12-18-2007 EID KABIR SHEEP SHOPPING
‘Tis the season! In a few days it will be time for the Muslim holiday of Eid Kabir (“The Big Feast”). The day commemorates the Koranic/Biblical story in which God tested Abraham’s faith by commanding him to kill his son, but at the last minute sent a sheep instead. So in Moroccan tradition, families go out, buy a sheep, do what good ol’ Abraham did, and we all chow down!
This morning was sheep shopping time. My host dad, Hassan, cheerfully bounded up to the room I share with my host brother, Karim, around 6:00am to wake us up so we could beat the crowds and claim our prize. Maybe it’s because it’s the holiday season back home, but as we groggily bundled up for the crisp morning air, I couldn’t help but feel like we were trekking out to chop down and carry home the family Christmas tree. The whole experience actually turned out to be quite similar, except the trees moved around and “baaa-ed” a lot.
Even though we got to the market just after sunrise, it seemed like the whole town was already there. We walked past a wall of tents and trucks filled up with hay and other sheepish food, emerging into a flood of people at least a thousand strong and their fluffy goods, thousands stronger. Customers bustled about, sizing up sheep while shepherds struggled to keep their little flocks of ten or so separate from those of other shepherds. There were all different sheep-sizes to fit your budget and appetite, from little knee biters, to big bullish ones with curly horns (I swear I saw one that was at least the size of a small donkey—no joke).
The whole place was a moving mass of people and sheep-ole, all trying to get around each other in different directions. It was tough (not to mention hazardous with all the horns and all) just to move ten feet. Luckily though, if you got off balance or pushed over, odds were in your favor that you’d most likely land on and bounce off of a big fluffy sheep. So if you thought of it as a game, or a giant sheep-bouncing ball pit, it was quite fun!
My host dad—who had spent most of the morning convinced that I didn’t understand what we were going to do and thus had been looking at me, baa-ing, and squeezing my arm to see if I was a good hunk of meat all morning—would not just settle for any old sheep. He was out for a bargain! We spent two hours squishing through the sheep-crowds while he expertly squeezed their hips to make sure there was some meat under all that fluff, checked out their teeth (and some other areas I weren’t sure were necessary), and picked them up by their back legs to gauge their weight before asking the shepherd how much he was selling for. Then, of course, we had to act surprised that the price was so high, argue with the guy for at least 10 minutes—each party prodding the sheep in different places the whole time trying to prove his point about the price—after which we had to walk away in a huff saying we had seen a cheaper, better sheep, then come back ten minutes later to argue more. After finally buying it, we’d then shower the seller with praises about his generosity and beautiful children, and he’d bless all of our parents. Gotta love a good bargain war-con-make up!
Then, once we found a big fluffy guy with a black head and curly horns that passed Hassan’s approval, a new game began. It was called “guide a giant sheep who doesn’t really want to follow you through a massive crowd of shepherds and the flocks over which they kept watch.” Hassan played this game by picking up the sheep’s back legs like they were playing wheelbarrow, and piloting him forward while Karim guided him by the horns. Then we flagged down a donkey cart-guy to ship the now-four of us back home.
Everyone was eagerly waiting at home to see the prize the boys were bringing back. We proudly carried hoisted the tree—I mean sheep—into the house while the family ooh-ed and ah-ed. The kids played with the new toy, and we all sad down to a hearty breakfast as a reward.
The actual feast isn’t for a few days, so I was a bit confused as to what we were going to do with Mr. Baa-Baa Black Sheep. That is, until I went to use the bathroom that afternoon, and lo and behold, I bring you tidings of a great sheep wrapped in swaddling wool, eating hay out of his own little manger. For unto me, a sheep was bought—who now resides in my lavatory—awaiting the day when he will fulfill his purpose as the sacrificial lamb of God. And on the third day, he will rise again… as lamb chops.
12-21-2007 THE BIG DAY
Mbrouk l’Eid! Merry Eid-mas! Today is the day! I woke up to the sounds of my host sisters rolling up the carpets in the living room. I came downstairs, still a bit sleepy, greeted by a rather excited host dad holding a giant knife. He was, once again, eager to communicate the subtleties of the cultural experience in which I was about to share, so he Baa-ed again, mimed beheading himself, and doubled over laughing.
Just about that time, I heard Karim struggling with something upstairs. The bathroom slash stable was upstairs—so I figured he was having some issues with our sheep. Then from the upstairs, there arose such a clatter, I left my beheaded host dad to see what was the matter. There was Karim, ramming his shoulder against the bathroom door. Apparently, sometime last night, our sheeply-sacrifice had managed to somehow trip the door lock from the inside. Never again will I doubt the intelligence of sheep. The lil’ guy knew what was coming.
Now imagine what would have happened if Abraham’s sacrificial lamb had gotten stuck in his bathroom: He would have ended up having to sacrifice his poor son—there would have been no seven-tribes of Israel, no Judaism, no Christianity, no Islam, no monotheism whatsoever—so one can see the importance of this seminal event to the entire world and the future of humanity. With this in mind, you can imagine the passion with which we ended up having to kick open the bathroom door.
But we got the guy! We brought him downstairs, and… well… I’ll spare the graphic details for my vegetarian friends. But let’s just say I learned some important things about the inner-workings of a sheep. For instance, when you take a skinned sheep (which is actually quite skinny after you peel the wool and fat off—it’s kind of like a corn-dog) and hang it like a piñata in front of your doorway, then you open him up to get at the goodies inside, if it’s a cold day, the inside will actually start steaming! Cool!
After we sent Mr. Baa Baa back to his maker—saving little Issac and ensuring the continuation of monotheism and the Abrahamic covenant—Mama fired up the coals and we had ourselves a sheep-becue! I sat around the table with my Moroccan family, wrapping up little bits of who-knows-what organ in sheep fat, sticking it on a skewer, and handing it to Mama to grill over a wood fire. Already worn out from the days events, I wondered why everybody goes though all this effort every year when they could just go buy their Eid Kabir meat neatly packaged at the market (Butterball could make a killing on this holiday if they expanded their market). But as we sat around the wood coals, laughing, eating our intimately-slaughtered snacks, and praising God for our bounty, I realized that this is probably EXACTLY what Abraham did with his family on that day a good 5,000 years-or-so ago. I mean, down to the last detail—slaughtering a sheep and cleaning it with nothing but a knife and some helping hands, then cooking it over a wood fire and praising God with family. I felt like I was taking part in what may be one of the oldest recorded traditions in all history.
For the Lord said, “Let there be lamb, and let Hassan have dominion over all the lamb of the Ben Guerir market place.” And lamb there was, and it tasted good.
