Say, ‘Awww!’

This is pure cheesecake – week-old baby lambs at my host family’s home. They’re gangly and long-legged already, but surprisingly soft and cuddly.

And these, from recent bicycle rides outside of town. Can you believe these two gorgeous, varied landscapes are right next to each other? One taken from the west, one from the south.

Where in the world have I been?

Aside from my own guilt, I’ve actually gotten several complaints about my lack of posts. Sorry. I can only plead a combination of busy-ness and good books. It’s nice to know I have so many devoted readers.

So much has been going on. Where to start?

It’s been a busy month, much of it spent OOS – that’s Peace Corpsspeak for “out of site.” First a long weekend in Ourzazete, a half-day’s bus ride away, for a teacher training activity with most Youth Development volunteers in the southern half of the country. Unfortunately, I didn’t get much out of the training; I spent most of it hacking my lungs out and shivering under four heavy blankets. Bronchitis the over-the-phone diagnosis; whether the antibiotics were superfluous or not, I was so desperate for relief that I took them; recovery took awhile, but I’m fine now.

From “Oz,” my lovely new friend and kind-of neighbor Anny made our way up north to Rabat for my first meeting of PC Morocco’s Gender and Development Committee; I won my first-ever election during training. Traveling that far means an overnight each way in Marrakech, which I never complain about. Falafel, gelato and an awesome vegetarian café Anny turned me on to … it would be right at home in the hippest American community.

The GAD committee meeting was hugely inspiring; I’m full of ideas for GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) empowerment activities for my dar chebab and for spring and summer camps. The committee is full of cool, good-hearted and well-informed PCVs. And we had a good time in Rabat, the capital. A hotel with a shower/bathroom in the room! (This is huge; on a PCV’s salary, you’re usually relegated to a hostel-like place with communal bathrooms in the hall.) Wonderful food … a hip café with spring rolls and wealthy young Moroccan students; a German restaurant with pizza and actual wine where I got a chance to reconnect with Jenny, the previous and wonderful volunteer in my site; the hangout fondly known as Toast, which is actually a pizzeria but is famous among PCVs for a breakfast that features actual American-style toast rather than the ubiquitous local round, flat bread. We even went to a Super Bowl party at the Marine House. Yes, there are Marines in Morocco. Six of them. The party was mostly older expats with children, Fulbright scholars, and Peace Corps volunteers. Most of us left before the game started at 11 p.m. our time (missed Springsteen’s crotch lunge, but did see some Asian guy failing miserably at his Steve Perry impersonation).

Back home for just a few days, then a long weekend in Taroudant for a training session on SIDA (the French/international acronym for AIDS) with community leaders from around the region. Matt, my fellow PCV next door in Taroudant, put together a great program, with help from a local SIDA support group. Most of it was in Arabic, so I had trouble following it, but a few of the participants, and some more experienced PCVs, were able to translate. I was most impressed by how openly our mixed-gender group communicated about issues often considered unbroachable here. There were some mixed messages and stereotypes, along with some outright incorrect information, but it’s a hugely promising step forward to see young people open to talking about SIDA. Now to bring the information back to our villages.

The fun doesn’t stop there. This weekend is an overnight “camp” in Agadir for young adult women, organized by Ian, my neighbor to the west. We’ll be doing some leadership/teamwork training, Ian’s lined up speakers on SIDA and moudawana, the family law code that recently has given more rights to Moroccan women but has not been well publicized, and we’ll work on organizing some events throughout the region for International Women’s Day on March 8. I’m bringing three young women from my village; it’s not easy to convince women or their families to spend a night away from home, so I’m proud of them for even agreeing to go.

Whew. After all this activity, I’ll be glad to just spend some time hanging out with the kids at the dar chebab.

I have made fire. Also, food.

Back home in the village, I have officially moved into my own apartment. Good points and bad. It’s much quieter … except for the constant street noise (my balcony overlooks the highway that bisects the town). I can live on my own schedule … but I’m often lonely.

And, of course, I now must fend for myself in terms of hunting and gathering and preparing food. Those who know me know I’m no cook. A lifelong combination of intimidation and outright laziness; I’d rather be reading.

But I am conquering both bad habits, a little at a time. Many thanks to Matt for giving me a proper lesson in using the butagas – that’s the giant gas tank attached by a tube to my burners and oven. I’ve been more than a little leery of it, but it’s actually easy to use – also easy to check regularly for leaks. Even so, I do plan to install my PC-issue carbon monoxide detector. Because I don’t want to be Dr. Hamid’s next hilarious story for future trainees.

Currently I’m specializing in scrambled eggs, constantly varying the add-ins. Avocadoes have just come into season, and they were good with tomatoes, cilantro and a little “red ball” cheese (the only “hard” cheese available here, kind of like a milder Gouda). Also a lot of roasted (kind of; the oven’s a little shwiya) zucchini, which I love love love. Fruit salads – strawberries are starting to show up, and of course oranges; banana sprinkled with cinnamon is especially yummy.

Today for lunch I made a salad of shredded carrot and turnip, with diced red pepper, chopped cilantro, golden raisins and cinnamon. It wasn’t quite right … I’m too novice to know whether something was missing (and, if so, what), or something was too much, or what. Advice welcome.
I will, I promise, continue to conquer fears and move on to such things as lentils and rice soon. Again, advice – and recipes! – most welcome.

One thing I like is that by default I am eating almost completely locally, and almost completely fresh, unpackaged, real food. There’s a supermarche downstairs for staples and bread; the mul lxdra (vegetable guy) is just a few doors down; if I ate meat, the butcher and the chicken guy would slice up exactly what I wanted.

The big weekly souq is where farmers from surrounding villages converge on Saturdays to sell everything from freshly harvested veggies to home-ground spices to wool blankets to car parts. It’s like the farmers’ market with a little Wal-Mart sidewalk sale thrown in. I’m still a bit intimidated; I get more stares here than anywhere else; for many people from the bled (the surrounding rural area), I’m the only white person they’ve ever seen close up. And my host family is always warning me I’ll get robbed – either by having my change purse hanging in front of me (instead of tucked underneath the huge fabric sack I should be wrapping myself in) or by being charged an entire dirham for a quarter-dirham’s worth of greens.

No driving to the supermarket, no overzealous packaging to throw away (though everyone seems flummoxed by my constant refusal of mika, or plastic bags; I still bring my own!) One way or another, everything I need is steps away; and if it’s not available, then I didn’t really need it. When it’s in season, it’s here; when it’s not, a substitute will have to do.

Quote of the day:

“Wherever you put your foot, there is the path. You become the path.” – Derrick Jensen

Pitch of the day: I have Skype now, so you can call me for free! Email me for my contact info. And if you don’t know about Skype yet, it’s super easy to download and use on your computer. Computer-to-computer calls are completely free. Try it – I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks to: My awesome Auntie Leslie, and the Bentleys, parents of the awesome previous volunteer, for sending books and games for my dar chebab kids. Thank you so much!

