I'm busy.
It is a fantastic feeling. I have more opportunities for work than I
have time for, for the first time in my service. For once in my life,
I'm proud of myself for making the connections, for being persistent
in certain ways, and for collaborating in ways that I think are
important. It's taken a long time, but I'm the first person in my
site, so it's normal to take time to establish the mission of Peace
Corps and volunteers.
I'm also seven pages in on a list of "what I will miss about Morocco."
I'm a sentimental romantic; what can I say?
Last week was COS (Close of service) conference in Rabat, the capitol.
We were back in the fantastic four-star hotel where I spent my first
few nights in Morocco, March of 2007. I heard the same delightful call
to prayer from the mosque in the middle of downtown (the most
beautiful call to prayer I've heard in country), oohed and aahed over
the presence of a bathtub and bidet in the bathroom, and relished the
free myriad display of salads, fish every day for lunch, and cereal
and strong coffee in the mornings.
Getting there was difficult, as the Titchka (pass of death) was snowed
closed. The gate to the pass closed probably less than 20 minutes
before my bus pulled up, and we stayed on the road, blocked in by
other cars and busses for three hours. The bus's ceiling had a hole in
it and I was snowed on in the cold. The good news was that it kept
snowing once the road finally opened, so not only was the bus slow on
the hairpin turns, but I couldn't even see how high up we were or
whether or not the ice meant we were on the road! It was the easiest
(but probably most dangerous) trip over the Titchka so far, though I
was disappointed to be in Marrakech so late.
The next day, after the train up to Rabat, I roomed with a good
friend, and realized that I was on better terms with everyone from my
stage than I've ever felt. Everything came full circle as we wrote on
the pieces of poster paper around the room, answering questions such
as, "What I will miss the most about Morocco is…" or "When I
see/hear/taste/smell… it will remind me of Morocco." I wish I had
written some of the answers down for posterity. The sessions were
better than I anticipated.
People who had already visited home during their service gave
cautionary tales. "Don't stare at people when you go home, it makes
people uncomfortable." "Don't touch people unnecessarily, lean on
them, grab their knees, or hold hands with your friends the way we can
here." "Don't bring up not using toilet paper or the specifics of
gastrointestinal issues in polite conversation." "Don't feel like you
can talk to everyone on the street, bus, or grocery stores in the US."
"Don't forget to take your ID to a bar because they probably won't let
you in." "Don't wave back to catcalls." "Don't think that people
around won't understand English." "Don't eavesdrop on other
conversations and jump in." The sad thing is that I could see myself
doing any of these things.
Nights involved Lebanese food, Mexican food (a new restaurant in Agdal
where you can get a taco salad and frozen margarita with salt!
Phenomenal!), pizza and salad with bacon (!), and a night at Yacout
where we danced our hearts out to a live band playing a variety of
songs; Volare was the highlight of my night.
I had low expectations for the RPCV panel but found it was one of the
best parts of the conference. They had amazing jobs working with NGOs
or USAID, the US Embassy, other governmental organizations… but they
all came back from the Peace Corps and waited tables for awhile before
they got their feet on the ground. What I took away was that PC is
like a giant fraternity or sorority: incredible networking with some
amazing people, and even if I go home and struggle for awhile, that
doesn't mean that I can't do what I want in the future.
The last day, we had a reception and met with ministry officials,
embassy staff, and other partner NGOs and governmental organizations.
It went well, and I always enjoy myself in the island of green at the
office. I returned the next morning for a discussion with one of my
program staff members about possibly extending service and a check-up
with one of our doctors.
A friend and I traveled through Fez to get home, which meant that I
didn't have to take the Titchka, but I did end up increasing my travel
time by quite a bit and the ride from Fez to my souk town is
ridiculously long (12 hours… I had to break it up over two days
because of stomach bugs).
I found probably the best deal in Fez for a leather jacket, but prefer
what I've found in Marrakech, surprisingly. I love that about Morocco,
that people will sometimes even potentially lose a sale to help
someone find what they want. J and I headed to the famous large
tanneries in the morning, because things close early on Fridays. We
made it to one place (there is no way to see the tanneries without
walking through a leather shop to a terrace with a view from above of
the working tanneries), fought the "hard sale" by insisting at the
shop with the view of the tanneries that we only wanted to look and
not mint to smell or a tour (the tanneries do not smell as bad as
tourbooks imply!), and went up to look at the colored dyes and ancient
labyrinth of pits. I tried, using baby-talk Darija, to get the
salesmen at the shop to tell me whether or not I could have a jacket
made instead of one right off the shelf.
After realizing the search was futile, the amused salesman took me to
talk to first a Berber speaker to laugh at my talking to him, then to
a man who I later found out was the owner of the shop. He said he knew
Peace Corps, he flirted shamelessly in Arabic to the point that I was
embarrassed, then we left.
As J and I left the shop, he passed us, then in English with an almost
flawless American accent said, "well, I'm American too… I lived in New
Jersey for years…" We got rid of him, but a few blocks later in the
serpentine labyrinth of the Fez souks, I turned around and asked him
if he knew where I could have one made.