Humdu’ilah!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
The Labels I forgot to put on the pictures below
1. The US Ambassador speaking at our swearing in
2. The whole Youth Development group along with our program manager and Arabic Teachers.
3. My host Dad, 3 sisters, and little Zachariah
4. One last look out over Fez
5. Me, my host brother Karim, and youth leader Ghita
2. The whole Youth Development group along with our program manager and Arabic Teachers.
3. My host Dad, 3 sisters, and little Zachariah
4. One last look out over Fez
5. Me, my host brother Karim, and youth leader Ghita
Mid-December Thoughts
12-14-07 CAFÉ GUY
I was sitting in my favorite café today, drinking ns-ns (“Half-Half.” It’s half black espresso and half milk, like a latte in a double shot glass),and thinking to myself that I’d rather just sit there and read a book than go teach an English lesson in a half hour like I had to. I looked around and realized the man who waits on me every day wasn’t around. I was a bit jarred. That café is my place of normalcy—same man, same drink, same Moroccans watching what always appears to be the same soccer game (still dudes kicking a ball around). But then I though about it, and was glad that the poor guy had a day off. I mean, I see him there every day.
Then, as if on cue, he walked in from outside—must have just been out to get something. He walked up to me, shook my hand, and we had our same quick little “What’s up/Not much” conversation we have every time (that’s part of my normalcy café experience—no conjugation, or translation involved! Plus he’s always running around busy with no time for chit-chat). But this time, I got bold and broke the normalcy game.
I said what I think was the equivalent of “Jeeze man, you work EVERY single day?” He just smiled at me, and as a subtle look of pride crossed his face, he nodded and said Humdo’illah (Thanks be to God).
I was oddly taken aback—like I usually am when Arabic conversations go somewhere different than I had planned them to. I had been making American-style job whining conversation, expecting some response like “Yup, idiots can’t run this place without me,” or “The old-ball-n-chain wants to repaint the kitchen,” or at least something grumbley. It bothered me that he had just shaken-up my whole sense of working-class conversation.
It was wild. Rather than doing what I though would be the typical thing, and complaining that he had to work so much, this man was honestly grateful that he has the chance to run around serving coffee all day every day, because most people in town can’t even find work, much less full time. Rather than a burden, this work was a gift from God. Rather than a source of annoyance, his job was a source of pride, and the source of a good life for his family.
After, my little space-out, it was time to pack up and head to class. As I was getting up to go, the man came out, surprised that I was leaving so quickly. He asked if I was heading to work.
And I said, “Yup.”
Then, in unison, we both smiled and said “Humdo’illah.”
12-17-2007 WHAT I DO
I realized I’ve written quite a bit about random experiences I’ve had, but not a lot about what I do on a daily basis—mostly because I get a lot of “Hey Chris, good blog. So what do you actually do there?” emails. So, by request:
Officially, I spend 6 days a week working at a Youth Center here in Ben Guerir, primarily with a “Youth and English Club” set up by the last PC volunteer. The club, which is run by a group of youth leaders, has about 30 members ranging from ages 14-28 (The concept of “youth” is different here. It essentially applies to you if you are unmarried and still live with your family, which is fairly common here among 20-somethings. Most of the members are still in high school, but some have jobs and come to work with the club as sort of a “volunteer” project).
As far as the club goes: In the morning, they run a small “library” that consists of one bookshelf full of beginning and intermediate English (and some French) reading materials, and a bunch of dictionaries. Usually, between 7 and 15 kids show up every morning—sometimes to check out books, sometimes looking for English homework help, or sometimes just to have a quiet place to study with their friends. The club members run the library with a watchful eye and an super-organized sign-out system.
In the afternoons, the club does classes, events, or activities. I meet with the leaders every Sunday and we plan the next weeks events (well, THEY plan them in a big 2 hour Arabic conversation that I give up on trying to follow a fourth of the way through. Then, in the last 2 minutes, someone translates a synopsis and asks if it sounds good, and I give a resounding “Uh-huh,” which, lucky for me, translates perfectly into Arabic).
I usually take 2 of the afternoons to do English classes. I’m attempting to have one class that’s more beginning-intermediate grammar based, and one more advanced “discussion” class—but it usually depends on which students show up as to what level I end up teaching. I have to design “transformable” classes in which I can turn my planned discussion into a grammar lesson if more beginner students happen to show up that day, or vice versa.
While most club members are very interested in learning English, ultimately, they’re more excited about activities and especially discussions. On the other afternoons, one of the youth leaders will plan a discussion on a certain subject—women’s rights in morocco, generational differences, education, religion, or something along those lines—and everyone just shows up and has at it. It often gets quite heated. They get quite passionate about these issues. I was confused at first as to why everyone would get so worked up about doing these. It was odd for me that the youth here were always so eager to have a “discussion” activity. But I realized that they rarely, if ever, have a chance to do something like this where young men and women can come together and just talk openly about issues that face them and their society. The school system is fairly passive learning, and just like in the US, youth aren’t usually going to want to get into these discussions with parents and families, so they jump on the chance to just talk with each other and be heard at the youth center.
One of their favorite activities is to put someone in a chair at the front of the room, close the door, and ask them absolutely anything. Of course the person has the freedom not to answer if he/she is uncomfortable, but since it’s a mixed-gender setting, students usually respect boundaries on certain topics. For me, it was another one of those “why is this such a big deal to them” things, but again, these are discussions the students just don’t often get the chance to have outside of the club. It’s really fun to see how much people will open up in the club. They absolutely love it, and tend to do it at least once a week. I think it’s the same phenomenon that happens when youth have a place to come together in the US. It’s just so important to youth to have a safe place, away from “adults” and other authority figures, just to talk.
Other than that, the club has “talent nights” where people can just come up to the front of the room and sing, or some students will put together little impromptu theatre pieces, and people will usually ask me to play the theme from Titanic again (yes my secret it out—though Tracey Chapman’s “Fast Car” is a new frequent request). Also, the club partners up with local organizations to do AIDS education training programs, or goes out to the countryside to do activities with youth in low-budget schools there.
This self-sustaining club situation is usually what every Youth Development Volunteer strives to achieve in 2 years here—and I’m walking into it from the beginning! Consequently, I often feel a bit useless (You mean you’re inviting ME to come help you do an AIDS workshop at the high school? Wait, I’m in the Peace Corps, isn’t this supposed to be the other way around?). However, I’ve enjoyed my role just being a part of the club and their activities. Plus, the whole goal of a Peace Corps project is to work yourself out of a job, and the last Volunteer pretty much did that for me (thanks Bart!). But there are still plenty of things that can be done in the club and in the rest of the city as well.