Listening to: Awesome new mix from the lovely Miz N in the Big O!

Currently reading: “Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women” by Geraldine Brooks (I've read it before, and much of it's dated in this post-9/11 world, but Brooks does cover the gamut of ways in which women are oppressed, or rise above that oppression. Certainly feel fortunate to be in Morocco rather than in some countries.)

Recently read: “The Wordy Shipmates” by Sarah Vowell (surprisingly funny/readable account of the Puritans’ arrival in America)


More photos:

Shopping at the tannery in Taroudant:

More photos of my new apartment:

Be careful what you wish for.

Did I really say things were moving slowly around here?

That was before this week’s school vacation. Suddenly the dar chebab has been overrun by drari sgar – little kids. (except, of course, on the one day I brought my camera.) My job title has apparently changed from English Teacher to Babysitter. On any given day, I’m playing host to at least 20 children between the ages of 4 and 10. Games have been broken, tables have been drawn on, fights have broken out, and Teacher needs a cocktail.

They’re all positively adorable, and desperately in need of attention and activities. But I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed. I ask if they want to learn English; they enthusiastically do. That lasts about 10 minutes, so we’ve had the same “Hello”-based class every day this week. Hard to teach, too, when they keep running in and out, pulling games off the shelves, pulling on Teacher’s sweater so she’ll bend down for a kiss.

So we try some outdoor games, which generally devolve into shouting, or tears, or cartwheels, or nose-picking contests. You think I’m kidding. I’m not.

There’s no word for “babysitter” in Darija – the concept doesn’t exist when there’s always a (female) family member around to care for the children – but I managed to tell my mudhir that I’m a teacher, not a mom. He laughed.

I’m not cut out for running a preschool. I hope things soon get back to “normal,” whatever that might be.

First, though, I hit the road for a week and a half. Teacher training with some of my stajmates next week in Ourzazete, then on to Rabat for my first Gender and Development Committee meeting.

And, when I return, I’ll likely have to recruit students all over again. A week and a half is long enough to forget a routine, 'round these parts.

But when class is in session …

My lessons with the bac students (baccalaureate students are in the final two years of high school) are my favorite so far. They don’t want to go over the finer points of grammar; they simply want to practice conversation. They don’t get a chance to use the English they learn in school, so their pronunciation is stilted (and highly affected by their knowledge of French).

And they enjoy discussing fairly sophisticated topics … in English. This week’s lesson, at the request of one of my male students, was about the moudawana, or Morocco’s new family law that gives women far more equal rights in marriage. That gave us plenty to talk about! We’re also learning a few new idioms each week … when you think about it, English conversation is all about the idioms. Which, when you think about it from a non-native-speaker’s standpoint, don’t make a lick of sense.

Plus, not only can the bac students understand and translate my English, they also seem to play really well with the younger students – far better than I do. Last Saturday during our weekly game day, as I was playing Monopoly with the middle-school boys, I spotted a couple of the older boys gently singing and playing with two little girls who couldn’t have been more than 5. Add together those translation skills and ability to work with kids and – presto! – I just may have some counterparts to organize some new activities with the kids.

Then there’s Brahim, by far my most dedicated student. He’s 14 and comes to class every single day, whether the lesson is for beginners or bac students. He’s not yet old enough for formal English classes in school, yet he’s taught himself a great deal already. On his own, too – no older brother or sister to teach him their lessons.

Oh, how I wish I were young enough to absorb language the way Brahim does. If we learn colors one day, he’s back the next day to tell me what color everything is. If we learn time phrases (yesterday, today, etc)… he can’t wait to shout out “See you tomorrow!” as he scrambles onto his bike to get home before dark. He understands simple present tense and wants to know the English equivalent of every verb he can think of.

And he retains … I don’t need to teach him vocabulary more than once. He almost never writes it down, but he’s got it all filed in his head. He’s going to be fluent by the time I leave, I can feel it. And if he’s that smart and driven in English, he has the potential to do anything he wants to do.

Now to save him from the all-too-common trajectory of smart, driven, educated young Moroccans who manage to earn their university degrees … only to end up making change in a small local hanut (shop) because that’s the only job available.

Life lessons.

But the learning doesn’t stop there. Oh, no!

I couldn’t possibly be prouder of my host family than I am this week.

Kabira and Khadija have their share of sisterly knock-down, drag-outs. But last week’s took the cake. (Hmm, another idiom.) Later, I found out it was because Kabira wanted Khadija to show her how to use the Internet. She’s very frustrated because she doesn’t understand how to go online and has to rely on Khadija’s availability and willingness to help her with Skype or MSN so she can talk with their other sister, Aziza, in Germany.

Later, Kabira and I had a talk about how getting so upset only hurts her. She can really work herself up. (Who better to understand her than me, eh?) We talked about how it’s entirely OK to be angry or upset, to cry, to voice your disappointment … but that there have to be better ways to solve our problems than to break down so completely. I’m not sure how we had such a sophisticated conversation, but we really did; she understood where I was going with it.

A few nights later I came into the patisserie to find Khadija in Kabira’s place behind the counter. Where’s your sister, I asked.

Turns out Kabira had signed herself up for a month’s worth of Internet lessons at the cyber. Is that not beautiful? Especially when you consider that Kabira works seven days a week, at least 12 hours a day, and really had to do some negotiating to fit it into her schedule. I’m so proud to see her doing something good for herself.

Not to be outdone, their mother is on a new learning journey of her own. Rakya has often bemoaned the fact that she can’t read or write Arabic. She can’t read the news or use the Internet, or even read text messages or run the satellite television. I’ve often said she could take classes, maybe at the nedi neswi (women’s center). She’s always brushed me off.

A few afternoons after Kabira had started her Internet classes, I came home to find Rakya busily copying script into a notebook. She’d walked herself over to the nedi and had just finished her first Arabic class. Rakya’s not unusual; so many women her (my) age and older never had an education and are illiterate in their own language.

As, come to think of it, am I – in Arabic, I’m illiterate. Hard to swallow for someone who’s spent her life submerged in words. Rakya, you’re showing me up!

Idioms of the Week:

Piece of cake.

You crack me up.

Hang on.

Quotes of the Day:

“The present moment is all you ever have.” – Eckhart Tolle

“It is when the ice and snow are on them that we see the strength of the cypress and the pine. I am grateful for this trouble around me, because it gives me an opportunity to realize how fortunate I am.” – Chuang-tse

“Trying is the first step toward failure.” — Anonymous (ok, just kidding … kind of … )

“We think we know what we want – until we get it.” – the Divine Miz K

Shoutouts.

