Here comes the rain. Again.

Greetings from the boys in the 'hood.

I've been spending the past few days locked in battle with the mold trying to encroach upon my living quarters. While I was in Rabat, the rains came again, even more fierce than the last time. Everywhere in Morocco has seen unprecedented rains this winter, but we in the Souss Valley were among the hardest hit. Everyone says this is a record rainfall for at least the past 50 years. To my east, helicopters swooped in to evacuate a village of mud houses that had collapsed back into the source from which they came. To my west, the road to Taroudant was closed for days because a long-dry riverbed, far below, had overshot its banks. Farther north, as you may have seen on the news, the minaret collapsed at a mosque in Meknes, killing 41 people. From the Mediterranean to the Atlantic to here in the Dirty South, homes have been washed clean away.

The desert soil doesn't know what to do with all this rain in such a short time, leading to flooding. More than a week after the storms, lakes of standing water remain dotted around my site; at their height they had people wading to their waists, trying to evacuate animals and automobiles. The past few days of heavy sunshine have done their best to shrink those muddy waterways, but it showered this morning, and the forecast calls for several rainy days again this week. I can feel the moisture in the air, inside and out ~ warm and damp, tropical.

This is normally a road, not a river.

The uninsulated walls of homes here hold the damp in nicely, leading to mold and, eventually, cracks and deterioration. Windows and doors are too swollen to shut properly. The walls of my dar chebab classroom are covered in black plaguelike spots. So are my host family's. I thought I'descaped, but a few days ago I recognized that earthy smell, and in the morning my bamboo shelves, home to my clothes and personal items, were coated in white, beardlike fuzz. Out came the bleach and a fan (it's probably sending those spores somewhere they shouldn't go, but I really need to get things dried out, and it's the only option.) Days later, I'm still wiping off the mold several times a day ~ and this morning discovered a new one, pink mold on my bedroom walls.

Still. My home is standing, victim neither to flooding nor earthquakes. Everyone I love is alive and accounted for. I don't wonder where I'll sleep tonight or whether my home will hold up. The earth is holding firm (if muddy) beneath my feet. A couple of moldy bookshelves? Big deal.

Speaking of natural disasters, people here are deeply concerned about the people of Haiti, especially, and now of Chile and elsewhere. My neighborhood knows from earthquakes. Fifty years ago this month was the zelzla, the devastating earthquake that flattened the city of Agadir, about an hour west of here. Watching the news with Kabira the other day, I saw amazing historical footage of the aftermath ~ very like Haiti, in fact. The city is long since rebuilt as a booming tourist destination for Europeans. The nondescript whitewashed highrises may be built to last, but they lack the charm of the "real" Morocco. May Haiti manage to both rebuild itself better and simultaneously keep its individual personality.

Lessons learned.
Went to the dar chebab fully expecting my bac class not to show, being the middle of a three-day holiday and all. But even the slow days are mini-adventures. I found myself being serenaded by three young singer/guitarists practicing their set list ~ a mellow, gorgeous combination of Arabic and western tunes. Never seen these kids before in my life, to my knowledge; no idea why they'd set up practicing in my classroom, but it was lovely to sit and journal and plan next week's lessons with my own private, live soundtrack. They were quiet (aside from their beautiful harmonies), respectful toward me, quietly proud to answer my questions.

I wondered if in fact our paths ever have crossed before ~ if these gentle souls had ever been in the many groups of teenage boys who like to laugh, point and jeer whenever I pass by, trying to get my goat. (Side note to self: "Get my goat" ~ a good idiom for next week's class.) Would they treat me so respectfully next time we meet, after our mutual music appreciation?

After about half an hour of my mini music festival, one lone high school senior wandered in ~ Mohamed, one of my top English students, as close to fluent as anyone I've met in town. I know my classes are usually too simple for him, so it's always nice to have a chance to simply chat, let him practice his conversation skills. The talk left me a little sad. He's in the science "track" at the high school ~ early on, students have to opt between the science/math or literature tracks, and Mohamed now feels keenly that he chose the "wrong" path. He loves to read and wants to write; science, he says, bores him. Is it really too late to change, I asked ~ can't he decide to take literature classes at university? No, he said. Too late. A student's future is determined by a decision made at the middle-school level.