Most of all, my experience with the club continues to teach me a valuable lesson (a lesson a lot of Americans, and ESPECIALLY Peace Corps Volunteers, have a tough time with): The “developing world” is not sitting around wallowing in ignorance and self pity, waiting for brilliant white-folk with PhD’s to single handedly lift them out of their misery. First off, they’re not “miserable” (From what I’ve seen, there’s quite a low suicide rate, an odd lack of depressive disorders and “mid-life-crises,” and a perplexing frequency of general day-to-day life satisfaction when compared with the “developed” world). Plus they’re sharp, they’re socially active, they have great ideas, and they’re sure as heck putting them to use! True, funding is always needed (just like with social programs in the US!), and organizations here are always eager for skills-transfer and idea sharing. But that’s the key—it’s idea SHARING. They have fabulous programs here and great ideas already in place. Development is about honest partnership, not charity and self-gratification.
From what I’ve heard from other sorts of “development workers” here: When you go into a situation, eager to use your new ideas to help a place “develop,” you almost always come out having learned more than you taught, having been offered more than you had to offer, and ultimately having gotten more than you gave. When you work more as a partner than a “developer,” you quickly learn that you’re working alongside people—bright, driven PEOPLE people—you know the kind that eat, sleep, laugh, have families, get colds, think, and change the world. It’s laughable, but when you take a group like “Muslims,” stop reading about them, and start talking to them—people are almost disappointingly familiar. “Damn, I wanted to have a cultural experience, but there are all of these PEOPLE people around! Where are the anthropological things I read about in books? These people just LIVE man. They’re just like us and stuff—I’m outa here!” By the end, you’re finally working with people who are no longer just socio-economic statistics in your mind—and in the end—it turns out you’re the one who has been “developed.”
I was sitting in my favorite café today, drinking ns-ns (“Half-Half.” It’s half black espresso and half milk, like a latte in a double shot glass),and thinking to myself that I’d rather just sit there and read a book than go teach an English lesson in a half hour like I had to. I looked around and realized the man who waits on me every day wasn’t around. I was a bit jarred. That café is my place of normalcy—same man, same drink, same Moroccans watching what always appears to be the same soccer game (still dudes kicking a ball around). But then I though about it, and was glad that the poor guy had a day off. I mean, I see him there every day.
Then, as if on cue, he walked in from outside—must have just been out to get something. He walked up to me, shook my hand, and we had our same quick little “What’s up/Not much” conversation we have every time (that’s part of my normalcy café experience—no conjugation, or translation involved! Plus he’s always running around busy with no time for chit-chat). But this time, I got bold and broke the normalcy game.
I said what I think was the equivalent of “Jeeze man, you work EVERY single day?” He just smiled at me, and as a subtle look of pride crossed his face, he nodded and said Humdo’illah (Thanks be to God).
I was oddly taken aback—like I usually am when Arabic conversations go somewhere different than I had planned them to. I had been making American-style job whining conversation, expecting some response like “Yup, idiots can’t run this place without me,” or “The old-ball-n-chain wants to repaint the kitchen,” or at least something grumbley. It bothered me that he had just shaken-up my whole sense of working-class conversation.
It was wild. Rather than doing what I though would be the typical thing, and complaining that he had to work so much, this man was honestly grateful that he has the chance to run around serving coffee all day every day, because most people in town can’t even find work, much less full time. Rather than a burden, this work was a gift from God. Rather than a source of annoyance, his job was a source of pride, and the source of a good life for his family.
After, my little space-out, it was time to pack up and head to class. As I was getting up to go, the man came out, surprised that I was leaving so quickly. He asked if I was heading to work.
And I said, “Yup.”
Then, in unison, we both smiled and said “Humdo’illah.”
12-17-2007 WHAT I DO
I realized I’ve written quite a bit about random experiences I’ve had, but not a lot about what I do on a daily basis—mostly because I get a lot of “Hey Chris, good blog. So what do you actually do there?” emails. So, by request:
Officially, I spend 6 days a week working at a Youth Center here in Ben Guerir, primarily with a “Youth and English Club” set up by the last PC volunteer. The club, which is run by a group of youth leaders, has about 30 members ranging from ages 14-28 (The concept of “youth” is different here. It essentially applies to you if you are unmarried and still live with your family, which is fairly common here among 20-somethings. Most of the members are still in high school, but some have jobs and come to work with the club as sort of a “volunteer” project).
As far as the club goes: In the morning, they run a small “library” that consists of one bookshelf full of beginning and intermediate English (and some French) reading materials, and a bunch of dictionaries. Usually, between 7 and 15 kids show up every morning—sometimes to check out books, sometimes looking for English homework help, or sometimes just to have a quiet place to study with their friends. The club members run the library with a watchful eye and an super-organized sign-out system.
In the afternoons, the club does classes, events, or activities. I meet with the leaders every Sunday and we plan the next weeks events (well, THEY plan them in a big 2 hour Arabic conversation that I give up on trying to follow a fourth of the way through. Then, in the last 2 minutes, someone translates a synopsis and asks if it sounds good, and I give a resounding “Uh-huh,” which, lucky for me, translates perfectly into Arabic).
I usually take 2 of the afternoons to do English classes. I’m attempting to have one class that’s more beginning-intermediate grammar based, and one more advanced “discussion” class—but it usually depends on which students show up as to what level I end up teaching. I have to design “transformable” classes in which I can turn my planned discussion into a grammar lesson if more beginner students happen to show up that day, or vice versa.
While most club members are very interested in learning English, ultimately, they’re more excited about activities and especially discussions. On the other afternoons, one of the youth leaders will plan a discussion on a certain subject—women’s rights in morocco, generational differences, education, religion, or something along those lines—and everyone just shows up and has at it. It often gets quite heated. They get quite passionate about these issues. I was confused at first as to why everyone would get so worked up about doing these. It was odd for me that the youth here were always so eager to have a “discussion” activity. But I realized that they rarely, if ever, have a chance to do something like this where young men and women can come together and just talk openly about issues that face them and their society. The school system is fairly passive learning, and just like in the US, youth aren’t usually going to want to get into these discussions with parents and families, so they jump on the chance to just talk with each other and be heard at the youth center.
One of their favorite activities is to put someone in a chair at the front of the room, close the door, and ask them absolutely anything. Of course the person has the freedom not to answer if he/she is uncomfortable, but since it’s a mixed-gender setting, students usually respect boundaries on certain topics. For me, it was another one of those “why is this such a big deal to them” things, but again, these are discussions the students just don’t often get the chance to have outside of the club. It’s really fun to see how much people will open up in the club. They absolutely love it, and tend to do it at least once a week. I think it’s the same phenomenon that happens when youth have a place to come together in the US. It’s just so important to youth to have a safe place, away from “adults” and other authority figures, just to talk.
Other than that, the club has “talent nights” where people can just come up to the front of the room and sing, or some students will put together little impromptu theatre pieces, and people will usually ask me to play the theme from Titanic again (yes my secret it out—though Tracey Chapman’s “Fast Car” is a new frequent request). Also, the club partners up with local organizations to do AIDS education training programs, or goes out to the countryside to do activities with youth in low-budget schools there.