More care packages this week! You all are just entirely too kind. Thanks to My Favorite Subversive Used Bookstore Maven, and to my favorite high school journalism teacher. My kids thank you as well.

More photos.

My host "mom," with the family's house in the background.

Entertainment center at the host family's house.

Bab (door) into Taroudant medina.

Shopping in Taroudant.

DIY: An Inauguration Day Playlist.

Wake Up / Arcade Fire
Brand New Day / Van Morrison
Good Morning Boyfriend / Tulip Sweet and Her Trail of Tears
My Favorite Mutiny / The Coup
The Laws Have Changed / New Pornographers
I’m Waiting for the Man / Velvet Underground
You’re the One / Vulgar Boatmen
He’s Misstra know It All / Stevie Wonder
Ready for the Good Times/ Shakira
Everybody’s Everything / Santana
I’m Diggin’ You (Like An Old Soul Record) / Me’Shell Ndegeocello
Killing Me Softly With His Song / the Fugees
You Really Got a Hold On Me / Thao Nguyen OR She&Him
King of the Mountain / Kate Bush
We Want Peace / Lenny Kravitz
Feelin’ Free / Michael Franti
Love & Peace Or Else / U2
Let Me Dream / Ozomatli
Keep Your Eyes Open / Helio Sequence
The New World / X
It’s In Our Hands / Bjork
Waiting to Derail / Whiskeytown
Happy Endings / All American Rejects

Can you imagine how proud the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., who would/should be 80 years old today, must be? Although should it really have taken us another 40 years?...


That’s what he said.

Darija has no infinitive form; all conjugations are based on the male singular past tense.

In other words, everything in Morocco is based on what he said.

Yup. That pretty much sums it all up.


Now this was a game of Monopoly.



Check out those hotels. Ayoub knows how to deal. No one wants to play with him anymore.


Favorite things about Morocco, No. 132-136.

132. The Moroccan handshake: After (barely) clasping hands, each greeter presses that hand to his/her heart. Such a lovely gesture.

133. The tobis (autobus): My transportation from Sbt Guerdane to Taroudant every weekend. It’s called the S.T.U.D. bus. It’s yet to live up to its name.


134. Mussissell: The Arabic (usually Turkish) equivalent of the telenovela. Highly addictive even if you can’t comprehend the language (standard Arabic is far different from the Moroccan dialect, and I have enough trouble understanding that). My favorite: “The Tears of a Rose.”

135. Ns-ns: Half instant coffee, half whole milk, half sugar, all good. Ask for “kbir,” or large, and you might get more than a thimbleful’s worth.

136: These (below): Are they not hideous? They’re also fabulously warm and comfy, and typical modern Moroccan bling. I never want to take them off.



Rule No. 1 for living in Morocco:
Never, ever, go anywhere without a stash of toilet paper.

Ever.

Ever.

An unnamed friend tells a great story about a pit stop during a long bus ride, during which she had to choose between a stray sock and a sheet of notebook paper. She went with the notebook, of course … and had the weeklong papercut to prove it.


Rule No. 2 for living in Morocco:

Also never go anywhere without a book. No matter how well you think events are about to play out, there will be a wait.


A (fairly typical) English quote on a Moroccan T-shirt*.
(*This one belonging to my host sister)

Are you ready for this?
Instinct of love
Go around
My soul side
Does it work
For you
-- Rainy


Quote of the Day.

“When inspiration calls, you don’t send it to voicemail.”
– Will.I.Am (courtesy Miz Meleeska)

Taking it slow.

Typical Sunday afternoon at my favorite café in Taroudant.

Here’s something you won’t see me doing anymore: Wasting away my afternoon in a dark, shabby cybercafe with a sloowwww Internet connection.

Photo by fellow PCV Tom

Instead, you can finding me wasting away my afternoon in the comfort of my own, sunny little apartment with a slooowwww Internet connection of my very own!

I’ve just plunked down a good portion of my settling-in allowance for a wireless Internet modem. It connects via a USB port, so I can use it anywhere. 200 dirhams (about $24 by today’s pretty good exchange rate) buys me a month of service.

The connection is slow, no doubt about it, though not nearly as slow as my parents’ dial-up; I can read a magazine rather than a book while waiting for a page to load. And it was a bit clunky to set up: Macs are unheard of here, and the modem wouldn’t work with my laptop. So I had to buy and install Windows (5 dirhams, so you can imagine how legit it is), and then buy virtual machine software online in order to run Windows on the Mac. My puny hard drive is getting a heavy workout.

But I now can listen to NPR all day, thanks to the beauty of streaming audio. I can work on lesson plans while sprawled in my jammies under several layers of wool blanket. I can catch up on all of my favorite podcasts. I can obsess over all of your Facebook postings late into the night. The obsession should abate soon, and it will merely be a welcome convenience. For now, though, I admit to overdosing a bit. But I can quit anytime I want.

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Things have been slow here lately, and it’s not just the Internet connection. I had a few good weeks of productive classes at the dar chebab. Then, last week, nothing – no one showed up for a single class until a handful of baccalaureate-level students on Friday evening. It’s not just a lack of interest in English; my boys aren’t even showing up to play pingpong or board games.

Part of it’s the situation in Gaza; school was canceled for a few days so students could attend rallies. Part of it’s the fact of midterm exams, which keep students at home cramming. I’m told I can expect things to be dead this week as well … and next week, too, as the kids then have a week off from school.

As those who know me can imagine, it’s hard for me to adjust to a slower pace of life. The Internet, the lack of what feels like “real” work. Even the literal pace; I’m sure I’m seen as some type of bull in a china shop for the way I stride across the hard-packed desert earth that serves as my sidewalk. The walk from the city “center” to my host family’s home takes me about five minutes on my own; with my host sisters, it’s easily a 20-minute endeavor. My feet just plain refuse to move that slowly, and I often find myself half a block ahead without even realizing it.

Then there’s the pace at which things get done here. Trying to finalize my apartment rental has turned into a two-month endeavor. Things started out great; the previous volunteer helped me reach a deal with the muldar (landlord) before she left; Peace Corps did a security check and gave me the go-ahead right away. Then the muldar went to Hajj (the annual pilgrimage to Mecca). He finally returned two weeks ago, set the price 100 dirhams more than we’d agreed on (and 100 dirhams over the limit set by Peace Corps) and wouldn’t budge. Daily attempts to get Peace Corps to agree to the higher price finally paid off; now the trick is to track the muldar down again. There’s no office to visit, no phone number to call; one just waits until one meets her muldar in the street so that she can use sign language and pidgin Darija to broker the new deal.