You know, I broached, there are many scholarship opportunities to study in the United States, or in English-language universities around the world, schools that would challenge his intellect and encourage his talents. Of all my students, Mohamed is the only one I think would truly stand a chance at such a scholarship.

No, I can't, he said, scrunching up his face and waving his hand, indicating the distance, the vast divide between there and heare.

Oh, I understand, I said, nodding. I miss my family so much.

Mohamed corrected me. He'd love to study abroad, but his family would never go for it. They're sending him to a two-year school in Agadir to learn about construction, then he'll be able to come back and help support his family. That's more education than many of his friends will get. Work is valued more than education in this culture, he said, turning his hands up in his lap in that universal whaddayagonnado gesture.

Down he was, this lanky tall boy with the wispy mustache of a budding adolescent. I changed the subject, asking after his family. His sister has agreed to be married. What good news, I congratulated him. Yeah, it's a good thing, he said ~ she's 26, too old in this culture. Another sigh. People here ~ it's not right, he said, interrupting himself. A boy sees a girl in the street, he asks someone, "Where does she live?" His family visits hers, then they are engaged, then in one, two months the wedding.

But that's changing, isn't it? I pushed him. He nodded, but halfheartedly. He wanted to be down on things, a typical teenage boy anywhere.

On the up side, I got to teach him the very American term senioritis, diagnosing him with a bad case of it. And I got my first invitation to next summer's wedding season.

In other news.
The women's health workshop we were to lead this weekend has been delayed. The grant was approved at the last minute, but we won't get the cash for a few weeks. That conflicts with spring camps at the end of March. Most volunteers will be involved in more than two dozen English immersion camps around the country during the spring break from public schools; two of us involved in the health workshop are coordinating camps in our region. So look for a litany of camp experiences at the end of March, and the success story of our road to women's health in late April.

The industrious, illustrious Gender and Development Committee of Peace Corps Morocco.

My trip to Rabat, this time around, was for the thrice-annual meeting of the Gender and Development Committee ~ GAD. Eight members, one representing each training group of each sector, discuss ways to promote projects and outlooks that take local gender dynamics into account. I always come away so inspired and enthused after these meetings. We took a field trip to Association Democratique des Femmes du Maroc, an organization that does amazing work promoting legal and social equality for Moroccan women, as well as helping victims of domestic abuse; they seem interested in collaborating in some way, so maybe we can help them connect with women in the more rural communities Peace Corps serves. I was elected to a second term as GAD vice-chair, and our new chair Cortney reported progress on a fantastic project that started as a simple plan to film some successful Moroccan women and has blossomed into a new NGO support network spearheaded by some of those success stories.

Quotes of the day.

"There is a river flowing now, very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold onto the shore; they will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and our heads above water. And I say, see who is there with you, and celebrate." ~ traditional Hopi wisdom

"There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." ~ Leonard Cohen, "Anthem" (thanks, Cheri!)

Currently celebrating: Peace Corps Week, starting Monday
Currently reading: "American Travel Writing 2009,"Simon Winchester, editor; "Morocco: The Islamist Awakening and Other Challenges,"Marvine Howe
Currently listening to: Lots of Sondre Lerche, the Gossip, Leonard Cohen and a new find, Alexi Murdoch

Two (of many) things I will never understand about Morocco.

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1. Door-knocking etiquette. When someone approaches a door in the States, he or she rings the doorbell, waits politely, possibly rings a second time if no one responds within a minute or two, then realizes no one is home, shrugs his or her shoulders, and Goes Away.

That ain’t how it works in Morocco. One raps repeatedly, authoritatively ~ usually on a metal door that dispatches the message in waves of sound that billow throughout the neighborhood. After about a second of silence one knocks again, with yet more authority and for a longer period. Another half a second and the knocking is repeated again, accompanied by a “Wah, Ahmed” ~ Hey, Ahmed ~ called into any open window.

