I’m in the mood for writing. If I had an ounce of perspective on life lately or even a strong grasp on the location of the letters on this particular keyboard, I could really move the masses. But if I wait around any longer, I’m liable to miss this moment. So here goes.
The house I’m living in these days functions at a constant buzz. Nine of us live here, though that number swells and ebbs depending on the day’s events. This morning, I woke up to an alarm – something I do twice each week – and had the usual bread, tea and soup for breakfast before meeting with the sixth grade students. We’re working through a Flying Art curriculum which includes letter-writing, art-making and simple geography. Today I introduced a lesson on drawing faces, which we all enjoyed, then the students added layers of flour-water soaked newspaper strips to their papier mache projects. Only four sixth graders attended class today. It was their first day back to school after winter vacation and most of them forgot to wake up for our class this morning. How sixth grade of them.
Following the class, I stopped by a local hotel to see if internet was working. In fact, it was not. Not surprising, but my Inbox has been on my mind without interruption. I’m expecting two friends to arrive into Morocco this Friday from the States and there are still details to sort out. Namely, we have to figure out if one friend will be able to make her flight. Jye-Hwei has been living in the U.S. for the last bunch of years, but she is a citizen of Taiwan. While American citizens aren’t required to have a Visa to enter into Morocco, Taiwanese citizens can’t get in without one. And unlike most Visas, this Visa takes 6-8 weeks for processing. Lame. The only advice I can give is that she continue to show up at the Consulate. Every day. And at varying times, in hopes of reaching “that guy” who’ll get the paperwork on its way. I’ve come to think of this as the “Moroccan Method” of getting things done, but its just as relevant in just about every other place I’ve ever lived.
After this unsuccessful attempt at internet, and a successful bout of text messaging while waiting for the internet to connect, I got myself home in time for lunch. Lentils. Our resident 10-year-old boy was at school, so it was just us girls. All eight of us. I like the way that lentils are cooked here. In a magical world, they would be paired with something other than bread, but they’re tasty and warm and a nice addition to our repertoire of couscous and vegetable stew.
By this time, the morning’s groggy, bulky clouds had melted away into a graciously warm and bright sunny day. Knowing that this un-February weather couldn’t be taken for granted, I hopped on my bike and headed 3km down the road to Anjie’s house. Anjie is also a Small Business Development volunteer, working with a small women’s association in the neighboring village. We’re hoping to offer the women’s associations in her village and mine a three-part workshop in basic business skills. I cannot intend a more direct interpretation of the word ‘basic.’ These women aren’t gonna know what hit them. I just hope they don’t hit me first. They are a ballsy, socially-acceptably-rowdy crowd, but they wander off course easily, and without warning. They absolutely need to get their act together if they expect anything to come their way. I’m not proposing I’m the girl to bring it, but I will show up at their door with logic in my pocket and a willingness to share.
Anjie copied the handsome amount of Post-It notes (Thanks for the supply, mom.) that I had added to our business workshop guide, while I took advantage of her newly acquired wireless modem. I scheduled a Skype date with my incoming visitors for next Thursday. Differences in time zones and unreliable internet connection has relegated Skyping to a somewhat cryptic affair, both highly-scheduled and necessarily serendipitous. As we worked, we caught each other up on the latest Peace Corps news.
The biggest bit of news is that we’ve been approved for a small development grant of about 9000 Moroccan Dirhams, or $1000 USD, from Peace Corps. Called a “SPA Grant,” it will allow us to organize a two-part workshop for three women associations in the area and will focus on developing the artisan and business skills that we’ve deemed most relevant to the women whom with we work. Most important thing about this workshop is that it’ll be held close to home. When leading a horse to water, it helps if the water isn’t only in the country’s largest cities (each over six hours away).
The extra bonus to this workshop is that it will be offered in Tashelheit, the Berber dialect spoke in this region. Moroccan Arabic typically dominates these types of workshops, preventing Tashelheit speakers from truly grasping the concepts and excelling. Here’s their fair chance. If the best speaker on the topic only speaks Arabic or English, we will have a local translator on hand. That’s if all goes according to plan. Things never go according the plan. Expects bumps en route.
When I leave Anjie’s, it’s the heart of the afternoon, and I have more roaming to do. Riding my bike gives me the free-willing opportunity to tour around, sharing pleasantries, and stopping to indulge in conversation only when it suits me. Gone are the days of agonizing over demands for my time or my cell phone. I simply smile and nod, and continue on my way. Biking is great exercise for body and sanity.
I end my roaming at the women’s association. I want to finish to the alterations that I’ve started making on one of their woven handbags. We’ve been talking about experimenting with new product designs, and experimenting is one of my favorite hobbies.
Five of the six women are busy as bees, sitting at the looms, weaving sacks and pillow cases. One of the girls, Tuda, has gone to a nearby town for the day, maybe to visit family. I decide to hold off on telling them about the SPA grant until the funds are actually in the bank.