One place I can manage to slow down is in the neighboring city of Taroudant. I’ve made a habit of spending my Sunday afternoons there, simply to get out of town. I get fewer stares and catcalls there, as tourists are more common. I can go to a café without worrying about being taken for a prostitute. There is one café in particular that I’ve made mine, with a quiet balcony lined in sunshine, geraniums and trailing vines; it’s a perfect place to spend the afternoon reading a good book, journaling like crazy and listening to either my iPod or the cacophony of indecipherable conversations that surround me.

Plus, it’s a cheap trip – the autobus (it’s the S.T.U.D. bus, and that makes me smile every time I look at my ticket stub) is 4 dirhams each way; a cup of ns-ns (half coffee, half milk) is 5 dirhams; and the people-watching is free.

I’m trying to take all of this for the lesson I so obviously need to learn. Things get done whether you act frantically or take life as it comes.

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Despite the slowness, I can still measure progress, even in small doses. One of my favorite students is an elegant young woman named Soumaia, who’ll be graduating in June and is eager to do well on her bac exam so she can get into university. She’s good in English and understands me quite well, and I so I finally dared last week to ask her if she’d be willing to help me form a girls’ club. I was so sure she’d be too old for such things; instead, her eyes lit up with excitement. It’ll be a good opportunity for her to gain some leadership skills; and no way could I describe possible activities, much less launch them, without a Soumaia to act as go-between.

Of course, now I haven’t seen any of my other young ladies at the dar chebab in a couple of weeks. But it’ll happen; things will pick up when school is back in session in a couple of weeks. Inshallah.

In other progress, a neighboring second-year volunteer is putting together a weekend GLOW camp next month in Agadir and asked me to help out. GLOW, or Girls Leading Our World, is a common theme throughout Peace Corps; the point is to increase girls’ self-esteem and confidence while giving them practical skills for improving their lives. This camp, for older students and young adult women, will encourage participants to create events in their own communities on International Women’s Day on March 8. We’ll also have a discussion on SIDA (the international acronym for AIDS) and on mudawana, Morocco’s new family laws that have given women far greater inroads toward equality.

I’m excited to have a chance to see how such an event is put together without having to do all the work, from scratch, myself. Next up: Recruiting a few young women from my village to attend. It’s going to be an uphill struggle; girls (and their families) are not used to spending even a single night away from home, so I’ll have to focus on what a great opportunity this is, how there will be a large group of girls, no boys, with supervision, and with programs by educated Moroccan women.

(Plus it was a chance to finally see the beach at Agadir, a town rebuilt on tourism after it was decimated by the deadly 1960 earthquake. The beach is gorgeous, though full of European tourists even on a chilly January weekday. Sprawling white sand and tapered palms, backed by a long row of enticing eateries … and then a McDonald’s. Sigh.)

With fellow PCV Faye on the Agadir beachfront.

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Gaza. I wanted to say something about Gaza. As Peace Corps volunteers, we are strongly urged to stay away from political conversations and especially from protests or rallies. How did I manage to get myself into yet another career where I can’t speak my mind freely? But I abide.
This being a private, anonymous blog, and me being a U.S. citizen with all the freedoms that entails, and the disclaimer to the left absolving PC and the government of any responsibility for my private views, I feel as if I ought to be able to say something about the atrocity.
And suddenly I find I have no adequate words.

Madre, one of my favorite human-/women’s-rights organizations, has a plethora of resources and background on the crisis – and is doing its best to get emergency supplies past the blockade. Click on the link and do what you can to help.

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I feel guilty complaining, down here in the sunny south, but damn! It’s been cold lately. How cold? I don’t know. Nothing to compare with the mountains up north, where they’ve been hit with several snowstorms. And nothing to compare with back home, which has been hit with an extended cold snap as well.

But then compare how you get to go inside, remove your snow-covered boots and cap, and warm up by benefit of central heating. Meanwhile, I’m sleeping (under four double-folded wool blankets) in the same clothes I wore that day … and sometimes wearing them again the next. Too cold to change! Yes, the sun warms things up a bit during the day … if you’re outside. But these concrete walls and high windows do an excellent job of keeping the cold in, and that’s true in winter as well as summer.

Multiple warnings aside, cold is one thing I did not expect to deal with in Africa.

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Just wanted to send out another shout of thanks for all of you who sent holiday care packages. They may have arrived late, but they did arrive, and every single item was so appreciated! From the books to the CDs to the Ziploc bags to the lipgloss to the peanut butter and every single thing in between. The photos and gifts from the niece and nephews especially made my day. Thank you, thank you! You don’t know what it means, on a lonely, homesick, confusing day, to find a package waiting for you from home.

Much love to everyone!

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Currently reading: “If on a winter’s night a traveler,” Italo Calvino

Just finished: “A Language Older Than Words,” Derrick Jensen (PLEASE find and read this amazing book!); “Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit,” Daniel Quinn (don't bother)

Song of the Day: “You Speak My Language,” Morphine

Quote of the Day: “Some people never learn anything because they understand everything too quickly.” – Alexander Pope

Tsenna sa’3da!

Or bonne annee, or Happy New Year … however you say it, I hope 2009 brings good things to you.

This was possibly the quietest New Year’s Eve I’ve passed in quite a long time. Well, maybe not the quietest: After the couscous, after the milfait, we made our own holiday soundtrack accompanied by all manner of table-pounding, hand-clapping, spoon-banging percussion, Shakira shaking her hshuma booty on TV in the background. Still, I was in bed by 10 a.m., in order to make a 6 a.m. New Year’s Day hammam call with Khadija.

Last weekend, I spent some time celebrating the holidays with a few nearby volunteers, up in the mountains north of Taroudant. A village of green terraced farms set against craggy mountains, with palm trees below, all draped in a drizzly fog.

Welcome rain kept us huddled cozily indoors celebrating Christmas much as we might’ve back home: exchanging gifts, eating way too many sweets, playing Pictionary and Monopoly, and overdosing on English-language television shows. Dinner was fried chicken (well, not for me), mashed potatoes and the fattest, sweetest green peas you can imagine, having just come into season here.

Joy to the world!
(a pun that only works if you know that’s the appropriately named Joy in front)

Good company, new friends, and every ending a new beginning.


Success story No. 1:

As I was describing the events of our little holiday gathering to my host sisters, Kabira looked at Khadija and exclaimed, proud as any new mama: “She’s speaking Darija!” As in, “she’s really speaking.” Yup, full sentences with multiple tenses, a sprinkling of adjectives and all.

Progress duly noted. I still don’t understand quite a lot of what I hear … but I’m beginning to pick out enough words here and there to follow many a conversation. I still feel awkward, but not nearly as self-conscious as I did a month ago. Beginning to see the possibility that I might actually catch on, given a few more months.


Success story No. 2:

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve finally achieved Goal No. 1: I HAVE GIRLS IN MY YOUTH CENTER! Despite being told all around that it is acceptable for girls in my village to visit the dar chebab (that’s not true everywhere; some conservative communities frown on boys and girls mixing in the same space), I had yet to encounter one. Felt like a birdwatcher ever eluded by the gray-breasted whippersnapper.