He took me through winding alleyways to a shop with women sitting over
sewing machines, telling me that I could get them for wholesale price
here. The more I saw, the more I didn't like, but I got his number and
told him I'd think about it and come back next time I was in Fez.
I love that: the owner of a leather shop taking me somewhere where I
could buy a jacket wholesale. I'm sure he'd get a cut, but still. God,
I love Morocco. (That being said, it's worth 300Dh more for me to get
what I want, if I'm going to spend the money).
I also made connections with an association in Fez that I'd work with
if I didn't live 13 hours away (and if I spoke Arabic), had a shop
owner remember me from when I was there with S from home back last
June, made a few purchases that were unplanned, and enjoyed a
different style of Moroccan escargot: still better than French!
Even when I had to stop and spend the night alone on the way home, I
met a new volunteer who was a lot of fun, and we cooked dinner at his
house. Nothing was ideal, travel-wise on this trip, but it always
ended up working out.
Now, my schedule is packed. And I love it!
Today, I finally broke into the school in my site. I don't want to get
into the details of how much of a frustration it was not to be able to
teach health lessons to my kids in my own site at the school, nor do I
want to get into how annoying it was that a certain teacher at the
school insisted I give the kids all toothbrushes (since a nearby
volunteer did) even though he had been the one blocking me doing
lessons for the last year and a half in the first place (I said I'd
try; he said don't try, DO it. I didn't scream. That took control. I
also didn't tell him that if he had let me do this in the first place,
maybe I could have enough time to find toothbrush donations for all
the students. Oh, no. I was good.).
Some of the teachers were amazing. Some were less than amazing. In
several classrooms, I cut the lessons short because of a latent
hostility that was emanating from where the teacher stood in the back,
arms crossed, glaring at me. The most shocking was a man I had never
seen before in my two years here: he had a beard, but I couldn't tell
you anything else about him, truth be told, because he was always
looking down around me.
I knew that he knew I was coming: I had seen the mudir (principal)
walk into his classroom and tell him. So I stepped up to the open
door. He didn't acknowledge my presence. I knocked. He, without
looking at me, walked to the back of the room, sat down at an empty
desk, and started writing.
The students all looked at me expectantly, so I stepped in and said
"salaam u aleikum." And, since the teacher made no move to walk to the
front of the class or stop me, I did my lesson. He never looked up
from what he was writing. Once, head still down, apparently reading
something, he elucidated on something I said in Arabic. When I was
done, I said goodbye, thanked the teacher and walked out the door.
Only then did I get a "lla y-awn"- a way to say goodbye, literally
"May God help you."
It confused me. I wasn't hurt or angry, but I wondered what I had done
to offend the man so gravely that he wouldn't even look at me. I
recharged during lunch break at my friend's house and asked her twin
daughters about him.
"Oh, he's asunni."
Apparently, his way of practicing Islam means that he doesn't look at,
touch, or talk to any woman except his wife. I told my friend I
thought maybe he didn't like me, or maybe he didn't like foreigners.
"He doesn't like women," was her response. I don't know if I interpret
it in that way, but the way she and a neighbor talked about it, it was
offensive to them. It's strange to me that it hurts my heart and soul
and dignity with practices like men eating before women, or men having
somewhere nicer to pray than women, but I almost felt like his
averting of his eyes and speaking only when necessary was a sign of
respect.
The afternoon was mainly younger students and friendlier teachers, and
I had a lot more fun with them. One teacher even called me back an
hour after finishing the lesson in his classroom and had me answer a
question that came up after I had left. The teacher of the class of
middle school-level students invited me to come back on Friday to talk
about nutrition (!), and some of the other teachers seemed open to me
coming back another time. So, despite a few challenges, all in all I
was happy with how it went (and my stamina to teach in 10 classrooms
in one day! I had planned to split up 12 classes over 3 days to keep
up my energy…).
I don't want to get into all the headaches to get me into the
schools, but the fact that today worked out so well was really thanks
to my nurse and doctor at the clinic who went to bat for me and
essentially manipulated me in. I didn't know my nurse was planning it
until this morning (he was "stupefied" with how much trouble I was
having), and when he told me his plan, I told him he was cheating.
"Yes," he said, "but I don't benefit from the cheating, and you don't
benefit from the cheating. The students are the ones who benefit, so
that's worth it." And it was handled in such an appropriate way that
really, it was all-around a positive day.
Tomorrow, enshallah, I'll teach a group of women in town about
pregnancy care. The next day, enshallah, I'll try to go to the
middle-school aged group and talk to them about nutrition, if it ends
up that it really works out. Saturday, I'll go to my souk town: I'm
"late" on two lessons at the Association des Amis des Handicappes
there, and I'll talk to two associations to see how the status is on
several projects. Next week I have a birthday party, at least one
lesson at an association in town; then I'm head trainer for a VSN
(Volunteer Support Network: peer counseling/active listening)
training… then only two weeks until I have to be back in Rabat for
medical exams, then spring camp a week after that if I'm assigned one
this year… then one month left of service…
Time flies. FLIES.
