My mom, dad and brother came to visit Morocco during July, and they were champs. My brother has done some traveling internationally and could only stay for one week because of work commitments. My mom traveled about 30 years ago, ironically to Tangier, and my father applied for his very first passport to come on this trip. They were staying for three full weeks. This was bound to be an adventure.
Naturally, they were the last ones to deboard the plane in Marrakesh, having gotten hung up by customs forms. I was there to greet them, along with Ismail and Brahim, from both the village, who were helping out as driver and host.
Now let's take a moment with Ismail and Brahim because that's a potentially confusing situation: Ismail makes a living with his 4 x 4 (henceforth called a "cat cat" from the French translation). He keeps it remarkably well maintained and works constantly. He's a reliable friend, and someone who I asked to take care for my parents, who agreed to pay him a fee for his services. Brahim, on the other hand, also a hardworking guy and reliable friend, was not being paid, but joined us on the trip to offer help and guide us to places that he knew and trusted. Also, quite frankly, he's the guy I plan to share the rest of my life with from now until we kick our respective buckets. The father of my children. That sort of thing. (He's great. You've got to meet him.) He came along to get to know the In-laws. (Did they like him?! Keep reading.)
So we left the airport and took them directly to a special place outside of the city where they were welcomed by nearly all of Brahim's brothers and plates of couscous, piled high and steaming. It was nearly midnight. So hungry from their travels and curious about this new dish, they dove into the communal plate. Even my brother Dan tried everything, who typically won't eat anything that was once growing!
Exhausted as my mom was, she asked questions of the kids – quickly realizing that the language barrier was no joke. Together we translated her questions as Brahim's teenaged niece dissolved into embarrassment and his 9-year-old nephew snickered and giggled. That sounds about normal.
The first week was a whirlwind as we whisked my family around southern Morocco, giving Dan a real tour before heading back home. We took a camel ride into the sunset in the deserts of Merzouga – a romantic place, but harsh. Splashed in the river nestled in the spectacular Tohdra Gorge. Filled up our water bottles at the springs of Goulmima. In my village, we had lunch with Brahim's family, where there was a lot of staring at one another in confusion and amazement. Dan and I set out one night to attend a real Berber wedding…which ended up being a bunch of folks hanging out in a dry riverbed. (That one I can't explain.) And we did a lot of laughing and chatting together.
[Doh! In my draft, I gave up this post for a more Bohemian-poet-and the sands of time attempt. Thats annoying. Guess you'll have to read the next post, and call my mom to get the full Young Family Power Point Presention!]
8.25.2009 Watching the Dunes
The dunes outside of Merzouga, at Erg Chebbi, are stunning, really. They appear surprisingly after a long trek through tarmac-like terrain. Turn the A/C onto full power, still the car windows are hot to the touch. We come to Auberge du Sud, this fortress in the sand. The afternoon is beginning to turn in as the tourists arrive with their guides. The desert boys welcome us home.
For me, it feels like home. I love the friendly crowd. The Moroccan guys serve hot mint tea and carrying baggage for travelers from all over the world. We wander into the dunes to share the sunset together, and this is the best time for dancing, exploring; sliding, drawing. Every mark and stroke soon wiped way by the winds.
Or we take a camel trek as the sun begins to dip. I'm surprised how clumsy these giants are, supposedly intended for this terrain. I marvel at their long eyelashes and hold on tight, for the dismount comes quickly and I'm far from the ground!
If only we could collect that sunset like we collect the sand in our shoes and our pockets. I know some days the wind blows harshly here, erasing the sky and scratching our faces; but today is calm and the sunset paints the sky. We've taken off our shoes and are relaxed; laughing and writing our names in Arabic script in the sand.
Later, we return back for a delicious dinner of eggplant pepper salad, beef with soaked figs, and baked chicken with rice, followed by a heaping plate of ripe watermelon. On this visit, we are exhausted, but smartly situated exactly where my family had come so far to see. We were here together, in this strange and wonderful place.
There have been other times I have visited this same place. Once I chatted with a young woman from Barcelona, and a couple from Sweden, as the sounds of the tom toms resonated into the night. The first time, I came only to meet this man I had become curious about. I pretended to have a different name and to have come from a different place. I dodged the travelers and intended to remain elusive in this courtship. Instead betwixt rondevous with this lovely guy, I sat with the cleaning ladies as they washed the sheets and prepared the limismn, the buttery flat Moroccan bread. So much for any hint of mysterious allure…
The uniqueness of the landscape in its remoteness and harsh tranquility lures and creates this space where people are open to share. We swap languages and stories while drinking bottles and bottles of water and Coke, watching out for scorpions, slowing down to keep pace with the winds.