I chatted up every girl I passed in the street, encouraging her to come to class and to bring her friends. They’d nod agreeably. I told my regulars (all boys) to bring their sisters. They’d nod agreeably. I asked everyone I met, do you know any girls who would like to come meet me at the dar chebab? They’d nod agreeably.

Still … walu. Nothing.

Then one day, three girls wheeled their bicycles up to the front gate a good half-hour before class was to start. Brushing aside their veils of timidity, in no time they were fully participating in class, shouting out the answers, jostling each other and giggling. They came back that Saturday for Youth Café, our weekly afternoon of board games, music and chitchat. They’ve been diligently attending class every week, and have even brought a few new friends. Here’s hoping they’re local trend-setters.

My girls.

My English classes in general got off to a slow start, but I think we’re hitting stride. Some days I have 10 students; some days I have one; some days I have none. Some days my so-called “intermediate” class consists of students who haven’t taken a single English class before. It’s all good; someone always comes away learning something … not least of all me.


Success story No. 3:

Speaking of classes, here’s a most unexpected surprise: I find I actually kind of like teaching – the activity I most dreaded about my Peace Corps assignment. It’s a lot like my former career as an editor/page designer: I’m just moving the puzzle pieces around until they fit together for my audience. Nothing feels better than watching a pair of tightly scrunched eyebrows unfurl into virtual grins of recognition.

Despite coming from a family full of teachers, the thought of standing up in front of a crowd of people – even children! – has always filled me with anxiety. It had a lot to do with why I chose journalism instead; I preferred to work behind the scenes.

And, as you may know, I had grave concerns about whether teaching English is the best way to “develop” the youths of Morocco. They’re usually fluent in French as well as at least two local languages. Wouldn’t our efforts be better spent helping teens complete their educations, or develop useful career skills, or find adequate employment?

But how to get those better opportunities? My own students tell me they actually want to learn English – that it will give them a leg up when they apply to university, when they look for a job in this tourist-oriented country or beyond. And I can feel their enthusiasm in class, even when discussing the most mundane points of Present Perfect Simple.

Besides, teaching several English classes a week is a good way to integrate into my village, get to know the kids, when I can’t yet speak the local language freely and fluently. All of my fabulous ideas for community education, girls’ empowerment, women’s issues – all of those ideas are in English and stubbornly resist translation. But, through my classes and spending time at the dar chebab, I really am starting to build relationships.

Now, if I can just keep working on that patience thing, I can see real possibilities ahead.


More photos:

Mountainside village.

December geraniums.

After the fog lifted.

PS: Now I realize why I never got any comments on my last blog: It never got posted! Smuh liya!

Upward spiral. -

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You all know how I love spirals – I’ve always seen them as symbols of the ever-changing but ever-present cycle of nature, of life. It wasn’t until after I got my tattoos that I learned such a set of three spirals, arranged triangularly, is an ancient Celtic symbol of nature – earth, water, fire.

Now I come to Morocco and find that the spiral is also an ancient Berber symbol of infinity. It’s everywhere – from carvings to pottery to wall tiles to jewelry, like this pendant I picked up in Marrakesh, my first piece of Moroccan jewelry:

Some people think a spiral is a ridiculous infinity symbol, because it does in fact have a beginning and an end. I’m OK with that. Everything does end – change is the only constant in life. But then things begin again, slightly altered.

“You are Welcome here.”

It’s funny how aghast some people here are that I don’t speak Tashelheit, the regional Berber dialect. That I’m new to this country, that I’m here as a volunteer, that I’m trying to learn the language spoken by the vast majority of Moroccans – these mean nothing to them. Why would I come here if I don’t learn the language? (This after I’ve been in the village for all of four weeks.)

Sound familiar to those of you back in the States?

Of course, the vast majority are so pleased, proud even, when they here the slightest trickle of pidgin Darija dribble out of my mouth. At the post office, in a taxi, at the corner store, I’m constantly congratulated … and when I demur as to my lack of skills, it’s they who encourage me: “Shwyia b shwyia, shwiya b shwiya.”

And while I feel keenly the stares of disbelief when I walk down the street (not to mention the calls of “Hey, foreigner” and various French phrases), often mixed with a healthy dose of suspicion, I do my best to look people in the eye, smile, and say, “Good morning, are you well?” Those unblinking stares generally turn into surprised smiles and handshakes and the usual 12-minute exchange of greetings.

Even better is when a stranger takes it upon her/himself to greet me first. The ancient man with the toothless grin, bumping along on his donkey cart. The heavily wrapped Berber woman walking the long road to the weekly suq market, rattling off a string of Tashelheit I can’t possible unravel. Especially the children, running up to kiss me hello (instead of throwing rocks, the alternative means of capturing my attention). Such small gestures can make all the difference between a good day and a bad one in my mind, between feeling welcome here and … not.

So if you see a possible newcomer in your own little village today, smile and say hello. It takes so little, but it can change that person’s entire outlook on the day and on the town you share.

L3id update.

First off, I now understand why the sheep was pumped full of air on the L3id Kbir holiday. You maybe don’t want to know … if you’re squeamish, just skip to the next paragraph. If you’re curious … it’s to blow all the s**t out of the bowel and intestines. So’s they can be eaten, y’know. Remember: 99.9% pure from bacteria!

However squeamish I may be about all this, I also have a great deal of respect for those so in tune with their food sources. The procedure is little different than what happens to that Christmas roast (or ham, or goose) you might be enjoying today. Perhaps we are the odd ones, feeling the need to distance ourselves, pretend that meat is just another shrink-wrapped, value-added “product” that comes straight from the supermarket.

As my brilliant 9-year-old niece told her mother on viewing pictures from my previous post, “Well, Mom, but if they do this every year, they’re probably used to it and it’s something for them to look forward to.”

The days after L3id entail an odd tradition in several Moroccan communities, and I was fortunate to get a glimpse. My host sister Khadija asked if I’d like to visit her family’s home in one of the many dyour that surround our village. A duoar is kind of a mini-village of Berbers who work in the surrounding orange groves. Little did I know our visit meant a 5- or 6-mile hike, through several dyour, a walk I enjoyed immensely but for which I would have shod myself far differently had I been apprised.

We stopped at one duoar and walked the dusty path toward the sound of chanting and beating drums. Women were gathered in every doorway. The closer we got to the center of the duoar, the louder the music got. A pack of children started running from around a corner.

Then, there they were, the main attraction: A young man dressed in a costume sewn of goat and sheep skins, with a posse of friends dressed in a variety of costumes, striding authoritatively through the town, weapons in hand. The aim is to stop at every house, and corral every running child, to demand dirhams. For those cheeky children who refuse, the punishment is to be whipped … with a bicycle innertube.