This self-sustaining club situation is usually what every Youth Development Volunteer strives to achieve in 2 years here—and I’m walking into it from the beginning! Consequently, I often feel a bit useless (You mean you’re inviting ME to come help you do an AIDS workshop at the high school? Wait, I’m in the Peace Corps, isn’t this supposed to be the other way around?). However, I’ve enjoyed my role just being a part of the club and their activities. Plus, the whole goal of a Peace Corps project is to work yourself out of a job, and the last Volunteer pretty much did that for me (thanks Bart!). But there are still plenty of things that can be done in the club and in the rest of the city as well.
Most of all, my experience with the club continues to teach me a valuable lesson (a lesson a lot of Americans, and ESPECIALLY Peace Corps Volunteers, have a tough time with): The “developing world” is not sitting around wallowing in ignorance and self pity, waiting for brilliant white-folk with PhD’s to single handedly lift them out of their misery. First off, they’re not “miserable” (From what I’ve seen, there’s quite a low suicide rate, an odd lack of depressive disorders and “mid-life-crises,” and a perplexing frequency of general day-to-day life satisfaction when compared with the “developed” world). Plus they’re sharp, they’re socially active, they have great ideas, and they’re sure as heck putting them to use! True, funding is always needed (just like with social programs in the US!), and organizations here are always eager for skills-transfer and idea sharing. But that’s the key—it’s idea SHARING. They have fabulous programs here and great ideas already in place. Development is about honest partnership, not charity and self-gratification.
From what I’ve heard from other sorts of “development workers” here: When you go into a situation, eager to use your new ideas to help a place “develop,” you almost always come out having learned more than you taught, having been offered more than you had to offer, and ultimately having gotten more than you gave. When you work more as a partner than a “developer,” you quickly learn that you’re working alongside people—bright, driven PEOPLE people—you know the kind that eat, sleep, laugh, have families, get colds, think, and change the world. It’s laughable, but when you take a group like “Muslims,” stop reading about them, and start talking to them—people are almost disappointingly familiar. “Damn, I wanted to have a cultural experience, but there are all of these PEOPLE people around! Where are the anthropological things I read about in books? These people just LIVE man. They’re just like us and stuff—I’m outa here!” By the end, you’re finally working with people who are no longer just socio-economic statistics in your mind—and in the end—it turns out you’re the one who has been “developed.”
Monday, December 10, 2007
Finally in site
11-26-2007 SWEARING IN
Today was the big day. Finally, after almost 3 months of language, culture, safety and education training—after countless PowerPoint’s, frequent traveling, and rarely being unpacked physically or mentally—we are becoming REAL Peace Corps volunteers.
Our swearing-in was held at a ridiculously posh hotel next to Roman ruins that overlook the whole city of Fez. It was a gorgeous hotel, with a canopy, an outdoor pool, and immaculately dressed wait-staff. The whole thing had sort of a "This is your last experience with fancy Europeanized luxury for a long time, so enjoy it while you can!"
During our swearing in, there were speeches from the PC Morocco director, the US ambassador, a representative of the Moroccan government, and three of our trainees gave speeches in the local dialects we’ve been learning. The whole thing culminated with us taking the oath to defend the US constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, and to serve the Moroccan government to the best of our abilities. Then there we were! It was like graduation, but we didn’t have any hats to throw, so we just kind of stood there and smiled a lot.
Then we had a fancy dinner with lots of little French snacky things (another one of those "this is your LAST" moments). Some of our Moroccan host families even made it to the event!
We were all very excited to be done with training, but didn’t feel much different than we did before the ceremony, probably because it’s hard to be thinking "All right! I’m a REAL PCV now," while you’re in a swanky hotel eating French pastries. I’m sure that feeling is yet to come.
11-27-2007 TRAIN TO BEN GUERIR
It was a very spiritual journey on the train today. A lot of us were headed in the same direction, so we piled into train cars—a bunch of Americans with 2 years worth of luggage—and watched as one by one, our numbers narrowed down as people got off at their sites. While PC training was essential in preparing us linguistically and technically, we all agreed that, mentally, we were more ready to be a PCV before training. When you sign up for something like this, you usually have the mentality of, "Oh heck yeah. I’m gonna move off by myself to the middle of nowhere. I don’t even want to see another American for 2 years, and I’m gonna change the world!" But then, you meet your training group—a bunch of strangers who soon become your closest friends within a thousand miles, and the only people who really understand what’s happening to you. Then, all of the sudden, you realize you don’t want to leave them. And you’re tempted to count the months to your next training workshop when you’ll get to see them all again.
But, we all also agreed that the life we had during training is not what we signed up for: Classrooms, presentations, English, written tests, Americans, Americans, Americans, and frequent runs to the McDonalds in Fez (because even though you’d rather drink chlorinated butter than go to McD’s in the states, here, it feels like home). That’s not what we wanted, and that’s not what we were about to get.
As a PCV, when it was your turn to get off, as you watched the train pull away, you couldn’t help but feel that this was not just a train. It seemed like some magical chariot that just dropped you off into a completely different world, a world where you’re basically done speaking English. You’re done being understood. It’s a world where you’re no longer "The guitar player, the student, the person down the hall." Nope. Now you’re "The American." You’re "The English teacher," Now you’re "that foreign guy who lives in town who’s white but stares blankly at you when you say ‘Bonjour!’" Now you’re a symbol. Now you’re the stars and stripes. Now you’re the go-to for information on anything from George Bush, to Metallica lyrics, to phrasal verbs—none of which you really know that much about.
And you wonder if your view of yourself will change, as you spend 24 hours a day representing something of which you never considered yourself to be a representative. Suddenly, you’re dropped off in a world where "the American" is what defines you—not your name, not your hobbies, not your favorite food—your Americanism. And you didn’t even think "Americanism" was a WORD before this moment! But spell-check says it is, so apparently someone on the Microsoft Word programming staff has done the Peace Corps too….
11-28-2007 ARRIVAL
Got off that good ol’ spiritual train to Peace Corps glory, and my wonderful host brother, Karim, was there to meet me. He’s 24, splits his time between working at a cyber café and being the Vice President of the youth club I’ll be working with. He’s been my saving grace ever since I visited Ben Guerir. Just like most everybody else, he doesn’t speak English, but he’s got this miraculous talent for making me understand him, no matter how long it takes. I don’t know what he does (probably just talks to me like I’m a four year old and uses a lot of hand-gestures), but I’ve somehow been using him as a translator. Whenever some fast-talking Moroccan runs some intelligible Arabic by me, I just reflexively look at him, and he translates speedy Arabic into 2nd-grader level Arabic until I understand. He’s also been taking the time out of his day to take me around to the hundreds important offices I need to visit, as he guides me through the laughably bureaucratic process of getting me a Moroccan work permit (Plenty of jobs are generated by making sure you need to get at least four different stamps from four different people and four different signatures on at least four "essential" copies of four different documents, all of which need at least four 2x1 pictures of you stapled on top. It really does make work for people who need it, but by the time a person is standing in the fourth line for the fourth hour on the fourth day of attempting to APPLY to work, one begins to question which is the bigger monster: Unemployment or bureaucracy…). So I have to give a shout out to Karim—who’s probably currently reading this with the use of Google Translator (another fun trick he taught me)—because he really has been saving my sanity on a daily basis. Thanks Karim!
