Firsts.

First time living alone

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

First cockroach

First power outage

First malfunctioning piece of equipment (fridge)

First night on my own

First time making breakfast using a gas stove

First sandstorm

First turkish toilet issue, eww

First visitor

First night sleeping on the roof

First time doing all my laundry by hand

First time visiting a Moroccan family without being invited

First invitation to a wedding in my community

First "diva" fuster cluck

First attempt at coffee (mostly a failure)

First rain in the desert

First niece (!!!)

First ride in the tranzit

First random tears

First cleansing of the space, super necessary

First afternoon True Blood Marathon

First "conversion" conversation 

First genocide of the flies, oh the carnage

First "natural" hot yoga, no studio needed!

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

Using French for good (and not evil)

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

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

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

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

The Fleeting Normal

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

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

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

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

Assembly Required

Yesterday in Hussan’s school of hard Darija knocks, we covered the future tense, practiced Arabic Script,  sang the national anthem and reviewed a number of other  grammar points. While I have advanced from absolute zero to writing paragraphs with confused verb tenses in just over a month, I still feel frustrated by the slow advancement of my language skills.

I feel as though I have entered a kind of language purgatory; I am able to recognize words, tenses and slow questions, but I’m not always able to place or understand the full meaning. I can respond to particular questions, but it still takes me forever to formulate a full sentence when put on the spot. I stand in the kitchen and proudly announce “I am washing the dishes, I am helping you,” (no applause from the family yet on these occasions), but when my host mother asks me a simple question about my day, I look like a deer in headlights.  I can feel the boredom of my host family as I work through my simple sentence, in fact, I start nodding off before I finish my thought.

Is it ridiculous to feel annoyed that I can’t understand the rapid fire language of teenagers? Absolutely. Could I understand my French host family all the time? Not in the least. Am I learning and improving at a rapid pace? For sure. Will I be speaking like a 3 year old in the next few months? Totally! And yet, on a Wednesday night when the family’s conversation eludes me, I still feel the unwarranted angst.

Last night was rough. I tried to help my host mother in the kitchen, only for her to repeatedly talk to me while facing the wall and washing dishes. We tried again to communicate about having tea and/or dinner and just were not speaking the same language. I missed a key phrase and she kept repeating the names of the people involved in this activity rather than the actual verb tense. The younger host sister compounded the situation by being herself. It’s not her fault for being fifteen, and I’m sure she is turning into a lovely woman, but she drives me bat shit crazy. After rattling off a paragraph in five seconds and my inevitable announcement that I didn’t understand, she proceeded to practically sit on my lap and point out the egg on the table. Thanks. I’m fairly sure my host parents yelled at the girls last night for their bad attitudes, but that might be my paranoia talking.

A night of mediocre sleep hasn’t erased the night from my memory. It was the most unpleasant evening I’ve had with the family since my arrival. I feel frustrated with my inability to reproduce a new language, irritated that I was berated instead of encouraged by native speakers and selfish for believing my family always needs to cater to my language needs. I could use a beer. Here’s hoping a coffee and a new attitude will do the trick.

The Daily Grind

For the interested, here is a brief synopsis of my community-based training schedule:

7:30am – Wake up. It sounds late, but even after eight hours of sleep I still want more during CBT. I take about 15 minutes to throw on some quasi-filthy clothes and attempt to make my hair loss less greasy. Most days I forgo looking in the mirror; ignorance of my face is bliss!

7:50am- Breakfast! When possible, I run out of the house before my host mom notices and seek out yogurt and fruit. This is not a reflection of my host family, merely of my desire to not eat bread for 6 meals per day. Most mornings I end up eating my first dose of bread with olive oil, butter or jam and a quick glass of hot milk with a tiny dose of coffee.

8:00am- Out the door with two of my training group neighbours, Lindsey and Drew. We head to the local cafe for a quick espresso coupled with a comparison of the previous evening’s success stories and failures. For example, “I understood when my host mother told me to clear the table;” “We didn’t eat till 11pm;” “I did nothing but watch Turkish Soap operas while my host sisters yelled at each other;” “My host brother host an evil glare when I ate the chicken in his triangle, but I was so hungry!”