This -- the animal skin, the chasing of children, the innertube -- is the tradition regionwide. But here the festivities seemed more ceremonial than real. The kids seemed to enjoy the chase; I saw not a single use of the innertube; and this prosperous-looking foreigner, with a giggling-yet-scared-stiff Moroccan woman in full caftan regalia cleaning to her elbow for dear life, got no hassle when she calmly said “Makaynsh l’flus” – I have no money.

But my friend and kind-of neighbor Faye had a far more hands-on experience, and she does better justice to the tradition at her blog.

Khadija with girls from the family’s duoar.

Today is our own l3id kbir, or big holiday. Christmas. In a country that is 99 percent Muslim, Christmas isn’t even on the register here. No shop windows adorned in red and green, no fake snow in the desert, no annoying pop stars belting out Christmas “classics” on a half-hour loop. No crisp cold snap hovering at the zero-degree mark, as it has been back home. No going overboard on gifts and paying the bills into next summer.

Also no baking cookies with friends, then walking the neighborhood to look at the lights. No helping my niece and nephews draw Christmas cards; no spending the afternoon sprawled on my parents’ sofa after inhaling way, way too much food and so much love. No reminiscing about holidays past … the tree ornaments that used to fascinate us for hours, the ancient Christmas records that were the soundtrack to my childhood festivities.

Christmas eve dinner was a little tagine of cauliflower, tomato and potatoes, scooped up with bread. Plus a little dish of fried zucchini, which I know was placed there because the family has seen how much I love it. Woke this morning on my hard flat mat, three heavy blankets guarding against the morning chill, to the sounds of teenagers rushing to the school across the road rather than rushing to see what Santa left for them.

This weekend I’ll gather with some other Peace Corps volunteers in the area for just some of those traditions – too much food; maybe even a little too much wine; overdose on Christmas movies and music. It will feel like home, and not.

Happy holidays! (Unless you’re a sheep.)

My host sisters primping for the holiday.

(Warning: pictures below may affect my fellow vegetarians or other sensitive souls)

Tuesday was L3id el Kbir, the Great Feast. To atone for their sins, each family must sacrifice a sheep or a goat (or a chicken, if that’s all they can afford).

It’s one of Islam’s most important holidays, akin to Christmas in the States, so I tried my best to participate. The day started off lovely, sunny and tranquil, Kabira and I taking a short walk around town, the streets empty and quiet, all the stores closed, everyone home with their families.

Then the man came to kill the ram.

Kabira proudly holding the trophy.

I tried to watch, I really did. I even took pictures (though many of them were snapped with my eyes averted). I could only manage about a minute at a time. I kept coming back, trying to keep my stomach strong for the family’s sake, only to have to escape once again.

First they slit the neck, allowing for a fast (and presumably painless) death as well as for the blood to escape quickly, crucial for both religious and sanitary reasons. Then the head and legs were cut off; these were disposed of by fire.

The part that really surprised me was when they used a bicycle tire pump to inflate the animal. Better blood drainage?

Inflating the carcass with a bicycle tire pump.

The ram was skinned, then relieved of its various organs and bowels. Partly I found it nearly impossible to watch, but I was also surprised by how well I stomached (so to speak) what I did manage to stick around for.

What icked me out the most: Various platters and bowls of entrails being carted down from the rooftop barnyard and washed off in the kitchen and bathroom. We will be eating off these same dishes later, I have no doubt.

Ick factor No. 2: Rakiya happily poking at the ram’s head in the fire, squatting in the pool of blood, wearing my brand-new house slippers.

The animal’s torso is now resting, halfheartedly wrapped in plastic, on a bench in the bedroom. What may be the stomach is soaking in a basin on the chair next to me as I type this. Lunch was a tagine of heavy chunks of bone dripping with meat. (For me, it was bread and some of the best oranges I’ve tasted yet.)

Some of the luckier ones.

Afterward, Kabira dressed up in a gorgeous orange kaftan and took me on a long, exhilerating walk out of town, to visit a friend at her family farm. Of course this meant a little snack – coffee (Coffee! Haven’t had it in weeks), bread with olive and argan oils, dates, olives, nuts.

Home just in time for dinner – another meat tagine, this time of the hooves. But, just for me, Khadija made a delicious bean stew as well. My non-meat-eating ways perplex them, but they’re more than respectful. Although I count it as a step toward integrating into the family that the teenage boy at one point caught me looking at him and made little walking movements with his bones, a sly smile creeping across his face.

Zwina bzzf! (My host sisters are so lovely.)

All in all, a holiday just like we’re used to in America: A day spent with family, eating too much food, followed by too much food. Not sure I’ve ever eaten a holiday meal in the States with a zombie movie on TV as the background noise, but why not? I’m not a zombie, and I’m not a sheep. Two good reasons to celebrate.

Holiday text message from my language tutor:

“Don’t miss to eat a portion of meat it’s blessed u can’t find it in Am its 99%pure from bacterha.”

The base may be shaky, but it holds.

The kids at my dar chebab build a pretty impressive Jenga tower, no?

This pretty much sums up how I’m feeling lately. Hollow at the base, but somehow everything is holding together.

Actually, things are improving by the day. Yes, there are plenty of moments when I’m scared, when I wonder what the hell I’m doing here or whether I’ll ever be able to speak Arabic or make any kind of difference in these kids’ lives … but these moments pass, I find, and I can mark plenty of progress in just the past week.

I’ve started sessions with a tutor, a teacher at one of the town’s two colleges, or middle schools. Things started out rough. Even more so than in the U.S., Moroccan education is based on rote memorization. Comprehension is less important than simply repeating what the teacher says. I however, have tons of questions and want to steer our sessions in a different direction. We both felt pretty uncomfortable with each other’s styles at first. By the end of the first session, though, Latifa was promising to teach me how to make tagine … and then, upon discovering I don’t eat meat, pledging to convert me from such an unhealthy practice.

I can feel my language slowly coming along, too. One rung up from nothing isn’t much, but it’s still progress. Instead of comprehending walu (nothing) anyone says to me, I’m starting to pick up a few words per sentence (if the interlocutor is patient enough to repeat the sentence a few times beshwiiiyyyaaa, or slowwwwlllly). Enough to think I usually get the gist of things … which is probably going to get me into trouble sometime soon.

Feel guilty that I haven’t done much actual “work” yet at my dar chebab. Right now, afternoons are devoted to pingpong and board games and getting to know each other, though I do have some ideas for small activities/projects to propose. About 20 boys, most of them 14 to 16, pass through on any given day. They’re eager to talk about all the things any young boys anywhere talk about – sports, who can dance hiphop, who can pop his shoulder out of the socket. A few speak enough English that we can communicate. And they’re surprisingly solicitous around me, each making sure to shake my hand when he arrives, help me clean up when we leave, walk me home.