The Moroccan door-knocker is the last of the cockeyed optimists. He simply will not give up. I timed it today ~ 20 minutes someone stood at my landlord’s door (just outside my own), knocking, calling out, knocking again, yelling again. And again. And, if he gives up at all, it’s only to go home for a glass of tea (reinforcement, dontcha know) before he returns, within 10 minutes, to start the procedure all over again.

(Timing of the knock is different here, as well. I had to get out of bed last night at 11 p.m. to dissuade a couple of would-be visitors, and they started up again just after 6 this morning.)

I am sure that, in this culture, none of this is not considered rude. It’s rare, considering the large extended families living together, that no one is at home. One might have to simply keep on knockin’ until they wake from their post-lunch nap ~ which, again, I am sure is not considered rude.

This is one of the ways in which I will never fully wllf (adjust) to Morocco.


2. Making change. The official currency of Morocco is the dirham. I don’t know how long it’s been around, but it’s been around a long time. Shal hadi ~ long, long ago ~ the currency was the ryal. The exchange rate is 20 ryals to the dirham. (And, for those of you keeping track, there are about 7.5 dirhams to the dollar.)

For some reason, most items are still priced in ryals. Actually, taking today’s supermarket visit as a typical example, most things, if priced at all, are priced in dirhams ~ but for some inexpliable (to me) reason are rung up in ryals.

So. I went to the store. I asked for 5 dirhams’ worth of rice. I picked up a jar of Nescafe clearly marked “30 dirhams.” I asked for two croissants, which (due to an unfortunate pain du choclate habit I’ve picked up here) I happen to know are a dirham each. I also bought a bottle of bleach (see upcoming post on mold) and another of dishwashing soap, both unmarked. And a couple of other things.

I brought my items to the counter and made small talk with the shopkeeper’s son as he examined each item, punched a number into his calculator, and put the item into my bag. (Why, yes, I do bring my own, unless I need a garbage sack!) Then he waited for me to ask the price ~ this is something that is never offered unless asked for.

I don’t remember the exact price, only that it was in ryals.

And so the dance begins. I asked, as I always do, Shal f dirham? ~ how much in dirhams? The young man scratches his head, completely flummoxed. He looks to his friend for support. He looks skyward, either figuring numbers in his head or requesting help from above. I suggest he use the calculator. (Yes, it’s lame that neither he nor I can divide by 20 in our heads, but I plead further ignorance/stupidity in that I can never quite understand the precise number quoted to me, it goes by so quickly.)

Now. Imagine I hadn’t asked the price but had only handed over a 100 dirham bill. The kid, like any shopkeeper I’ve yet encountered, would be able to hand me the precise change without all of this rigamarole. I can only presume he is doing the exact same conversion in his head that I have just asked for. But, if I ask, it’s a seemingly Herculean task.

Go figure. So to speak.

Just two things I’ve been pondering, bemused and amused, on a sunny February afternoon.

From the old country.

I haven’t found time, since returning from my latest foray up north, to do a darned thing I plan to do ~ mostly because other opportunities keep coming up, such as in the form of old friends who rush me in the street ~ fin knti? (Where have you been?) ~ and ordering/ushering me to their homes for tea. Such is the case again this evening, which will further delay a long-delayed new blog post.

Meanwhile, here’s what welcomed me at the post office yesterday:

Mmm … Chohula, how I’ve missed you! Black beans! Curry! Conditioner! Books!!! And multiple other goodies. Thanks for the love, Mom and Dad! (Oh, and a lovely holiday postcard from the Phoenix photogs)

A first batch of letters from my new World Wise Schools penpals ~ shoutout to Beveridge Magnet Middle School in Omaha. Their questions are perceptive, their enthusiasm infectious. They even included a roundup of Nebraska news clippings. Thanks for writing, y’all, and I will respond very soon!

Umm … this one’s a little hard to get excited about. At least I know I don’t owe any money.

Really?

OK, can anyone explain the logic of this to me? Anyone?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20100211/ts_alt_afp/usattacksrightsarabic

Embraced. And bracelets.