As Karim and I left the train station, the weekly souk (giant market) was just winding down. Sellers were packing up their crates of fruits, veggies, and live chickens, taking down their canopies, and packing up carts and donkeys. As always, the souk had left its mark of trash, peelings, and rejected goods all over the ground. We walked through the garbage and my newly graduated PCV mind thought "Wow, someone should come up with a wildly creative way to do a souk cleanup every week. Maybe that can be my first project with my youth center!" About that time, we turned a corner, and ran into a giant heard of at least 150 goats and sheep all running right at us towards the souk behind us. I looked at Karim with that "Is this normal or something I should be afraid of" look that I’m sure he’s already used to, and he just pointed at the goats, then at the soiled souk, then wiped the souk clean with his hand. The goats were the souk cleaning crew! Dinner time—it’s brilliant!
That’s one of the most important things they try to teach you in PC training—when there’s a problem you want to fix as a volunteer, there’s a good chance the locals already have a good way to deal with it, considering they’ve been living with the issues for generations. The idea of development is not always to bring in some new revolutionary idea that will fix everything—ask any PCV—those projects are usually the ones that fall flat on their faces immediately. The idea is to work within the local structures that are already there. Don’t reinvent the wheel, or in my case—the goat.
11-30-2007 ISN’T AFRICA SUPPOSED TO BE WARM??
What’s the deal here?? I’m wearing 3 shirts every day, and burying myself under 4 blankets every night and my teeth are still chattering! Isn’t this AFRICA?! I really feel like I shouldn’t be complaining, because I’m sure it’s much colder back home. But it’s a different kind of cold here. It’s not THAT cold, but the difference is, here there’s really no escape from it. All of the buildings here are giant, drafty cementy things that are designed to block out sun, and retain cold. I’m sure they’re wonderful in the summer, as they block out any sun, or even any THOUGHTS of warm—I swear they somehow AMPLIFY the cold and it’s actually warmer outdoors.
I remember winters in the US—I’d be absolutely freezing and frigid walking outside, or starting the car, but then I’d get home and crawl into a toasty warm house, or crank up the heat in the car, and life would be perfect. Here, in my concrete icebox, I can only replicate that feeling if I crawl under four blankets, cover my head, curl into the fetal position, and wait for my own body heat to create this little pocket of warmth that will stay as long as I don’t move an inch. Of course, I wake up in the middle of the night with my legs all cramped up, and have to weigh which one feels worse, cramping or frigid night-desert air. The cramps usually win. But I try to tell myself that it’s reminiscent of Tibetan monks folding themselves into the lotus position and meditating in the mountains. I just pretend I’m dealing with the pins and needles for higher spiritual purposes. If I’m lucky, I’ll hit Nirvana by 5:00am, reaching some other-worldly plane where my mind, my limbs, and the cold don’t exist—and I’ll be able to get some sleep.
I’d probably be fine if I could stay in my little blanket-womb all day, but unfortunately blanket forts aren’t conducive to youth work, so I have to get up and face the cold in the morning. Since the sky is always clear, during the day, I can usually catch some warm rays between the shadows of buildings outside (I swear there’s a tangible 10 degree difference between the sun and the shade). The only problem is, a lot of Moroccans I’ve met are fully convinced that the sun is bad for you. Yesterday, I was reading a book out on the roof of my host family’s house, basking in a glorious ray, when my host mom came up to hang some laundry out to dry. She immediately walked over to me, smiled, dropped a shirt on my head, and told me the sun was bad for me.
Ah well, when my own mom called me that night, I was able to tell her not to worry about me since there was still a woman in my life who was worrying about me in a highly irrational way as only wonderful moms can.
12-2-2007 OBLIVIOUS PUPPY
I’m in what I’ve now decided to call the "Oblivious Puppy" stage of my work and language learning. Mostly because, like a puppy, when I listen to people conversing around me, I perk up every time I hear my name, so I’m aware that they’re talking ABOUT me, but not what they’re saying. It kind of sounds like "Dadada dad a dadadadadadada CHRIS da dad a da dad dad a da ad AMERICANI dadadadadadadadadad CHRIS (lots of laughter) ad adadadadadadad CHRIS!"
Also, like a puppy, I spend my days understanding, and thus gladly following simple commands like sit, go, eat, sleep, eat, drink, eat more, youth center, eat, go, go, eat more. I have certain "masters" who I follow around whenever I need to go somewhere, and they show me off and people smile at my little Arabic tricks. It’s actually a rather enjoyable, oblivious life once you resign yourself to it for a while.
As far as communication goes, I’ve developed my own filtering system where I kind of decide from the gist of what people are saying if it’s something I actually NEED to understand, or something I can just smile and not my way through, feigning understanding. As days go by, a lot more conversations are starting to filter into the latter category, simply out of necessity and courtesy. It’s usually a much more pleasant experience on both sides if I just nod when they nod, smile when they smile, laugh when they laugh, and shake my head and say "God forbid" when they do. It’s amazing how much one can understand of the general mood and theme of a conversation without understanding a word.
I was actually just reading a book that talks about some mythical language in which all humans can understand each other without language, which under normal circumstances I would write off as BS, but here, I’m really starting to believe it. Mostly because there’s no other explanation as to how I’ve understood as much of what’s been going on in my life the last few days as I have. In the US, I’ve been so used to the simplest, surface level, communication that common language offers. I feel like here, with so many languages floating around, people are a little more attuned to communicating through other mediums. I can’t really explain it, you just sort of start to feel the conversation after a while—like when you watch the Spanish soap opera channel—you don’t actually comprehend what’s being said or what’s happening, but you still understand the human drama—who’s bad, who’s good, who’s hurting who, who’s in love with who, who needs something, who is longing, who’s sincere, who has good intentions, who truly cares—these are all concepts that don’t need words. We just recognize them.
But personally, I’ve spent my whole life relying on spoken language to convey all of this. Here—understanding little to nothing—I’m actually enjoying the very pure form of communication on which I’m forced to rely. Words are tricky. They can be misunderstood, said the wrong way, or just plain lies. When I can’t rely on the all-too-easy satisfaction of understanding someone’s words for their face value, I notice the hundreds of other things that are conveyed during communication (like in the Daredevil comic books where the guy goes blind but then all his other senses become superhuman!)—things that are often more true than the words themselves.