And yes – they’re all boys. Girls here don’t come to the dar chebab. Yet. The boys assure me they will come for English classes. But my next mission is to start up a girls club, devote at least one day a week to making a safe and comfortable space for girls, a place they’ll enjoy and where their parents will allow them to gather. From there, will figure out what to do next. Inshallah.

The boys have helped me set up a schedule of English classes, which I hope to post around town later this afternoon. We won’t get started until after L3id Kbir, the Big Feast – one of Islam’s biggest holidays. Every family slaughters a sheep or a goat, or at least a chicken, as a sacrifice, and then lives on every part of the animal until it’s gone. A weeklong celebration, I’m told, with blood from the slaughter literally running in the streets that first day, and the entire town smelling like barbecue – including one’s home, hair, clothes – for at least a week. This vegetarian is more than a little nervous.

Nervous, too, about starting those English classes. My biggest complaint about Peace Corps training is that we received practically no training on how to teach or develop a lesson plan. We learned about 1,000 “icebreaker” games to play with kids, and we each received a box of books that so far I haven’t found very helpful, and we had a one-day session with a linguistics expert who taught us a few more games. We also received a collection of lesson plans provided by current and previous volunteers, which only served to scare me about the “English” being taught in the name of Peace Corps. If the volunteer can’t distinguish between your/you’re or there/their on a lesson plan, should he or she really be teaching English?

So I have moments of feeling unprepared for the task. There are about a zillion resources online, but it’s hard to hone in and determine which are the most helpful. And I’ve really no idea how to start. Thankfully, the previous volunteer told me that the kids here will be eager to tell me what they want to learn (unlike the kids we taught during training, who sadly couldn’t really grasp the concept of having a say in their own education). In the end, I guess my only plan is to wing it. I’ll learn as I go, I suppose.

Village doorway.

Not all is work here.

One afternoon my host sister Kabira asked if I wanted to go to see her a mra, or woman, in one of the tiny remote villages near here. Kabira worries a great deal about the acne on her skin; she’s been to a traditional doctor in Agadir but he was a “big zero” (Kabira hasn’t yet met a man who isn’t a “zero”). Instead, she said, she wanted to see this woman who knows everything and has remedies for everything. Eventually I got what was going on … we were going to see a homeopath.

“Maybe she can help you, too, Rakya,” I managed to say (kind of) to Kabira’s mother. Rakya has been having constant pain in her heel, her back, her stomach. If traditional remedies are still practiced, still acceptable … well, I’d be scared to rely on them myself, but surely my host family would see it as the next natural step.

“Well, no, don’t be silly, Rebecca, she’s not a real doctor,” is the response I think I got. Rakya will eventually wrap herself up dramatically in her brown and purple length of fabric, hiding her face but her hot pink knit longjohns and fuzzy green slippers showing underneath, squeeze herself into a taxi and return to her real doctor in the modern city of Agadir.

My host sister, hiding her homeopath treatment behind traditional Berber women’s garb.

But Kabira and I did go on our journey to the homeopath, which I assumed/hoped would be an exotic daylong ritual. Instead, we got lost for a couple of hours in a neighboring town when Kabira couldn’t remember where to go. Eventually she managed to pay (with my money) a taxi driver to spin us aimlessly around the countryside until she recognized the correct village.

There, as we all squatted on a deep red rug in the crumbling concrete salon, a smiling ancient woman took a powder out of a fold of paper, mixed it with water in a ceramic dish and creamed the brown goop onto Kabira’s face. Safi. In and out in 5 minutes, as with any other doctor. No 12 cups of tea, no hours of nodding and smiling for hours without being able to follow the conversation even though it’s obviously about me. Expecting to be encouraged to participate in some ritual involving magical potions and ulular chanting, I was a little disappointed. If also a little relieved.

Fresh-squeezed orange juice (check out those peels!) in Taroudant.

My days off are Sunday and Monday, and I’m trying to protect those days from getting caught up in all the things other people want me to do. I went for a long, solitary walk this past Sunday afternoon, out of town on a long, winding road framed by orange groves with cedar windbreaks, pointing the way to the craggy mountains beyond. My iPod earbuds protected me from the shouts of men passing on motorbikes, but my few fellow pedestrians were friendly and curious. I finally felt peaceful; I haven’t had many opportunities lately for exercise or being outdoors. It will have to become a habit.

And on Monday I met my stajmate Vish in nearby Taroudant. We did slip in one work-related meeting – with the regional delegate for the national Ministry of Youth and Sports, which overseas all of Morocco’s dar chebabs and the work Peace Corps volunteers do there. But the rest of the day was devoted to relaxation and sightseeing. My host sister described Taroudant as a mini-Marrakech, and I can see what she means. It’s an ancient city still surrounded by rampart walls thousands of years old, with long winding alleys of suq where shops sell amazing leather purses and shoes (there’s a tannery in the city), traditional and modern clothing, homeopathic remedies, silver jewelry and dishes, hardware, vegetables, freshly butchered meat and anything else you can imagine.

We had fresh orange juice, peeled and squeezed before our eyes, for 2 dirhams – about 25 cents. We found a Yves Rocher spa where we could (if we had any flus) get a taste of home by buying fancy lipstick or have our nails done. I was able to sit and relax with a book in a quiet outdoor café without being harassed as a foreigner. I have a feeling Taroudant is a place where I’ll spend a lot of my off hours.

Taroudant’s ramparts.

Everywhere I turn lies another beautiful picture that I’m desperate to capture. The colorful spices sifted into cones. Rows of beautiful old women squatting on the curb in brightly colored body wraps. Six bodies piled into a taxi, defying the laws of space and volume. The gnarled, knotty hands of a beggar petting and grabbing for my cloth bag. Men on bicycles bringing their harvest to market, a fresh green block of mint or cilantro that completely obscures both farmer and vehicle. Packs of schoolkids on bicycles, five or six deep and by the dozens, pedaling home down dark highways, flanked by flashy motor scooters and overloaded farm trucks.

But I’m not a photographer. I’m not even a journalist anymore, apparently. I’m too sensitive to others’ feelings to take a photo without permission. Permission is rarely granted. I can understand that. Such images have to live in my head.

A pilgrim’s lack of progress.

Unusually ominous clouds looming over my new town.

“Wesh nti wllfti?”

“Have you become used to it yet?”

That’s the question I face about a dozen times a day here in my new village.

Well, no – not quite yet. But then, it’s only been five days since the taxi plopped me down here in the dry desert heat of southern Morocco. As one shwiya bit of progress, at least I finally understand the question.