Loubna and Somia with their new creations

So much has been happening in my site since I returned, I hardly know where to start, and I hardly have time to write it all up until I’m off to another activity.

Seems all my legwork is finally paying off. All those conversations with women I meet in the street (Why am I here? To teach at the dar chebab! Yes, there’s a dar chebab! Send your kids! Send your girls!) With girls (The dar chebab is a safe place for girls. I can talk with your parents if you like. Promise you’ll come? Good ~ see you Friday!). With boys (You want your baccalaurea degree, don’t you? Come practice your English so you can pass the English test!) With teachers (So you’ll remind your students again? Could I come speak to your class again?)

All those conversations that never seemed to result in anyone actually coming to the dar chebab.

That’s changed. My first day back at work, I found myself mobbed by at least 30 middle-schoolers, mostly girls, all excited to talk with me, few old enough to have started formal English classes at school. We set up new class times. We played board games and pingpong. We discussed where I’m from, why I’m so old and unmarried, whether I pray.

And they’re actually coming to the classes we set up ~ 20 strong per class. And they’re so excited to practice (Hello! Howareyoufine? Nicetomeetyou!) that I don’t even need to make up diverting games to keep them in the classroom.

The crowds are carrying over to Saturday’s Youth Café, and their enthusiasm ignites my own. Last week I bought 100 dirhams worth of embroidery floss (way too much, btw) and we made friendship bracelets. Brahim, one of my scholarship campers from last summer, makes a mean bracelet and was embarrassed but proud to be named the leader of Saturday’s activities. He got them all started on basic designs, and from their a sense of cooperation blossomed. Older kids helped younger ones. Girls and boys collaborated. Everyone traded their final projects. I doled out praise along with the yarn and scissors.

Co-operation!

The dar chebab is just part of my madcap busy month. Classes have started again at the nedi neswi (women’s center), and that’s another layer of infectious enthusiasm. But what I’m really excited about is the Women’s Wellness Workshop we are planning for the end of next month. Launched by Trina and Joy, and embraced by all dozen female Peace Corps volunteers in our region, this will be two days of lessons in nutrition, basic hygiene and dental care, family planning and menstrual health, along with several examples of sport classes. Each of us is bringing three young women from our communities, with the expectation that those women will lead similar workshops when we return to the villages. Sustainability.


I couldn’t be more excited about this project, and the women I’m bringing are bubbing with nervous anticipation, knowing they have to help me lead a yoga session. The afternoon we 12 volunteers spent at Tanie’s new home, eating pizza and planning out the workshop, was the loveliest Sunday I've passed in awhile.


So much is going on here. And so of course I have to leave again … and again. This weekend I travel to Azrou for an English teaching workshop and to lead two days of Gender and Development training for the new crop of volunteers. Less than a week back in site before I head up north again for the spring meeting of the GAD Committee. Then a few days back in site before heading to the health workshop in Agadir.

Sigh. It’s all good stuff. But it keeps me away from my kids, and I’m afraid they’ll forget the dar chebab again and we’ll be back at square one.

Joy, Vish, and The Big Picture

A rant about “donations.”

I also returned to find a huge, heavy box waiting for me at the post office. Our Peace Corps librarian had sent me donations for the dar chebab’s library, books and other items donated via the U.S. Embassy.

Sounds awesome, doesn’t it? Well, here’s what I would like to say to whoever donated these items:

Dear “donor”:

You know what? We are not your trash barrel! I think it’s great that you want to do something “for the children” ~ but put some thought into what you’re donating. What makes you think we want several copies of the “International Baccalaureate North American/Caribbean Biology Diploma Programme Summer 2004”? Or a 1960s biography of Winston Churchhill (written for adults with native-level English)?

Or the following titles on dusty, brittle VHS:

1992 Graduation

Elementary spring concert 1997

Spring Arts Fair 1985

WHO Assembly on AIDS (untitled but on VHS, so how up-to-date can the information be?)

Do you get some type of tax benefit for “donating” these items rather than putting them in the recycling bin? Do you get some type of feel-good buzz thinking you are helping kids in a developing country? If you don’t want your kid’s graduation tape anymore, what makes you think we do?