Don’t get me wrong, a lot of simple things end up taking a lot longer than they should to figure out. But Moroccans are miraculously patient. When I’d just as soon give up, and say "I just don’t understand you. It’s fine. Let’s just move on." They’ll always keep on me until I understand. Surprisingly though, usually if we give it just a little more time, try for just a little bit longer than we want to, we’ll figure each other out. I can honestly say I’ve never had a single incident in which I absolutely could not understand or communicate even a complex subject when both parties gave it enough time.
For example: The other day, I was watching TV with the family, when out of the blue, my host-sister jumped off the couch next to me and yelled something. Suddenly the entire family was on their feet looking at where I was sitting, and yelling something at me. I was really confused, trying to think of what I could have possibly done wrong. They were still pointing at me, so I just decided to join suit and stand up with them. My father pulled me towards him and pointed at the couch I was on, as my sisters tried to lift it up, and my host brother was holding on to the cat, trying to push him under the couch. They kept on saying some word and pointing at the couch. I could tell it was French, cus that’s what everybody tries when I don’t understand what’s going on—and it never works—but they do it anyway, because somewhere, deep within my whiteness, I MUST have some instinctual understanding of the French language.
They tried words, they tried acting something out, but I was still just staring blankly. Suddenly, Karim lit up like a light bulb, grabbed me by the shoulders and said, "Thome and Geeery." I said, "Huh?" He said, "Thome and Geery!" and pointed at the TV, then at the couch, then at the cat. I stared blankly as usual. My sisters were still yelling, and my Dad was still pushing the cat under the couch. Karim grabbed my head, turned it the cat and said, "Thome." Then he pointed my head at the couch and said "Geery." Then he pointed at the TV. Then, the world stopped and the gods of linguistic comprehension descended upon me, and it was my turn to light up like a light bulb. I grabbed Karim by the shoulders and said "Tom and Jerry! The Cartoon!" There was a mouse under the couch! HUMDU’ILLAH!!
I can’t put into words the feeling two people get when they FINALLY understand what the other is talking about. No matter how little of a thing they were talking about, it’s like the whole world suddenly makes sense. Like when you’re lost, driving around downtown with absolutely no clue where you are, then you turn a corner onto a street you recognize and suddenly you know exactly where you’ve been the entire time. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s seriously an orgasm of understanding (Sorry, there’s really no other way to explain it).
I’m floored by how much it’s possible to understand, how much I can accomplish, and how much I can bond with people on a truly human level without understanding more than a few words they’re saying. I don’t know if I’d call it a mythical language that all humanity understands, but trust me, there really is something more there—more than words, more than body language—there’s just something else there that allows people to communicate if they just have the time and patience to wade through all the words we throw around every day.
12-10-2007 3 MONTHS
Well, tomorrow is going to mark three months I’ve been here in Morocco. It’s crazy, if this were a semester abroad, I’d be almost done. I’d feel comfortable. I’d feel like I’d mastered the country, and be ready to go back. But now I feel like I’ve barely started. It’s like the last 3 months have just been preparing me to begin. Now I’m in my site, and it really is like starting all over in a new program. Unpacking again, adjusting again, culture-shocking again—it’s all just more constant this time—because during training I went to Arabic class for four hours a day, then went and English-ized with a bunch of Americans until I felt like studying again. During training—a hopped into a Moroccan community for a few days at a time, learned about it, worked with youth, then went back to Amercian-ize about it with the other Volunteers.
Here, it’s Arabic class all day. Every time I want to speak or understand a sentence, it’s like balancing an Algebra equation in my head. And anyone who’s taken an algebra class knows that there’s a point where the numbers just stop making sense. Unfortunately, I usually reach that point in the middle of a community meeting, or at least when I’m at home eating dinner, spacing out, when somebody asks me to "pass the salt." Then it’s like, out of the blue, I’ve suddenly been assaulted by a verb and a noun in a dark alley way and I first have to wrestle with "pass" and then with "salt" and then kick-box both of them at the same time so I can decipher the command I’ve just been given. By that time someone else has usually just grabbed the salt from in front of me, cus I’ve been too busy kickboxing, and I just want to yell "No, wait! I understood you perfectly! It just took me a minute!" But that would involve more wrestling, and with adverbs to boot, so I just keep chewing—cus you don’t have to conjugate to chew.
However, even if I’m mentally bloodied and bruised from all the linguistic cage fighting, I’m truly having a good time. Those little "Peace Corps-y" moments when your neighbors start saying "Salaam" instead of "Bonjour" as you walk by seriously make it all worth it. Just like anything else, it’s all about recognizing the small victories, and forgetting about the small defeats, because none of the defeats will matter 5 years from now. In fact, surprisingly few things that we worry about on a daily basis ever will.
Today was the big day. Finally, after almost 3 months of language, culture, safety and education training—after countless PowerPoint’s, frequent traveling, and rarely being unpacked physically or mentally—we are becoming REAL Peace Corps volunteers.
Our swearing-in was held at a ridiculously posh hotel next to Roman ruins that overlook the whole city of Fez. It was a gorgeous hotel, with a canopy, an outdoor pool, and immaculately dressed wait-staff. The whole thing had sort of a "This is your last experience with fancy Europeanized luxury for a long time, so enjoy it while you can!"
During our swearing in, there were speeches from the PC Morocco director, the US ambassador, a representative of the Moroccan government, and three of our trainees gave speeches in the local dialects we’ve been learning. The whole thing culminated with us taking the oath to defend the US constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, and to serve the Moroccan government to the best of our abilities. Then there we were! It was like graduation, but we didn’t have any hats to throw, so we just kind of stood there and smiled a lot.
Then we had a fancy dinner with lots of little French snacky things (another one of those "this is your LAST" moments). Some of our Moroccan host families even made it to the event!
We were all very excited to be done with training, but didn’t feel much different than we did before the ceremony, probably because it’s hard to be thinking "All right! I’m a REAL PCV now," while you’re in a swanky hotel eating French pastries. I’m sure that feeling is yet to come.
11-27-2007 TRAIN TO BEN GUERIR
It was a very spiritual journey on the train today. A lot of us were headed in the same direction, so we piled into train cars—a bunch of Americans with 2 years worth of luggage—and watched as one by one, our numbers narrowed down as people got off at their sites. While PC training was essential in preparing us linguistically and technically, we all agreed that, mentally, we were more ready to be a PCV before training. When you sign up for something like this, you usually have the mentality of, "Oh heck yeah. I’m gonna move off by myself to the middle of nowhere. I don’t even want to see another American for 2 years, and I’m gonna change the world!" But then, you meet your training group—a bunch of strangers who soon become your closest friends within a thousand miles, and the only people who really understand what’s happening to you. Then, all of the sudden, you realize you don’t want to leave them. And you’re tempted to count the months to your next training workshop when you’ll get to see them all again.
