in secret. I quietly settled onto my small mattress and dosed off to the sounds of dubbed television.

The next morning, I woke early and took in my surroundings. Most Moroccan families don't have bedrooms, so everyone sleeps in the same living room. My host mother and her friend were sleeping directly next to me while the kids were cuddled on the other side of the room. I was fatigued after nearly 24 hours of intense language immersion, but calmed by my family. 

During my first few months in Morocco, I did everything I could to limit the amount of time I spent in Moroccans' homes. This was not because I didn't enjoy their company, instead it was due to feeling linguistically exhausted and culturally confused. My sleepover may have been void of braiding each other's hair and talking about boys, but I found a similar feeling of love and acceptance from staying with my Moroccan family. I may not visit as often as they like, eat the meat they put in front of me or cover my head, but I am not treated like an outsider. Already looking forward to my next slumber party.

Winning!

Has anyone ever called Peace Corps service boring? I know that on a given day (or month, thank you Ramadan), volunteers may have nothing better to do than watch Star Trek Deep Space Nine in its' entirety, but for the most part the roller coaster of ups, down and inbetweens keeps you on your toes. After a weekend of sleepless nights, avoiding the front door and ignoring my telephone, I felt sane enough to once again start my work week. 

Tuesday morning began with two hours of tutoring and Arabic script at the local cafe. Studying script simultaneously gets me really excited for a new challenge and makes my brain feel like it is melting. While thrilled to be advancing, an additional layer of confusion has indeed been added to my life. At one point, we discussed the word for horse in English, French, Darija, Arabic and Berber. Do I really need to talk about horses in five different languages? I don't even like them that much (sorry mom). After two hours my tutor looked over and casually remarked "I think that is enough for one day?" Following my caffeine high and solid progress, my mind had finally gone blank. Noises, letters, vowels and sentences no longer made any sense to me. I left the cafe mumbling incoherently but still high from the linguistic aerobics of my morning. 

After a brief telephone call with a nearby volunteer, I made the trek to my host family's home. It had been nearly two weeks since we had a meal together and I genuinely missed their smiling faces. While my host mother (who is probably only a few years older than me) baked fried dough with meat and inquired about my love for omelets, we talked about my recent kitchen fire and the exhaustion of constant travel. She speaks rapid fire Darija, but I adore her. Lunch was a blast - my host sister stole part of my omelet and talked quietly to herself while walking over my lap, my host brother decided to eat a whole tomato with salt instead of the actual lunch, and I gabbed on with my host parents. When the time for afternoon aerobics rolled around, I was disappointed to leave. It's still an unusual enough feeling that I cherish those fleeting moments in Morocco.

Aerobics is one of my favorite classes to teach. I teach between 8-10 women in my host family's tae-kwon-do studio three days per week. Initially I was unsure if my routines were too difficult for the women, but they keep coming back and the numbers have been increasing - I must be doing something right! Tuesday's class included a mix of salsa, hip thrusts, belly dancing, carnaval routines, kick-boxing, strength training and yoga. The Pitbull-inspired hip thrusts were a rather new addition to the workout - pretty sure I am going to get "that reputation" in the neighborhood soon. Come take aerobics class with the American stripper! By the end of class, I am drenched in sweat and grinning. I only hope they love it as much as I do.

Shortly after class a friend came over to my apartment to learn guitar, make a music video to Justin Bieber and use my Internet. It happens. We ended the day together with Moroccan pancakes and conversation about what makes a speech effective. Boushra informed me that my personality is "great" and I should be an actress - I must admit that I loved the comment! No matter the challenges here, it's so encouraging when you are given positive feedback. Happy sigh.

Not content to end my day at 8 pm, I proceeded to put together ballin' lesson plans and jam to the Beatles until bed called. Delightful evening conversations rounded out my day perfectly and I settled into bed feeling grateful for Tazarine and the opportunities I have been given to work here. I'm sure the rest of my week will be full of another round of ups, downs and inbetweens, but I like a life that is full of surprises. Only boring people get bored. 