All this means is that we have to throw these things away for you. And it’s harder to dispose of anything in a developing country ~ both because garbage infrastructure is lacking and because people own so few things, it hurts to throw anything away.

We are not your landfill.

If you want to truly give, that’s great. A small monetary donation would go a long way toward buying simple beginner English books that could actually be used. Or send some simple children’s books ~ inexpensive, light and easy to ship.

I don’t mean to dissuade anyone from making in-kind donations. Just, please, give a little thought before you “give.”

Currently mourning: Howard Zinn, 1922-2010. A true American hero. “The People’s History of the United States” should be required reading; wish I had a copy of it here, now.
Currently celebrating: Fresh strawberries
Currently reading: "A Whistling Woman," A.S. Byatt; "Best American Essays 2009"; Prairie Schooner Summer 2009
Currently listening to: Whiskey Man and a Nowhere Girl; Thao with the Get Down Stay Down; Andrew Bird; and multiple other new playlists donated by Miz K and Miz A ... thanks, ladies!

Gone, but I'm back. Kind of.

Random photo, pre-vacation: Three capable, trustworthy Youth Development volunteers.

Vacation. ’Twas great. Several weeks back in the States, with nearly all of the people I love most in this world. Much play, much laughter, much good food ~ things I’ve been craving such as mushrooms, leafy greens, sushi, black beans. I went to movies and malls and (shh!) bars. I used washing machines. I played Wii. I was coddled all around.

And there was snow. Way too much snow. Lincoln got more than 24 inches in December; it just kept coming and coming. Blizzards thwarted several holiday plans, but it also made for cozier, quieter days at home with family and friends.

Peace Corps volunteers are constantly warned of the difficulty of readjusting to Western ways after a certain period “in country.” So many choices! So many opportunities! So few obstacles! Seems it’s a bit too much to take, at first, for some.

Well, I had no problems readjusting. In fact, I was a bit worried that returning to Morocco would be too much of a letdown after the culinary and cultural comforts of America. But, other than a litany of annoyances in my five-day odyssey trying to get back to my dusty village (an odyssey that included one flight canceled and two delayed, one majestic black eye, one threat from airport security, two sleepless nights in skanky hotels and four days without showering, but also the luxury of an overseas flight in business class and unexpected opportunities to reconnect with old friends), I found myself unexpectedly relieved to fall into the arms of my host sister and to feel .

The litany of annoyances hasn’t let up. I’ve returned to a village overwhelmed by rains, where, a week later, could-be swimming holes still punctuate what once were dirt roads. The improvised water/sewage system under my house has backed up once again. My dar chebab is closed yet again, this time thanks to rampant mold after all the flooding. The cost of replacing the lock on my front door (my host family, at my request, broke in while I was gone to sweep out the floodwaters) turns out to be a quarter of my monthly allowance. Said new lock broke, from the inside, the first time I used it, trapping me inside and leading to a brief bout of claustrophobia.

Most annoyingly, my Internet modem isn’t on speaking terms with my new laptop. So I feel unusually disconnected from the folks back home, particularly disconcerting after having just spent so much time in close proximity with that life.

Still, to no one’s surprise more than my own, I’m feeling fine. Maybe even a bit too prideful on how well I’ve learned to cope with everyday difficulties. Everywhere I turn, I feel truly welcomed back. I have plenty of projects to keep me busy, the dar chebab was full to overflowing Saturday, and students have been stopping me in the sodden streets, asking for English lessons. It was great to be home in America, but feels good to be home here, too.

No debate.
The other night, too tired to read, too sleepy to sleep, I popped in one from a stash of DVDs saved for such occasions, absolving myself of laziness with the idea that I was doing “research”—making sure it was an appropriate film to show my advanced English students.

The movie was “The Great Debaters,” starring Denzel Washington as the adviser of a team of African-American college debaters in 1930s Texas, against the backdrop of Jim Crow laws, inexplicable racism making excuses for unfathomable violence. A celebration of hard work, fierce intelligence, determination, solidarity and perseverance. The idea that young people can make life better for themselves, for their society.