For me, it feels like home. I love the friendly crowd. The Moroccan guys serve hot mint tea and carrying baggage for travelers from all over the world. We wander into the dunes to share the sunset together, and this is the best time for dancing, exploring; sliding, drawing. Every mark and stroke soon wiped way by the winds.
Or we take a camel trek as the sun begins to dip. I'm surprised how clumsy these giants are, supposedly intended for this terrain. I marvel at their long eyelashes and hold on tight, for the dismount comes quickly and I'm far from the ground!
If only we could collect that sunset like we collect the sand in our shoes and our pockets. I know some days the wind blows harshly here, erasing the sky and scratching our faces; but today is calm and the sunset paints the sky. We've taken off our shoes and are relaxed; laughing and writing our names in Arabic script in the sand.
Later, we return back for a delicious dinner of eggplant pepper salad, beef with soaked figs, and baked chicken with rice, followed by a heaping plate of ripe watermelon. On this visit, we are exhausted, but smartly situated exactly where my family had come so far to see. We were here together, in this strange and wonderful place.
There have been other times I have visited this same place. Once I chatted with a young woman from Barcelona, and a couple from Sweden, as the sounds of the tom toms resonated into the night. The first time, I came only to meet this man I had become curious about. I pretended to have a different name and to have come from a different place. I dodged the travelers and intended to remain elusive in this courtship. Instead betwixt rondevous with this lovely guy, I sat with the cleaning ladies as they washed the sheets and prepared the limismn, the buttery flat Moroccan bread. So much for any hint of mysterious allure…
The uniqueness of the landscape in its remoteness and harsh tranquility lures and creates this space where people are open to share. We swap languages and stories while drinking bottles and bottles of water and Coke, watching out for scorpions, slowing down to keep pace with the winds.
8.25.09 For the Overly Integrated Volunteer...
For the overly integrated Peace Corps Volunteer, here are some friendly bits of wisdom for hosting visitors from the Home of the Brave.:
* No one likes flies. They are pesky and gross and will be noticed in spite of delicious food and incredible landscapes.
* Having a driver is remarkable, despite the comments from your male guests who would drive faster and better. There's so much we didn't have to worry about because we had someone to maintain the vehicle and who knew where to stop to buy gas, milk, etc.
* We all have our comforts that we cling to in foreign environments. Examples of this include Orange Fanta and swimming pools.
* My guests were somehow conned into saying "Bonjour" and "Merci." Don't let this happen to you. Perhaps educate them on the fact that this is a country of Arabic and Amazigh people. Remind your guests that they are English-speaking Americans. Choose one of the languages in this range to converse in.
* Public toilets are disgusting. Often stopping by the side of the road is a more pleasant alternative.
* It's possible to vacation here and ride on a "Western" surface. It's up to your visitor how far below the surface they want to go. As PCVs, we've gotten ourselves in pretty deep, but its important to remember that there are many things different about this place and America, even if you are still eating with forks and using Western toilets. Each can submerge themselves at their own pace.
* Tipping and saying "Thank you" is important. (And prices do vary with manners.)
* Be prepared for a million questions. And you know more than you realize.
* Camels are cool. And dangerous. Hang out tight for the dismount.
* Its wise not to rush into it, but by and large, the tap water here is fine. Perhaps better than consuming so much bottled water, only to leave the empty bottles behind. Recommend to your guests that they bring some of those Britta water bottle filters.
* There are all of these projects that we should be doing, and you'll talk about them with your guests. There are all of these efforts that we could be making…and if we just Google a little, or talk to these people, surely you can get these projects off the ground. Then your guests leave, and you are reminded that the nearest Cyber Cafe is 25 km away and that you don't actually have the technical language to explain to that person that idea you had. But you're still doing okay. In fact, you're doing great.
* They are impressed by what you're doing. I guarantee. Whether your guests are family or friends, world travelers or first timers, they're going to think that what you're doing as a Peace Corps Volunteer is really neat, and that you should just keep doing what you're doing.
* I'll tell you, it's tough after they leave. Even if they do bring Doritos and the good shampoo, but it sure is great that they came!
*Enjoy!
* No one likes flies. They are pesky and gross and will be noticed in spite of delicious food and incredible landscapes.
* Having a driver is remarkable, despite the comments from your male guests who would drive faster and better. There's so much we didn't have to worry about because we had someone to maintain the vehicle and who knew where to stop to buy gas, milk, etc.
* My guests were somehow conned into saying "Bonjour" and "Merci." Don't let this happen to you. Perhaps educate them on the fact that this is a country of Arabic and Amazigh people. Remind your guests that they are English-speaking Americans. Choose one of the languages in this range to converse in.
* Public toilets are disgusting. Often stopping by the side of the road is a more pleasant alternative.
* It's possible to vacation here and ride on a "Western" surface. It's up to your visitor how far below the surface they want to go. As PCVs, we've gotten ourselves in pretty deep, but its important to remember that there are many things different about this place and America, even if you are still eating with forks and using Western toilets. Each can submerge themselves at their own pace.