8:30am- Welcome to Hassan’s language class! The six trainees, including myself, give a brief synopsis of our activities in the past tense before we get down to business. After this, we delve into the meat of the day while lately has been verb tenses (simple present and past, check!) Hussan “squeezes” us hard, but the classroom atmosphere is always positive and engaged.

10:00am –Atay! Drew or Rags normally grab six loaves of bread from the local store (hanut), which ideally will last our group for the day as Fatimizera brings us the first tea break. Since breakfast is fairly small, our group demolishes several cups of tea with our bread, dates, almonds and scrambled eggs.

10:30am- Back to language, normally a combination of practice and application. We play guesstures, draw verbs, write dialogues and role play in the class or head to the market, hanut or cafe to practice our newly acquired vocabulary/grammar.

12:30pm – Lunch time: This is typically the largest meal of the day in Morocco. We begin with a small salad that varies between lettuce and fruit; beets, carrots and potatoes; or cucumbers, tomatoes and homemade dressing. The main course is normally a Tajine (this is basically the Moroccan slow cooker) with veggies and sauce overtop a small piece of meat. Other days we feast on couscous, lentils and fried fish with side dishes of eggplant extravaganza or another bean. The entire meal is eaten with our fingers/bread (or sometimes a fork when we feel super western). After the main course, Fatimizera brings out the dessert; a delicious array of strawberries, apples, oranges and bananas.

1:00pm – Break: Lunch is followed by an hour break; each trainee has their own form of rest including a slow stroll through nature, listening to music, writing family or a simple nap. My favourite break thus far has been a stroll to Immouzer’s biggest waterfall where I found myself wandering amongst goats and sheep. Where was my camera?!

2:00- Afternoon class varies. My favorites include cultural sessions on Islam, indirect communication and collective cultures. I could talk about cultural differences for days. Other topics include Peace Corps specific training (not my fave) and slowly learning standard Arabic Script. Darija (Moroccan Arabic) is not a written language so most signs are written in Script or French. The focus on our training is conversational Darija, so thus far my script is non-existent.

3:30pm- Another Tea Break – this looks pretty much like the first one of the day. Moroccans tend to eat less at major meals and snack more throughout the day. Since food is always accompanied by tea, we are pretty jacked for the majority of class.

4;00pm – Lessons/Activities at the Dar Chebab (Youth Center). This portion of the day is still in development. We initially conducted “Spring Camp” to get to know the local kids/teenagers and are currently working on a Peace Corps directive to get to know the community. Eventually this will transition again to additional teaching practice. When we run out of ideas with the kids, we pretty much play soccer or throw the Frisbee around.

6pm- Done with class! From here, I try to do a short workout; either a run around the outskirts of town where we are hollered at in French, Darija and Spanish or a strength-training workout at the house with the host family staring.

7:30pm – Tea Break with the family. Are you hungry? Not really. Have some tea, enjoy some more bread, eat, eat, eat.

8:00pm – Free time at home. My activities depend on the night. I frequently attempt to practice what I learned in class with my host sisters (exchanging English, French and Darija) or watch the best Turkish Soap Opera on TV with my host mom. Sometimes I get in some additional reading, blogging or simply pass out on the couch.

10:00pm (hopefully) - Dinner time! Dinner is another small meal and typically occurs 15 minutes after my host dad returns from the town center. In the typical Moroccan home, women do the heavy housework lifting. My family is fairly liberal, but the men in the house rarely lift a finger to help with household chores or meals. During dinner, my host dad quizzes me on key phrases in Darija, what we are eating and the whereabouts of another volunteer, nicknamed “Zittun” or “Olives.” It’s a long story.

11:00pm-ish, bed time! If I haven’t already fallen asleep in the living room, I try to head to bed directly after dinner. Moroccans tend to be slower in the morning and bursting with energy in the eve, so I am always the first one to give in to the fatigue. I take one last trip to the Turk, say goodnight to the family and pass out in my room roughly an hour before my host sisters settle in the for night.

Monday through Friday, that is my life. Saturdays are a half day at Hussan’s school of learning, ending in a trip to the local market to purchase the week’s fruits, veggies and beans before heading home for the weekend. Most weekends consist of laundry, trips to the Hammam (public bath house), household chores and maybe a nap.