But, we all also agreed that the life we had during training is not what we signed up for: Classrooms, presentations, English, written tests, Americans, Americans, Americans, and frequent runs to the McDonalds in Fez (because even though you’d rather drink chlorinated butter than go to McD’s in the states, here, it feels like home). That’s not what we wanted, and that’s not what we were about to get.
As a PCV, when it was your turn to get off, as you watched the train pull away, you couldn’t help but feel that this was not just a train. It seemed like some magical chariot that just dropped you off into a completely different world, a world where you’re basically done speaking English. You’re done being understood. It’s a world where you’re no longer "The guitar player, the student, the person down the hall." Nope. Now you’re "The American." You’re "The English teacher," Now you’re "that foreign guy who lives in town who’s white but stares blankly at you when you say ‘Bonjour!’" Now you’re a symbol. Now you’re the stars and stripes. Now you’re the go-to for information on anything from George Bush, to Metallica lyrics, to phrasal verbs—none of which you really know that much about.
And you wonder if your view of yourself will change, as you spend 24 hours a day representing something of which you never considered yourself to be a representative. Suddenly, you’re dropped off in a world where "the American" is what defines you—not your name, not your hobbies, not your favorite food—your Americanism. And you didn’t even think "Americanism" was a WORD before this moment! But spell-check says it is, so apparently someone on the Microsoft Word programming staff has done the Peace Corps too….
11-28-2007 ARRIVAL
Got off that good ol’ spiritual train to Peace Corps glory, and my wonderful host brother, Karim, was there to meet me. He’s 24, splits his time between working at a cyber café and being the Vice President of the youth club I’ll be working with. He’s been my saving grace ever since I visited Ben Guerir. Just like most everybody else, he doesn’t speak English, but he’s got this miraculous talent for making me understand him, no matter how long it takes. I don’t know what he does (probably just talks to me like I’m a four year old and uses a lot of hand-gestures), but I’ve somehow been using him as a translator. Whenever some fast-talking Moroccan runs some intelligible Arabic by me, I just reflexively look at him, and he translates speedy Arabic into 2nd-grader level Arabic until I understand. He’s also been taking the time out of his day to take me around to the hundreds important offices I need to visit, as he guides me through the laughably bureaucratic process of getting me a Moroccan work permit (Plenty of jobs are generated by making sure you need to get at least four different stamps from four different people and four different signatures on at least four "essential" copies of four different documents, all of which need at least four 2x1 pictures of you stapled on top. It really does make work for people who need it, but by the time a person is standing in the fourth line for the fourth hour on the fourth day of attempting to APPLY to work, one begins to question which is the bigger monster: Unemployment or bureaucracy…). So I have to give a shout out to Karim—who’s probably currently reading this with the use of Google Translator (another fun trick he taught me)—because he really has been saving my sanity on a daily basis. Thanks Karim!
As Karim and I left the train station, the weekly souk (giant market) was just winding down. Sellers were packing up their crates of fruits, veggies, and live chickens, taking down their canopies, and packing up carts and donkeys. As always, the souk had left its mark of trash, peelings, and rejected goods all over the ground. We walked through the garbage and my newly graduated PCV mind thought "Wow, someone should come up with a wildly creative way to do a souk cleanup every week. Maybe that can be my first project with my youth center!" About that time, we turned a corner, and ran into a giant heard of at least 150 goats and sheep all running right at us towards the souk behind us. I looked at Karim with that "Is this normal or something I should be afraid of" look that I’m sure he’s already used to, and he just pointed at the goats, then at the soiled souk, then wiped the souk clean with his hand. The goats were the souk cleaning crew! Dinner time—it’s brilliant!
That’s one of the most important things they try to teach you in PC training—when there’s a problem you want to fix as a volunteer, there’s a good chance the locals already have a good way to deal with it, considering they’ve been living with the issues for generations. The idea of development is not always to bring in some new revolutionary idea that will fix everything—ask any PCV—those projects are usually the ones that fall flat on their faces immediately. The idea is to work within the local structures that are already there. Don’t reinvent the wheel, or in my case—the goat.
11-30-2007 ISN’T AFRICA SUPPOSED TO BE WARM??
What’s the deal here?? I’m wearing 3 shirts every day, and burying myself under 4 blankets every night and my teeth are still chattering! Isn’t this AFRICA?! I really feel like I shouldn’t be complaining, because I’m sure it’s much colder back home. But it’s a different kind of cold here. It’s not THAT cold, but the difference is, here there’s really no escape from it. All of the buildings here are giant, drafty cementy things that are designed to block out sun, and retain cold. I’m sure they’re wonderful in the summer, as they block out any sun, or even any THOUGHTS of warm—I swear they somehow AMPLIFY the cold and it’s actually warmer outdoors.
I remember winters in the US—I’d be absolutely freezing and frigid walking outside, or starting the car, but then I’d get home and crawl into a toasty warm house, or crank up the heat in the car, and life would be perfect. Here, in my concrete icebox, I can only replicate that feeling if I crawl under four blankets, cover my head, curl into the fetal position, and wait for my own body heat to create this little pocket of warmth that will stay as long as I don’t move an inch. Of course, I wake up in the middle of the night with my legs all cramped up, and have to weigh which one feels worse, cramping or frigid night-desert air. The cramps usually win. But I try to tell myself that it’s reminiscent of Tibetan monks folding themselves into the lotus position and meditating in the mountains. I just pretend I’m dealing with the pins and needles for higher spiritual purposes. If I’m lucky, I’ll hit Nirvana by 5:00am, reaching some other-worldly plane where my mind, my limbs, and the cold don’t exist—and I’ll be able to get some sleep.
I’d probably be fine if I could stay in my little blanket-womb all day, but unfortunately blanket forts aren’t conducive to youth work, so I have to get up and face the cold in the morning. Since the sky is always clear, during the day, I can usually catch some warm rays between the shadows of buildings outside (I swear there’s a tangible 10 degree difference between the sun and the shade). The only problem is, a lot of Moroccans I’ve met are fully convinced that the sun is bad for you. Yesterday, I was reading a book out on the roof of my host family’s house, basking in a glorious ray, when my host mom came up to hang some laundry out to dry. She immediately walked over to me, smiled, dropped a shirt on my head, and told me the sun was bad for me.
Ah well, when my own mom called me that night, I was able to tell her not to worry about me since there was still a woman in my life who was worrying about me in a highly irrational way as only wonderful moms can.
12-2-2007 OBLIVIOUS PUPPY
I’m in what I’ve now decided to call the "Oblivious Puppy" stage of my work and language learning. Mostly because, like a puppy, when I listen to people conversing around me, I perk up every time I hear my name, so I’m aware that they’re talking ABOUT me, but not what they’re saying. It kind of sounds like "Dadada dad a dadadadadadada CHRIS da dad a da dad dad a da ad AMERICANI dadadadadadadadadad CHRIS (lots of laughter) ad adadadadadadad CHRIS!"
