Before I tell you where I am, let me tell you where I’ve been.
Morocco is a beautiful country with breath taking landscapes, mesmorizing cities, captivating people and mystery and surprise around every corner. Check out my facebook to see a glimpse of Morocco’s undeniable attractiveness and allure.
For your reading convenience, I present to you an inside look of the past few months, abridged. The following presents some of the struggle that accompanies and completes the splendor.
On September 8, 2009 I hopped on a plane with 55(+/-) other optimistic, idealists and flew to Morocco. I brought a few bags, tons of enthusiasm, high hopes and work/life skills that I couldn’t wait to share with the people I met--not to mention a few more pounds of muscle and a decent level of athletic ability;).
After landing, unloading, trudging through customs with enough jet lag to slow down a Japanese bullet train, we rode a bus to the gorgeous, distinctly Moroccan beach town of Mehdiya. In Mehdiya we started the process of what Peace Corps calls Pre-Service Training (PST). All of us were on the edge of ambition and couldn’t wait to get started. There was no better place to kick off our next two years than at a lazy quaint town on the coast. We spent our weeklong introduction to Morocco with half our days in Peace Corps training sessions, the other half soaking up sun on the beach and our evenings enjoying and getting to know one another.
As the introduction came to an end we were divided into five groups. Each group was shipped off, Moroccan style (seven people to a cab fit with elbows in the face, hot breath and for the unlucky passenger in the front seat next to the driver, a gear shifter in the rear) to various towns in the northern region of the country. In our respective CBT (Community Bases Training) sites we continued learning the language and absorbing the culture of Morocco.
Each week we endured 8-9hrs of class Mon thru Fri, 6hrs on Sat and then another 15-24hrs of immersion training everyday as we stayed with our host families—in case you missed it, that’s 24hrs a day and then some;). Training, appropriately so, was painstaking and rigorous—if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen sort of deal.
Culture shock was a bit of a blur. Often times I couldn’t tell if I was coming or going. Here’s a run down of my inner dialogue:
- Why is this guy still holding my hand?
- I will do anything if you just bring me some TP.
- What’s that mystery meat in the tajine?
- Awe—Moroccans are so great!
- I am not French.
- Why is it that I am eating all the time but I am still hungry—oh, it’s probably just the parasites.
- I LOVE my host family.
- Is this Hshuma?
For the most part, I maintained a level head and most of my frustrations originated, not from being in country, but rather, from the strict structure imposed on us by Peace Corps (which was necessary and now, appreciated—sort of).
My CBT crew was awesome. Anna, Juan, Leigh, Mari and Seth---I love you guys (Duncan, I love you too!)!!! Everyday we would share with one another the stories of our home stay families and the cultural adjustments we all had to make. We talked about how our families huddled around us when we had diarrhea and wished to be alone and have a clear path to the bit’lma (bathroom), how our moms told us to eat more when another bite was very well going to make us explode, how our dads would offer us the “family glass” only to be met with our Nalgenes, a frightened face and a nervous, “No thanks, I have my own,” how going to the bathroom took as much mental energy as a final exam (Where’s the toilet paper? Oh, it’s not here, okay, how do I wipe? Hmmm, did I bring the hand sanitizer? Geeze, my legs are tired) and most importantly how the people of the town became family in our most vulnerable moments.
As I said earlier there was a TON of class time. On numerous occasions in the middle of sessions we would find ourselves caught in the throws of comical hysterics---laughing uncontrollably, unable to stop of our own accord, left to ride out the humorous wave until it subsided. In many ways our fits of laughter acted as self-preserving reactions to keep us from succumbing to fits of crying.
Upon reflection our reality seemed so absurd. In many ways it was funny—downright hilarious---however, in other ways we all knew we had lost parts of our selves, parts of our lives that sustained us and brought us joy. In order to optimize this experience, I knew it was imperative to harness creativity and expand understanding of what constitutes and regulates contentment in life. Like I said, it was hard. Yet, it is the conquering of those difficult times I believe people thrive. The moment we realize, “Oh I can do this—I am pretty awesome.” We not only conquered; we totally dominated.
Finally I can’t forget to tell of the greatness of my host family, the Aberannes. During CBT, my host family was nothing short of amazing and they will always be a part of my Peace Corps experience and beyond. There is an intense bonding that occurs when you plop yourself in another country and a family takes you in as one of their own. The entire family from my dad down to my youngest brother as well as my father’s friends, my sister’s husband, the neighbors, aunts, uncles, numerous shop owners (the list can go on and on) didn’t skip a beat when it came to helping me out. At any given night my father, mother or sister would tuck me in at night---as silly as it seems you wouldn’t believe how comforting it was. My nickname quickly became baby mskeen (poor baby). I didn’t mind it, often times it was true, I needed as much help as a child--maybe even more.
Fast forward and here I am in my final site. After living in the family room for a little over eight days, I have moved into my own room. Thanks to the once-in-a lifetime-you-must-meet-him rpcv and friend, Ned Epps (LOVE YOU!) I am living with a new host family--there was trouble in paradise with Ned’s original host family. The catch, I had to wait for a room. Not a problem, until you realize that Moroccans are in no hurry to get you away from them---in fact, it’s quite the opposite. It is an inextricable part of a Moroccans daily life to insist that you stay for some tea and bread and in my case sleep in the living with them. Even if you persist and make a case that Johnny Cochran couldn’t refute as to why it would be better for everyone if you have your own space there is still a cultural element that doesn’t translate. To them, living by yourself is like being sick—why would you want something so horrendous and why aren’t you doing everything in your power to keep it from happening to you. After a little cross cultural exchange and plainly saying on several occasions I am moving upstairs to my room now, they got it. For the most part it's endearing, however, there is a time and a place where an Amereican has to say, "Wait, I'm still American."
Now, I am sittin’ pretty in a gorgeous room fit for the king himself (maybe an exaggeration, but as of late, they could have given me a cardboard box and as long as it was mine I would have been singing their praises).
What now? Let me get back to you on that:)