Its hard to believe that these women have been the source of frustration for me during my time here. They are all strong, diligent, good-humored, likeable women. Unfortunately, on many days, it seems that we have very little in common, and my language barrier never feels more blaringly apparent as when I sit down to chat among them.
This is the group with whom I had been assigned by Peace Corps to work, and this is where I am at a loss for words. The bridge is out. After having spent over a year in this village, I still cannot say what these ladies are aiming for, and I sure can’t tell you what they are capable of. But is it really possible that they are capable of nothing? I find that hard to believe. And so we’ve started to build, I think. At a casual pace, and only by sacrificing equal parts of me with equal parts of them. It can’t work otherwise. On the days that I’ve given too much, I only end up disappointed and they’re none the wiser. It’s a painful process for an over-achiever, believe me.
Moving on.
I returned to the house, drank coffee, black with sugar, and I’m now taking haven in my bedroom. I like my bedroom. It’s been decorated with bouquets of plastic flowers and family photos, including photos from my parents’ wedding, over 30-years ago. The mix of whimsy and nostalgia makes me grin. The floor is covered with busy Moroccan rugs, all handmade by girls and women in this village or other villages that I’ve visited during my time here. A few of the rugs are stacked along the far wall, creating a soft cushion for me to sleep on.
The rest of the family is in the “chambre” watching the wildly popular soap-opera, “Margarita,” about a Mariachi singing Mexican woman and a beautiful, albeit dastardly, cast of friends and lovers. Dubbed into Moroccan Arabic, its an experience everyone can nearly comprehend. That’s everyone but me, of course, but I relish the space Margarita has created for me. I hibernate in my room, reading, relaxing, or over-planning what I’m expecting to happen during my remaining time here. That time is shrinking, by the way. So it goes with a finite timeline. First I anxiously await its passing, then I try to slow it down as it speeds by. To combat this Slingshot Effect, I’m trying to live present tense. At least that’s what my Guru/Author suggested to me in Chapter One of the Meditation for Beginners guide that I borrowed from the Peace Corps library.
Thanks. I’ve exhausted this mood for writing. There’s still much left to say, but I find it better to let it simmer until the next urge hits. What I like about exhausting this urge for writing is that it also exhausts my urge to figure things out. Life is too big, and I’m not that confident. (Think that came somewhere between Chapter Two of Meditation for Dummies and noticing that my To-Do list does not actually have any bearing on what I will actually accomplish on any given day.)
The house I’m living in these days functions at a constant buzz. Nine of us live here, though that number swells and ebbs depending on the day’s events. This morning, I woke up to an alarm – something I do twice each week – and had the usual bread, tea and soup for breakfast before meeting with the sixth grade students. We’re working through a Flying Art curriculum which includes letter-writing, art-making and simple geography. Today I introduced a lesson on drawing faces, which we all enjoyed, then the students added layers of flour-water soaked newspaper strips to their papier mache projects. Only four sixth graders attended class today. It was their first day back to school after winter vacation and most of them forgot to wake up for our class this morning. How sixth grade of them.
Following the class, I stopped by a local hotel to see if internet was working. In fact, it was not. Not surprising, but my Inbox has been on my mind without interruption. I’m expecting two friends to arrive into Morocco this Friday from the States and there are still details to sort out. Namely, we have to figure out if one friend will be able to make her flight. Jye-Hwei has been living in the U.S. for the last bunch of years, but she is a citizen of Taiwan. While American citizens aren’t required to have a Visa to enter into Morocco, Taiwanese citizens can’t get in without one. And unlike most Visas, this Visa takes 6-8 weeks for processing. Lame. The only advice I can give is that she continue to show up at the Consulate. Every day. And at varying times, in hopes of reaching “that guy” who’ll get the paperwork on its way. I’ve come to think of this as the “Moroccan Method” of getting things done, but its just as relevant in just about every other place I’ve ever lived.
After this unsuccessful attempt at internet, and a successful bout of text messaging while waiting for the internet to connect, I got myself home in time for lunch. Lentils. Our resident 10-year-old boy was at school, so it was just us girls. All eight of us. I like the way that lentils are cooked here. In a magical world, they would be paired with something other than bread, but they’re tasty and warm and a nice addition to our repertoire of couscous and vegetable stew.
By this time, the morning’s groggy, bulky clouds had melted away into a graciously warm and bright sunny day. Knowing that this un-February weather couldn’t be taken for granted, I hopped on my bike and headed 3km down the road to Anjie’s house. Anjie is also a Small Business Development volunteer, working with a small women’s association in the neighboring village. We’re hoping to offer the women’s associations in her village and mine a three-part workshop in basic business skills. I cannot intend a more direct interpretation of the word ‘basic.’ These women aren’t gonna know what hit them. I just hope they don’t hit me first. They are a ballsy, socially-acceptably-rowdy crowd, but they wander off course easily, and without warning. They absolutely need to get their act together if they expect anything to come their way. I’m not proposing I’m the girl to bring it, but I will show up at their door with logic in my pocket and a willingness to share.