It was a moving, inspiring film. And it left me ticked off no end – because it’s yet another movie I cannot show at my dar chebab. A handful of scenes that couldn’t add up to even 30 seconds would mute its larger message. Two brief kisses, two briefer implications of sex, and it’s rendered impotent, so to speak, for my purposes.

American movies are easily viewed here, with several channels devoted to them. Action-adventure, idiotic comedies, slasher flicks are available day and night. Curse words are almost never bleeped from the English soundtrack, though the Arabic subtitles likely aren’t quite literal translations. Violence, as far as I can tell, is never censored. But if a couple even appear to move in for the chasest of kisses, the film suddenly leaps ahead to the next scene. Male-female relations simply don’t exist. (Of course that’s not true, but that’s the story and everyone sticks to it.)

I find it a struggle, here, to stay true to my own morals and values in a culture that has sometimes very different ideas about what is right and wrong. I sometimes find myself passing judgment on others based not on what I actually think, but on the messages this society conveys. A good lesson for anyone to learn, the ease with which we adapt to local norms.

Still, in this case, I don’t think it’s wrong to wish that the movie might’ve stuck to its larger message, in order that it might reach a larger audience. All my life I’ve fought censorship, but I find myself desperately wishing I could just snip out those fleeting moments and give my students the gift of this well-written film.

So, to that end …
I’m hoping my friends back home might be on the lookout for English-language movies with a positive message and with no hint of sexual overtones. Films are such a great way to let students hear dialogue and absorb a message without feeling as if they’re working.

“Wal-E” comes to mind. I haven’t seen “Freedom Writers” but wonder if it would fit the bill. I’m trying to remember whether “School of Rock” has any untoward romance ~ one of the English teachers at the high school here has mentioned it specifically, but I’m sure he’s seen the televised version. Anything else? Anyone want to contribute to the cause? Won’t someone please think of the children?

Quotes of the day.

“What is to give light must endure burning.” – Viktor Frankl

"We change, whether we like it or not." Emerson

Guess this one never got a title.

Last week I took one last run out into the countryside before embarking on a month or so of traveling. Hoping for a haze-free day that would reveal the craggy mountains just beyond my scruffy desert home, I brought along my camera. The mountains didn't show themselves, but I did run into a friend I often encounter on my run past the fields and pastures north of town. Ambling far behind his flock, my little shepherd friend was holding up what from a distance looked like a turkey but, as I got closer realized was a lamb. Newborn, still wet.

I wonder, sometimes, what my shepherd friend's life portends. He's 10 years old and obviously isn't in school. (I think of my 10-year-old niece and a life immersed in school, friendships, music lessons and sports fields.) Will he live his entire life out here, in these fields? Is that a bad thing?

My bac class ~ baccalaurea students, or high-school seniors ~ has been growing exponentially in the past week. What started as three or four quietly well-spoken girls has developed into a real class, boys and girls who talk and joke fairly freely with one another and with me. Their English vocabularies are impressive, and while at first they were shy about attempting extemporaneous conversation, now I have a hard time hearing one student for all the side conversations and joking ~ in English! ~ from the rowdy boys in the back row.

It feels like a bad time to be leaving; I'm finally starting to feel productive here. But left I have; I'm writing from Rabat, the capital a two-day trip up north, where we are engaged in a week of medical appointments at our midpoint in service. Rabat means friends and laughter and foods unavailable in site, cocktails and urban sidewalks and some semblance of nightlife.

From here, it's on to Amrika and three weeks with my family and friends. Yia-Yia's, Maggie's, the Zoo Bar, Amy's front porch, William's new house, niece and nephews and mom's Christmas goodies. A chance to wash my clothes in a machine rather than in the kitchen sink. A chance to replace a laptop currently held together with duct tape.