Sleepyhead

My week experienced through "10 signs you may be sleep deprived"

 

1) Inability to Handle Stress - Upon returning to Tazarine this week, it took me 24 hours to go buy eggs and milk. Not because it's particularly far, but because I didn't want to have the standard conversation of "where have you disappeared to" after traveling for three days. Routine activities feel exhausting and new challenges are overwhelming instead of exciting. My inability to handle stress isn't great timing. As a fun experiment this week, I took the Holmes and Rahe Stress Test to gauge my level of stress over the past year. Give my score of 490, I am well above a healthy level and am likely to become ill or have a mental breakdown in the near future. Do they have an additional test where they track your stress levels after being told you will likely have a breakdown soon!?

2) Poor Memory - I started to compose four other blogs this afternoon, unfortunately I can't remember the subject matter or why they were interesting. Over skype, my brother-in-law asked me how the travel home from Spain went but I still can't picture anything between Marrakesh and the desert. How was your day? Good? I think? What did I do again? During my tutoring session, the Arabic term for 'worker's union' took me over 10 hours to recall. I can't remember the last time I got a good night's sleep. Countless forgotten names, dates, places, words, promises - I should be writing this down.

3) Inability to Concentrate - This week's tutoring sessions on the Arab Spring and Moroccan politics should have been my favorite ones yet, but I could hardly pay attention to what my tutor was saying. What was the question again? Listening to Darija and French was a joke, is that a squirrel? I can't focus enough to read, study or practice guitar. Even movies are lost of me: I started and stopped them constantly because I was staring past the screen instead of processing the subject matter. Even my conversational skills in English have rapidly diminished and my father delicately had to tell me "you look exhausted, go to bed."

4) Increased Appetite - I can't do much damage on this front given my desert resources, but pretty sure I would eat an entire bakery if they let me. It helps that I keep burning everything I cook because I get distracted/forget what I am doing (see #2,3,6). I did hide my extensive supply of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I know better than to leave the 1 lb gems lying around at a time like this.

5) Vision Problems - Thankfully I am not allowed to drive and have yet to be named as the head of 'Taz Construction;' however, I walked past several friends on the street without recognizing them and nearly punched a woman in the face during aerobics. A cockroach walked along my bed for minutes before I registered it was an invader. Should my eyes be burning so much? I think I am increasingly developing vampire tendencies, please pull the shades. 

6) Poor Decision-making - I lit my kitchen on fire, burnt bread, destroyed granola, used lighters next to open gas tanks, and chose to spend my time watching both "The Bachelor" and the final Twilight film. I should have a legal guardian appointed immediately.

7) Diminished Motor Skills - Anyone noticed how impossible it is too make the correct sounds? As I started relearning Arabic script, I was shocked by my mouth's inability to reproduce noises I had mastered in the past year, let alone to learn new difficult ones, used in standard Arabic but largely absent in Darija. My stairway conversations in French and Darija have sounded little more than random muttering - I wonder if the other participants walk away as confused as I do? The throat's rebellion continues.

8) Relationship Troubles - Invited for dinner? Invited for tea? Invited for a weekend getaway? Everyone in my community got the same answer this week, "I am tired, another time." Even the most loving families were ignored as I stumbled back into my apartment, desperate for another round of shut eye. Couscous and leben, we are never ever, getting back together.

9) Medical Problems - Nearly passed out/felt like I needed to vomit during this week's women's aerobics classes, been fighting a constant headache for the last three days and continue to feel 'under the weather' and otherwise exhausted. I feel like I aged 50 years overnight but still refuse to stop dancing with older women three days per week. They will understand when I pass out and vomit simultaneously, wouldn't be the first time in Morocco!

10) Mood Swings - Multiple times this week I have flipped from tears of laughter to tears of frustration and loss. These swings are starting to stabilize, leaving me in more of constant state of "duuuuur" rather than an exciting roller coaster pattern. Fleeting moments of "obviously I want to come teach you how to conjugate verbs for the next four months" are replaced with "I'll see you next year, I have to run away to the beach." From brooding over Coldplay and the Civil Wars to dance party/cleaning/nervous shaking to Kesha and Bruno Mars the next, I can't quite decide which mood will stick around for more than 10 minutes.

Overall, I feel like a boring version of Kyla; shying away from challenges, turning my back on relationships and choosing facebook over exploration. I long for a peaceful eight hours of rest and a return to energy and excitement. During the week I pushed through these struggles to teach successful classes, do housework, cook, clean and even start a new project, yet I feel like a shadow of my normal self. Pretending in the hope that this is temporary, going because I can't really stop and praying that tomorrow I will wake up rested - no nightmares, no insomnia, no headache. I want me back. Fingers crossed.

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.