Volunteerism, Chapter I

Blankets, that’s what I’d advise. Layers of long johns maybe, or perhaps try setting yourself on fire. Just long enough to fall asleep at least. Whatever works, I guess-- that’s what I’d suggest if you’re coming to Morocco this winter.

This morning, after looking for animal shapes in the clouds my breath made in the air followed by some serious motivational inner dialogue, I got out of bed and shuffled over to the keychain compass and thermometer hanging from a nail in the corner of my Moroccan map. The temperature read somewhere in the low 40’s and after a slight bit of confusion I found that North was in its usual direction.

Most houses here are built of cinder blocks coated in a layer or two of concrete. There is no insulation or heating system, and often there are gaping areas of wall missing; rooms are left exposed directly to the elements (though luckily not in this house). Sometimes there are rooms with-- get this-- no ceilings. “Outside rooms”, I like to call them.

But I’m not complaining, just observing. Things have been good here. On the 20th they bussed all of us to a posh hotel in Fez for a thankfully very brief swearing in courtesy of the Ambassador followed by some food and mingling with Peace Corps staff and members of our CBT host families. My host mom from Itzer (aka Pantsville) was there. Afterwards it was back to Azrou for one last night with all of my fellow train- uh, Volunteers.

Each time we’ve undergone a major change of environment so far during Peace Corps the weather has been cold and gray; it was no different the next day early in the A.M. as we said our sleepy goodbyes and lugged our things down to the bus station. The few of us heading to Marrakech that day had opted to spend eight hours on a souq bus, as the price was considerably cheaper than the train and the ride a straight shot. Twenty minutes into the trip as I “sat” twisted in my seat, the gentleman ahead of me reclined his seatback, conveniently allowing me to examine the upholstery at extreme close range. This was good, as the alternative was to gaze in horror out the window as our bus careened violently at a disturbing rate of kilometers per hour over the serpentine mountain roads. Then the vomiting began. Not yours truly, fortunately, but throughout the bus wafted the sounds of crinkling plastic bags and muffled retching. Cheaper than the train though!

But I’m not complaining-- just telling the story here. A good time was had in Marrakech; the last hurrah, I suppose. The next morning we went our separate ways and, after lingering a bit by myself in Kech, I arrived at the doorstep of my host family’s house. That evening after dinner, catching up with the fam, and making my head bleed by cracking my skull on the low door frame to my room, it came to my attention that a 5k race was being held in Town, and that I should sign up.

So, the next afternoon I found myself packed into a van headed 5k outside of Town with runners clearly more accomplished than myself. I could tell by their tiny shorts and by the way they, when the signal to start was given, disappeared from my sight within seconds down the road ahead of me. This will be good for integration, I thought as I ran alone on the gravel shoulder, avoiding wayward taxis. At the finish line quite a crowd had gathered, though they were mostly facing the other way and taking cell phone photos with the winners by that point. No matter, someone assigned to the task found it in her heart to award me with a participatory ribbon that is now hanging by my bedside.

It’s quite a feeling to wake up in the morning with no schedule, no one speaking English, and no obligations other than to do some Small Business Development sometime within the next two years. No problem! Exhilarating and daunting, that mix seems to follow me everywhere in Peace Corps…

Honestly though, there’s lots to be done.

I met up with a man named “José”, an English teacher at the local school (you’d think there would be some English speakers around, right?), who agreed to be my Darija/Tashelheit (a local Berber dialect) tutor. Peace Corps will pay for us to hire tutors for the first year of service. I had to register with the Gendarmes (local police), apply for a carte de sejour (residency card), and meet my counterpart, a man in charge of the local artisan community. They say that one’s first year is spent figuring things out-- getting to know people, improving one’s language ability, and understanding where the artisans are in terms of business and product development. It’s a very gradual and informal process; the speed of things here can supposedly be a source of great frustration to one still operating according to the American concept of time.

The “job” part of my presence here, in a nutshell, is to act as a sort of conduit through which the artisans can develop and expand and/or refine what they do in order to ultimately improve the quality of their lives. To motivate, empower, and introduce them to possibilities. To instigate changes where needed. This isn’t to say that these people are necessarily unhappy or consider themselves to have a poor standard of living, but we were invited here; our help was requested. That’s quite a broad, vague description, as there are a billion specific variables involved, but it’s accurate nonetheless.

I’ll figure it out as I figure it out.

Aside from the work assistance, Peace Corps’ purpose is to expose different willing cultures to one another, consequently (in theory) creating mutual understanding, respect, and widened world views. Cultivating an environment. You know, that whole “peace” thing. Naïve or not, I think that’s pretty f*@#ing cool. Almost freezing, in fact. I recommend blankets.

S-salam.