When I return, I'll have my hands full. Beyond getting my regular classes back on track, I'll be traveling north again to lead a two-day workshop on gender issues for the new crop of volunteers. I'll be assisting with a regional workshop on women's health, training local women to bring accurate information back to their villages. I hope to get my kids excited about hosting a regional theater workshop for neighboring dar chebabs. Also hope to work on a grant to outfit our new library/computer room. And I'll be preparing for spring English immersion camps ... and then summer camps ... only halfway done here and I already feel like time is running out ...

Currently reading: Selected Stories, Andre Dubus

Currently listening to: My pitifully small music archive (Lincolnites! Share music with me when you see me these next few weeks!)

Quote of the day: "When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So ... leap." -- Cynthia Heimel

Saying a temporary goodbye to my hostmothersister.

Photo essay: My week in animals and meat.

My host family's hamar (hachak!) was not into being petted. Rakya nearly dropped my camera, she was laughing so hard. (Donkeys are considered dirty and shameful here, even as they are relied on to haul many times their weight for hours in the blazing desert sun.)

Today was 3id al Adha, the feast of the sacrifice, honoring Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son for God. This year I managed to hide out long enough to miss most of the festivities ~ the killing of the sheep in every courtyard or on every rooftop, and my city apparently tidier than others, no blood running in the streets for us ~ but I did happen past this doorway on my walk through town today.

Dinner with the host family: Hooves and kebabs for them, fried potatoes and zucchini for me. Everybody wins!

Earlier this week, I helped Kaitlin pick out a couple of turkey drumsticks for her Thanksgiving dinner with Vish. Note the blood on the tiles of the butcher's shop.

The butcher was so tickled to hear us speaking Darija and Tashelheit, he tossed in a bag of innards ~ no extra charge.

Thanks, the giving of.

Laughing with Anny at her going-away party in Tioute.

Vish and Joy with the birthday feast they prepared for me.

Just a few things I'm thankful for:

The palpable sense of being surrounded by love, both by new friends here who feel like old friends already, and by enduring and ever-growing relationships back home, loved ones who do not feel at all far away.

My looming visit home, where those loved ones will be within hugging distance, where those beers will be within hoisting distance, where the Southern slice at YiaYia's will be within savoring distance.

In the meantime, care packages of unnecessary luxuries that bring home back to me ... Constant Comment tea, nag champa incense, peanut butter, books books books books books ...

Wonky podcasts.

The recent discovery of such delicacies for sale in Taroudant as panini bread (perfect substitute for tortillas), soy sauce and red wine vinegar.

Having survived, as of this week, an entire year here in my dusty southern village, and knowing that the second year will be, comparatively, a piece of cake.

Realizing how far I have come in that year. Learning, at last, the value of perserverence, of things not coming easily, of not giving up.

My host sister Kabira reminding me recently how, at first, I cried a lot and my face was hard like this (as she hit her palm against the wall). And look at me now, completely wllft (adjusted), she added, as we sat around the kitchen table, roaring in laughter over nothing in particular, making hlwa (cookies/sweets) to sell at her shop, me doing my best to ignore the distinctly non-OSHA-compliant process.

The amazing ability to communicate and forge connections across vast barriers. Common language isn't everything. Shared cultural norms, neither. A smile, a shrug, a pantomime, a raised eyebrow of understanding, and a new kindred spirit.

My firmly established vegetarian status in the days before L3id kbir, the biggest holiday in the Muslim calendar, the one my neighbors and students remind me of by slicing their fingers across the neck in the sheep-slaughtering manner. (You can see last year's post if you need an explicit reminder.) But, also, my greater understanding this year of the holiday and, once again, how we global peoples (Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Pagan) are connected far more closely than we allow ourselves to realize.

Words aren't enough.

Our Peace Corps Morocco family is in shock at the sudden loss, far too young, of one of our own.

So-Youn was an exuberant soul, feisty and fiery and feminist. She could be tempestuous, but she also had a great deal of empathy and arms big enough to enfold those twice her size in the most generous of hugs. She held fast to her moral code, and her strong sense of right and wrong drove her to speak out, to rally for change and to lead by example. She gave a great haircut. She loved her work and her village. She had a great deal to look forward to.

She lived large. She was ~ no, is ~ an inspiration.