So far, I’m more than a little overwhelmed. With no translators to rely on, and no training mates to wind down with, every conversation is short and stilted and yet still beyond my ability to fully comprehend. A five-minute transaction can wear me out enough to sleep for 12 hours. I spend my days with brows furrowed, and surely my interlocutor can actually see the gears slowly grinding as a I try to piece together a sentence. Said sentence is always wrong, and said interlocutor considers it his/her personal mission to point out my error, repeatedly, until I say it correctly.

What dismays me most is how difficult it is to get past my own notions of what is and is not culturally appropriate. The notions of personal space or waiting one’s turn, of personal hygiene or public litter or household sanitation, of doing anything one one’s own (particularly if one is a woman), of walking unnoticed or uncommented on (if one is a gowria, or foreigner), of politeness (as a Westerner sees it) – all these notions and more are tilted some 180 degrees.

I knew all this, of course. But hearing about it isn’t the same as living it. How naïve I was, to think it wouldn’t bother me just because I chose to live this experience. Yet how disturbing to find that my own cultural norms are so deeply ingrained that adaptability is superceded by frustration, resentment – even anger. (It’s the seething anger that bothers me the most; I’m not sure where it comes from or why it continues to linger. I watch it, late at night as I ruminate over my day, and encourage it to pass on through.)

The point is not to show this culture the many errors of its ways, according to me. The mission is for me to adapt to what is here in front of me.

Believe me, I know how fortunate I’ve been in life. I’ve always had everything I ever needed and more – a variety of healthful and delicious foods, a clean and comfortable house, my own transportation, fulfilling work, spare time to spend doing things I enjoy, plenty of fresh air and beautiful outdoor space in which to inhale it, every toy or gadget or pretty little thing that diverts me for a moment.

Perhaps my biggest frustration is my overwhelming sense of guilt for being frustrated in the first place. Do my new counterparts ever get frustrated with the daily difficulties they’ve faced for generations? No; they wait patiently, chat contentedly over another pot of tea. Now is what matters, not what happened before or what might happen later.

I have much to learn.

Back home, today is Thanksgiving. Here, of course, it’s just another day. But I am taking a moment to be grateful for all that I have: Family and friends and family who care for me in every way possible; a lifetime of excellent health, buoyed by the ability to enjoy good nutrition and time to exercise; a free, well-rounded education that allowed me to pursue any career path I chose; the great good fortune to be able to pack up my life and do as I wish; all of the luxuries I have taken for granted; the independence I also apparently have taken for granted; and so much more.

And particularly grateful for the little brother, who despite being a year older tomorrow somehow still has yet to catch up to me.


Quotes of the day.

“If you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.” – Erica Jong

“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.” – Helen Keller

I swear.

“I don’t run away from a challenge because I am afraid. Instead, I run toward it because the only way to escape fear is to trample it beneath your feet.”

– Nadia Comaneci

As of this afternoon, I’m now longer a lowly trainee but a bona fide Peace Corps volunteer. A two-hour bus ride to a zwin hotel in Fes, a half-hour ceremony, an hour or so of hors d’ouevres and small talk, and a two-hour bus ride back to the dorms. Safi. Tomorrow we hit the road by bus or train or taxi or some combination thereof, going our separate ways to our new homes.

Like any ending, this one doesn’t feel quite real yet. And like any ending, it is in fact a beginning.

Our final days of training ended rather anticlimactically as well. As if reliving my college days, I procrastinated studying for the final language exam, tried to cram at the last minute, got frustrated and felt sure I would fail. Instead, I managed to score Intermediate Low; only needed Novice High to “pass.” (Failure to “pass” only means scoring more money for private tutoring; I half thought to bomb it on purpose, but my overachieving nature got the better of me.)

A new year.

Far from home, I was wondering whether my birthday would pass unnoticed.

I needn’t have worried; friends near and far made this truly a special day.

Jill sent an entire kit of handcrafted goods, from a new market bag to an iPod cozy to an entire collection of adorable notepads to this rockin' headband:

Melissa and Naomi chipped in the hippest pair of over-the-knee cable-knit socks this side of the Atlantic, as well as some Jhumpa Lahari.

The divine Miz K begifted me an iTunes download of the new Lila Downs CD (awesome, btw!) And my family showered me with phone calls and blessed cash and handmade cards and letters from the little ones.

Here at the training site, I got an amazing dinner when my friends Trish, Christa, Kristen, Eric and So-Yoon hijacked the cafeteria kitchen and produced eggplant parmesan and a yummy lemon cake.

Trish also added to my bandana collection with a specimen from her previous life in China …

… and Candace gave me a lovely beaded frame with a photo of us together in Marrakesh.

I’ve known these people only a few months, and some are already family in my heart. And of course my family at home, by birth or by choice: I miss you more than I can say.

The only birthday disappointment: I was expecting parades in the street. Nov. 18 is also Morocco’s Independence Day, a holiday that passed practically unnoticed here.

A year ago, on the big 4-0, I was traipsing around Mount Lemmon outside Tucson with my dear friend Krista. I’d just received my Peace Corps nomination and was navigating the long road to medical clearance. I remember I felt quite serene, sure that I had chosen the right path.

Now I’m not sure of anything. I’m about to move to a town where I can’t speak the language, where I have to teach my own language with no background in teaching, in a place where the simplest tasks can take all day and the infrastructure to which I’m accustomed is a rare and distant luxury. (Read: Squat toilets and bucket baths!)

I have no idea what I’m doing.

And yet … I continue to feel this odd sense of calm, even when the culture shock is at its most trying. I know I am becoming stronger and more patient. I have an amazing opportunity to experience a sliver of the world as the vast majority live it – and, perhaps, to pare life down to its essentials. Despite many trepidations, I look forward to seeing what comes out of all this.

Hokey, perhaps, but here’s an image from a session on stress management: A tree that is battered with continuous wind from a single direction will actually grow more cells on the side facing the wind, in order to strengthen itself against the blows. And it’s the roots, widening below the surface, that keep it standing in the fact of the constant barrage.

What you can do.

I’ve had the luxury, these past few months, of being surrounded by others who speak my native language and understand my culture and lifestyle and expectations. I’ve made some wonderful friends during training, some of whom will live nearby and others who I am sad to be so far away from.

But I know, especially in these first few months, being the only foreigner in my town will lead to the occasional bout of loneliness. Inshallah I will keep myself too busy to get homesick, but there will be times when I will be even more eager for connections with y’all at home.

You’ve no idea how much even a short note or phone call can boost one’s spirits during those times. I guess what I’m saying is: Keep in touch, eh?

PS to Jenny’s dad: How kind of you to keep the dar chebab on your radar! Your daughter set such a strong foundation here. The village adores her and will miss her greatly; I have a lot to live up to.

More photos.

Artisan weaver.

Limun (orange) seller.

The man who made it all possible: Lahcen, our intrepid language instructor.

Entering Fes.

Staged photo.