* Tipping and saying "Thank you" is important. (And prices do vary with manners.)
* Be prepared for a million questions. And you know more than you realize.
* Camels are cool. And dangerous. Hang out tight for the dismount.
* Its wise not to rush into it, but by and large, the tap water here is fine. Perhaps better than consuming so much bottled water, only to leave the empty bottles behind. Recommend to your guests that they bring some of those Britta water bottle filters.
* There are all of these projects that we should be doing, and you'll talk about them with your guests. There are all of these efforts that we could be making…and if we just Google a little, or talk to these people, surely you can get these projects off the ground. Then your guests leave, and you are reminded that the nearest Cyber Cafe is 25 km away and that you don't actually have the technical language to explain to that person that idea you had. But you're still doing okay. In fact, you're doing great.
* They are impressed by what you're doing. I guarantee. Whether your guests are family or friends, world travelers or first timers, they're going to think that what you're doing as a Peace Corps Volunteer is really neat, and that you should just keep doing what you're doing.
* I'll tell you, it's tough after they leave. Even if they do bring Doritos and the good shampoo, but it sure is great that they came!
*Enjoy!
4.30.2009 Dandelion Soup
The Delete and Spacebar keys no longer work on my laptop’s keypad, nor does the Tab key or Down Arrow. Stop. My mailbox was full of letters from family and friends, my absolute favorite. Stop. My host brothers devoured the gift I brought them back from Ouarzazate – a kids’ magazine written in Arabic. The four boys crowded around the colorful stories and pictures, often relaying the articles to me in Tashelheit. One story was about a giraffe who wanted to buy spots to improve his coat. They really enjoyed it. Stop.
There have been all of these ups and downs along the way.
One day I said hello to a woman from my village. I was surprised to see her in our nearby “souk town”, and I thought it unusual to see her at a café, where Moroccan women don’t often frequent. She told my girlfriend and I that she was on the way to the hospital. She had been pregnant, but the baby had died. It had taken her a few days to get the necessary paperwork – the baby still inside of her – and she was now on her way to the hospital to have the fetus removed. She was frank and nonchalant about it. Stop.
After teaching English one afternoon, one of my students, who is roughly my age, showed me her notebook. In awkward, yet accurate script, she had written “My Family” using the English alphabet. This is an accomplishment worth posting, and I commend her. She has never studied in school before. Her younger brother is currently earning his degree in Rabat, but she hadn’t been offered the same opportunity. He's studying physics and mathematics. She cooks meals, gathers crops from the fields and weaves rugs.
Many women share her same position: My neighbor moved 600 km from her family at the age 13 to be married; she had her first child at age 14. Another – a bright, sharp young woman – was allowed to continue her studies through High School, but soon she will turn 19. Her family has arranged for her to marry before this summer ends. They have engaged her to a soldier living on the coast, an 8-hour drive from her family. She has met him once. They’ve never kissed. She’s refusing to go through with this marriage, but I’m not confident that she has much say in the matter.
Stop.
A married woman is an incredible cook, a graceful hostess, a resourceful mother, and a defender of the sanctity of the home. She is a real asset to her family, filling many important roles. Stop.
Sometimes I find it difficult to clearly distinguish between an “up” and a “down.”
We gathered dandelion greens from the fields, which are brimming with green these days. Spring water runs down to the valley, providing for trees with almonds, walnuts, peaches, quinces, and apples. Corn, wheat, beans, carrots, turnips, and tomatoes are planted. Truffles and herbs are brought in from the mountains where the deer and the antelope play. Stop. Back up. Where the sheep and goats graze. Stop.
The dandelion greens were for soup. Delicious but bitter. Stop.
I saw a woman throw a mug at her daughter. The girl dodged it, but it lead to a fight in the other room. Everyone overheard. The daughter returned to the salon sobbing, nursing her arm that was red and swollen. Her mother, clearly panicked, was massaging and checking the injury, a result of their argument and the woman’s temper.
That night I worried. I slept near the girl and heard her cry through the night. Her arm was going to be fine. The swelling had gone down. There wasn’t even sign of a bruise. But what worried me most was what caused her mother to get so upset. The woman had asked her daughter to do something – tend to her younger siblings, clear the table, I don’t know – and the girl responded with “ur righ.” “Ur righ” in Tashelheit means “I don’t want to.” “Ur righ?!” the woman responded to her daughter with distaste, “Ur righ?!” and the mug went flying.
Stop. Now go on...
Most days, the women here gossip, dream, laugh, and are smart here as they are where I grew up. I have been relieved to find that they resemble the women who I respect and admire from home. I don’t want to neglect that point. But that deeply-seated reaction to “ur righ” will not soon leave me.