Also, like a puppy, I spend my days understanding, and thus gladly following simple commands like sit, go, eat, sleep, eat, drink, eat more, youth center, eat, go, go, eat more. I have certain "masters" who I follow around whenever I need to go somewhere, and they show me off and people smile at my little Arabic tricks. It’s actually a rather enjoyable, oblivious life once you resign yourself to it for a while.
As far as communication goes, I’ve developed my own filtering system where I kind of decide from the gist of what people are saying if it’s something I actually NEED to understand, or something I can just smile and not my way through, feigning understanding. As days go by, a lot more conversations are starting to filter into the latter category, simply out of necessity and courtesy. It’s usually a much more pleasant experience on both sides if I just nod when they nod, smile when they smile, laugh when they laugh, and shake my head and say "God forbid" when they do. It’s amazing how much one can understand of the general mood and theme of a conversation without understanding a word.
I was actually just reading a book that talks about some mythical language in which all humans can understand each other without language, which under normal circumstances I would write off as BS, but here, I’m really starting to believe it. Mostly because there’s no other explanation as to how I’ve understood as much of what’s been going on in my life the last few days as I have. In the US, I’ve been so used to the simplest, surface level, communication that common language offers. I feel like here, with so many languages floating around, people are a little more attuned to communicating through other mediums. I can’t really explain it, you just sort of start to feel the conversation after a while—like when you watch the Spanish soap opera channel—you don’t actually comprehend what’s being said or what’s happening, but you still understand the human drama—who’s bad, who’s good, who’s hurting who, who’s in love with who, who needs something, who is longing, who’s sincere, who has good intentions, who truly cares—these are all concepts that don’t need words. We just recognize them.
But personally, I’ve spent my whole life relying on spoken language to convey all of this. Here—understanding little to nothing—I’m actually enjoying the very pure form of communication on which I’m forced to rely. Words are tricky. They can be misunderstood, said the wrong way, or just plain lies. When I can’t rely on the all-too-easy satisfaction of understanding someone’s words for their face value, I notice the hundreds of other things that are conveyed during communication (like in the Daredevil comic books where the guy goes blind but then all his other senses become superhuman!)—things that are often more true than the words themselves.
Don’t get me wrong, a lot of simple things end up taking a lot longer than they should to figure out. But Moroccans are miraculously patient. When I’d just as soon give up, and say "I just don’t understand you. It’s fine. Let’s just move on." They’ll always keep on me until I understand. Surprisingly though, usually if we give it just a little more time, try for just a little bit longer than we want to, we’ll figure each other out. I can honestly say I’ve never had a single incident in which I absolutely could not understand or communicate even a complex subject when both parties gave it enough time.
For example: The other day, I was watching TV with the family, when out of the blue, my host-sister jumped off the couch next to me and yelled something. Suddenly the entire family was on their feet looking at where I was sitting, and yelling something at me. I was really confused, trying to think of what I could have possibly done wrong. They were still pointing at me, so I just decided to join suit and stand up with them. My father pulled me towards him and pointed at the couch I was on, as my sisters tried to lift it up, and my host brother was holding on to the cat, trying to push him under the couch. They kept on saying some word and pointing at the couch. I could tell it was French, cus that’s what everybody tries when I don’t understand what’s going on—and it never works—but they do it anyway, because somewhere, deep within my whiteness, I MUST have some instinctual understanding of the French language.
They tried words, they tried acting something out, but I was still just staring blankly. Suddenly, Karim lit up like a light bulb, grabbed me by the shoulders and said, "Thome and Geeery." I said, "Huh?" He said, "Thome and Geery!" and pointed at the TV, then at the couch, then at the cat. I stared blankly as usual. My sisters were still yelling, and my Dad was still pushing the cat under the couch. Karim grabbed my head, turned it the cat and said, "Thome." Then he pointed my head at the couch and said "Geery." Then he pointed at the TV. Then, the world stopped and the gods of linguistic comprehension descended upon me, and it was my turn to light up like a light bulb. I grabbed Karim by the shoulders and said "Tom and Jerry! The Cartoon!" There was a mouse under the couch! HUMDU’ILLAH!!
I can’t put into words the feeling two people get when they FINALLY understand what the other is talking about. No matter how little of a thing they were talking about, it’s like the whole world suddenly makes sense. Like when you’re lost, driving around downtown with absolutely no clue where you are, then you turn a corner onto a street you recognize and suddenly you know exactly where you’ve been the entire time. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s seriously an orgasm of understanding (Sorry, there’s really no other way to explain it).
I’m floored by how much it’s possible to understand, how much I can accomplish, and how much I can bond with people on a truly human level without understanding more than a few words they’re saying. I don’t know if I’d call it a mythical language that all humanity understands, but trust me, there really is something more there—more than words, more than body language—there’s just something else there that allows people to communicate if they just have the time and patience to wade through all the words we throw around every day.
12-10-2007 3 MONTHS
Well, tomorrow is going to mark three months I’ve been here in Morocco. It’s crazy, if this were a semester abroad, I’d be almost done. I’d feel comfortable. I’d feel like I’d mastered the country, and be ready to go back. But now I feel like I’ve barely started. It’s like the last 3 months have just been preparing me to begin. Now I’m in my site, and it really is like starting all over in a new program. Unpacking again, adjusting again, culture-shocking again—it’s all just more constant this time—because during training I went to Arabic class for four hours a day, then went and English-ized with a bunch of Americans until I felt like studying again. During training—a hopped into a Moroccan community for a few days at a time, learned about it, worked with youth, then went back to Amercian-ize about it with the other Volunteers.
Here, it’s Arabic class all day. Every time I want to speak or understand a sentence, it’s like balancing an Algebra equation in my head. And anyone who’s taken an algebra class knows that there’s a point where the numbers just stop making sense. Unfortunately, I usually reach that point in the middle of a community meeting, or at least when I’m at home eating dinner, spacing out, when somebody asks me to "pass the salt." Then it’s like, out of the blue, I’ve suddenly been assaulted by a verb and a noun in a dark alley way and I first have to wrestle with "pass" and then with "salt" and then kick-box both of them at the same time so I can decipher the command I’ve just been given. By that time someone else has usually just grabbed the salt from in front of me, cus I’ve been too busy kickboxing, and I just want to yell "No, wait! I understood you perfectly! It just took me a minute!" But that would involve more wrestling, and with adverbs to boot, so I just keep chewing—cus you don’t have to conjugate to chew.
However, even if I’m mentally bloodied and bruised from all the linguistic cage fighting, I’m truly having a good time. Those little "Peace Corps-y" moments when your neighbors start saying "Salaam" instead of "Bonjour" as you walk by seriously make it all worth it. Just like anything else, it’s all about recognizing the small victories, and forgetting about the small defeats, because none of the defeats will matter 5 years from now. In fact, surprisingly few things that we worry about on a daily basis ever will.
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