Anjie copied the handsome amount of Post-It notes (Thanks for the supply, mom.) that I had added to our business workshop guide, while I took advantage of her newly acquired wireless modem. I scheduled a Skype date with my incoming visitors for next Thursday. Differences in time zones and unreliable internet connection has relegated Skyping to a somewhat cryptic affair, both highly-scheduled and necessarily serendipitous. As we worked, we caught each other up on the latest Peace Corps news.
The biggest bit of news is that we’ve been approved for a small development grant of about 9000 Moroccan Dirhams, or $1000 USD, from Peace Corps. Called a “SPA Grant,” it will allow us to organize a two-part workshop for three women associations in the area and will focus on developing the artisan and business skills that we’ve deemed most relevant to the women whom with we work. Most important thing about this workshop is that it’ll be held close to home. When leading a horse to water, it helps if the water isn’t only in the country’s largest cities (each over six hours away).
The extra bonus to this workshop is that it will be offered in Tashelheit, the Berber dialect spoke in this region. Moroccan Arabic typically dominates these types of workshops, preventing Tashelheit speakers from truly grasping the concepts and excelling. Here’s their fair chance. If the best speaker on the topic only speaks Arabic or English, we will have a local translator on hand. That’s if all goes according to plan. Things never go according the plan. Expects bumps en route.
When I leave Anjie’s, it’s the heart of the afternoon, and I have more roaming to do. Riding my bike gives me the free-willing opportunity to tour around, sharing pleasantries, and stopping to indulge in conversation only when it suits me. Gone are the days of agonizing over demands for my time or my cell phone. I simply smile and nod, and continue on my way. Biking is great exercise for body and sanity.
I end my roaming at the women’s association. I want to finish to the alterations that I’ve started making on one of their woven handbags. We’ve been talking about experimenting with new product designs, and experimenting is one of my favorite hobbies.
Five of the six women are busy as bees, sitting at the looms, weaving sacks and pillow cases. One of the girls, Tuda, has gone to a nearby town for the day, maybe to visit family. I decide to hold off on telling them about the SPA grant until the funds are actually in the bank.
Its hard to believe that these women have been the source of frustration for me during my time here. They are all strong, diligent, good-humored, likeable women. Unfortunately, on many days, it seems that we have very little in common, and my language barrier never feels more blaringly apparent as when I sit down to chat among them.
This is the group with whom I had been assigned by Peace Corps to work, and this is where I am at a loss for words. The bridge is out. After having spent over a year in this village, I still cannot say what these ladies are aiming for, and I sure can’t tell you what they are capable of. But is it really possible that they are capable of nothing? I find that hard to believe. And so we’ve started to build, I think. At a casual pace, and only by sacrificing equal parts of me with equal parts of them. It can’t work otherwise. On the days that I’ve given too much, I only end up disappointed and they’re none the wiser. It’s a painful process for an over-achiever, believe me.
Moving on.
I returned to the house, drank coffee, black with sugar, and I’m now taking haven in my bedroom. I like my bedroom. It’s been decorated with bouquets of plastic flowers and family photos, including photos from my parents’ wedding, over 30-years ago. The mix of whimsy and nostalgia makes me grin. The floor is covered with busy Moroccan rugs, all handmade by girls and women in this village or other villages that I’ve visited during my time here. A few of the rugs are stacked along the far wall, creating a soft cushion for me to sleep on.
The rest of the family is in the “chambre” watching the wildly popular soap-opera, “Margarita,” about a Mariachi singing Mexican woman and a beautiful, albeit dastardly, cast of friends and lovers. Dubbed into Moroccan Arabic, its an experience everyone can nearly comprehend. That’s everyone but me, of course, but I relish the space Margarita has created for me. I hibernate in my room, reading, relaxing, or over-planning what I’m expecting to happen during my remaining time here. That time is shrinking, by the way. So it goes with a finite timeline. First I anxiously await its passing, then I try to slow it down as it speeds by. To combat this Slingshot Effect, I’m trying to live present tense. At least that’s what my Guru/Author suggested to me in Chapter One of the Meditation for Beginners guide that I borrowed from the Peace Corps library.
Thanks. I’ve exhausted this mood for writing. There’s still much left to say, but I find it better to let it simmer until the next urge hits. What I like about exhausting this urge for writing is that it also exhausts my urge to figure things out. Life is too big, and I’m not that confident. (Think that came somewhere between Chapter Two of Meditation for Dummies and noticing that my To-Do list does not actually have any bearing on what I will actually accomplish on any given day.)
2 comments:
Wonderful! It was great seeing some familiar faces! Zahara's beautiful smile, one of your "sisters and that little cutie in the front! Oh, of course you! I probably missed someone!xoxox
this was such a joy and in some ways, a meditation to read your methodology - I can relate to the methodology that arises from writing down your thoughts and as well, the overachiever steeped in challenges who must surrender, in some manner, to circumstance and culture. thanks for sharing. xoxo.
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