My own power of choice is dear to me and I acknowledge that my goal here –admittedly and purposefully – is to enact change of a positive kind. That has a lot to do with creating opportunities for Choice. But how do we go about that when choice could forever alter a trusted and tried family and cultural dynamic? How do we insist on choice when there are people who will be hurt in the process? Or a woman who may finally be able to recognize opportunity, but who will never be able to take it for its advantages? How do we offer the bait of choice to someone who has so much to lose from our safe seat on the other side? Don't stop. Keep going.
The day before yesterday, I had the most incredible day. I went out into the mountains with Zahara. She’s 13-years-old, and promises to be not only my new best friend, but my safe haven in many ways. First off, she seems to like me unconditionally, and secondly, she can skip and scale these mountains with more grace and ease than Trisha Brown at BAM. Thirdly, a whole afternoon will have gone by before I remember that we don’t speak the same language - because we do. It’s just that we have different words for things.
So anyway, we went out on a great trek the other day. We made it out to the quiet part of the mountains where you can’t see anything but other mountains and each other. We came upon a nomad there, named Khadija. She prepared us tea over the fire, and we ate her bread, cooked over heated rocks. She taught us how to tie up the goat hide – the one with the goat’s milk wrapped up inside – and as she processed the milk, Zahara and I visited with the baby goats. There were nine of them. Even though my hands smelled weird afterward, it was fun holding them.
We drank the goat’s milk with Lalla Loohoo, who had come over from the next little cave over. Lalla had skin like leather, and wasn’t able to see out of one eye. The milk was super sour, but I’d drink it again any day. Khadija said it was difficult living out there, but she only did it for about 15 days at a time, then she went back to living in the house with her family. This is how she lived out every season but winter.
I can’t wait until Zahara and I have our next adventure. I like the rocky terrain of the mountainside. Full stop.
2.27.2009 To Finish February
This month has been happening to me. Dumped, spilled, ran away with me - I’ve officially given up control! My goal since February 1, has been simply to survive the month. Starting out the month with weather so unbearably cold, and me unsure of my living situation post-host family, this goal felt reasonable enough. But now things have progressed. Now feels full of opportunity. I only hope that I can keep my optimism and my word on the plans I’ve made with my community and the big ideas I have for myself.
I've experience a series of changes, with change being what I can rely upon. I now have a place of my own. Four bedrooms, a kitchen, and a Turkish toilet all to myself. I’m enjoying the freedom of redefining each “scantily clad” room at will. Yesterday, I put the livingroom in the entryway…because I can. And after six weeks of teaching English to a group of girls, many of them have returned to their former chores, while a tenacious few keep showing up. We know that I could be a better teacher if I had more resources and could better speak their language, but we amble along. I figure we’re all learning something…not sure exactly what.
Also, my relationship with the boys working at the local hotels seems to be blossoming. That’s just great, she says with sarcasm. First she starts living alone, now she’s hanging around with boys. Those loose American women! Not true, though I’ll let you in on a little secret: The young men and the young women don’t talk much to each other around here. So, enter Sarah, the American. I’m happy to open the lines of communication – especially when the tour bus shows up, full of American tourists who came to see the Gorges. It just so happens that they want to buy a rug made by the locals, and I know a few women across the river who can weave a mean rug. Don’t know how I got here, but I sure am glad I’ve arrived.
I've experience a series of changes, with change being what I can rely upon. I now have a place of my own. Four bedrooms, a kitchen, and a Turkish toilet all to myself. I’m enjoying the freedom of redefining each “scantily clad” room at will. Yesterday, I put the livingroom in the entryway…because I can. And after six weeks of teaching English to a group of girls, many of them have returned to their former chores, while a tenacious few keep showing up. We know that I could be a better teacher if I had more resources and could better speak their language, but we amble along. I figure we’re all learning something…not sure exactly what.
Also, my relationship with the boys working at the local hotels seems to be blossoming. That’s just great, she says with sarcasm. First she starts living alone, now she’s hanging around with boys. Those loose American women! Not true, though I’ll let you in on a little secret: The young men and the young women don’t talk much to each other around here. So, enter Sarah, the American. I’m happy to open the lines of communication – especially when the tour bus shows up, full of American tourists who came to see the Gorges. It just so happens that they want to buy a rug made by the locals, and I know a few women across the river who can weave a mean rug. Don’t know how I got here, but I sure am glad I’ve arrived.
1.08.09 Photo Update
First is my littlest host brother, then my other host brothers. One of the boys is actually a cousin, but lives with us because there's no school where his family lives. I also have three beautiful host sisters.I'm the one in the shiny caftan and Berger headscarf. (NOTE: Not my daily attire.) There's a chance that I will be inheriting this kitchen. Midwestern girl meets tagine...should make for interesting cuisine!
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