The schedule is both exhausting and exhilarating. During any given day, I may feel competent and confused, independent and dependent, understood and alone. While I am glad that the community-based training does not last forever (I can’t wait till I have my own room), I feel blessed to have such a positive and challenging first impression of Morocco.

Spring Camp – Getting my teach on

This week, Peace Corps held its annual “Spring Camp” where the Peace Corps Trainees (that’s me) hold an entire week of English classes and activities at the local Dar Chebab. Moroccan kids love it because they get free English from native speakers and Peace Corps loves it because it’s an instant training ground for the newbies. Each trainee is supposed to teach at least one 30 minute English class and lead one small activity; however, since our group has been struck by illness, those of us still standing have been teaching several hours per day.

Starting the week with the “beginner” students, our lessons included greetings, parts of the body, senses and numbers. As the week progressed, we transitioned to the immediate/advanced students, engaging in discussions about pollution in Morocco and the role of women in society. In addition to strict language study, I choreographed and taught a dance to the song “Jai Ho” with a fellow trainee as well as playing soccer, Frisbee and various ‘camp’ games with the students.

Unlike most communities in the Western world, there are not a lot of other activities for kids outside of school hours. Organized sports, musical groups or clubs and other “extracurriculars” are minimal.  The result is that the majority of intelligent, creative and fun-loving children spend their free time watching TV instead of fostering their talents. It’s difficult to know that my host sister’s beautiful voice will be restricted to singing along to her favorite Arab Idol stars on primetime instead of school choir. The positive result is that Spring Camps students are engaged; they have chosen to spend their vacation studying instead of catching up on the best Turkish Soap Operas. The students want to be there and want to learn. Whether they attend out of utter boredom, dreams of a bright future or just to take pictures with the Americans, we have been blessed with enthusiastic students. What else could a teacher ask for? 

After the Rain

10 days of rain, cold and constipation have finally come to an end this week thanks to the return of the glorious Moroccan sun and my friendly neighbourhood laxatives. Anyone can handle a certain amount of miserable weather, but more than a week of hail and sub 40 degree temperatures will literally put a damper on your adventure. By the end of last week, I was feeling mentally and physically defeated. The rain and cold forced me inside, my swiya (little) Darija kept me from interesting host family conversations and the constipation took away my only solaces: bountiful bread and frequent workouts.

While this was not an end of the world/crisis situation, it did make me long for feeling in my toes and salads without added sugar. Following the end of my formal language and culture lessons, I returned home exhausted and would lie in bed for an hour as feeling slowly returned to my extremities. Apparently being cold all the time is hard work for the body and mind, who knew? My new diet had also started to take a toll on my stomach; despite the constant caffeine intake, I was seeing no results in the Turk department. While this didn’t concern me, my stomach solidly freaked out on Friday and not-so-subtly encouraged me to give the Peace Corps Medical Officer a ring. Combined with my “bouche-a-coq” hairstyle and infrequent showers, I looked and felt like the shit that has been unable to escape from my body.

Saturday changed everything. Starting the day with a burst of sunshine, a fiberlicious breakfast and LMFAO, I was on my way! I successfully visited the souq (market) to purchase food for the upcoming week, bonded with my host family and choreographed a number of dance routines for this week’s Spring Camp. And the laxatives? Still waiting on the effect. My new diet is ideal for the 70 and over crowd: minimal bread, a daily dose of Metamucil and as many vegetables and bran as I can fit into my belly. C’est la guerre.

Sunday was a full day with the host family. We started the day with 5 hours at the local Hammam (aka bathhouse); this was my first and ideally longest visit. As my host sisters graciously washed me and scrapped the dead skin from my body, I started to understand why Moroccans believe Westerners are dirty. It had been several weeks since my last good scrub, and I was filthy. By the afternoon I was ornery, dehydrated and my skin resembled a tomato. A solid first attempt at bathing, Moroccan style. After we devoured lunch, my host family took me on a lovely afternoon hike to the local waterfall and into the hills. While we enjoyed the picturesque waterfall and good conversation, I started to sing a praise song. Nature always gets me that way. As I floated away on my own thought bubble, my host dad burst into a round of “Happy Birthday” for no reason. I laughed so hard that I nearly cried; it’s a gift to find a family as quirky as my own.