Under the orange glow of the streetlamp, watching the kids walk by in the road-- the river of dust they’ve known all their lives, I feel a hint of what it’s like to call this place home-- that these streets have been mine as long as I can remember, that I've walked them a hundred thousand times and know each step. I feel this for one fleeting moment and think of the places I have called home.

I watch the kids walk by on the street in the night-- a hand in the pocket, a push on the shoulder-- I think of summer nights and the ensuing nostalgia for the perfect summer night-- pieces of memory mixed with things that never happened. I remember the things I used to remember. I think of country roads and of driving in cars. Faces and voices I used to know stir up and swirl around like the sediment in a creek bed behind an old house. I think of hunting sand crabs as a boy on a gulf beach with a dollar-store flashlight, a net and Orion’s arc overhead.

I think of strolling by the door to this very house years from now, pointing it out to you, rust peeking out beneath the chipped olive paint that once smelled new; I think of all the places I've called home and how I’ve never returned.

I watch them walking by in the street with the same friends they’ve walked with since always.

I think of America, of the Midwest, of the sweet smell of the fields in the air; I think of idly strumming a guitar on the edge of my bed by the open window, imagining a shoreline in the night and the many places I’ve never seen.

Operating Your Butane Gas Tank by Candlelight

Following a month of searching, bargaining, frenzied phone calls, late night drop-ins on my landlord-to-be, and a lot of help from my friends, I have a place to live. Whew.

As the place is either brand new or recently renovated, I spent yesterday armed with a broom, dust pan and squeegee cleaning up the plaster dust and mud left by the workers.

A description: Second story, two bedrooms, living room, big main room (aka place that will remain empty), bathroom with shower (no hot water), Turkish toilet (no seat), windows in every room, kitchen, black and white checkered tile floors, and a roof so big I could ride my bike around on it with ease. And the view is not too shabby:

Here's a link to a a few pages of pics.

We moved everything in yesterday, this time using a more modern version of the horse cart-- a truck. Now that the place is clean I can finally get around to spending the money Peace Corps gave me to buy stuff with, and just what is more American than that?

Despite having spent only two nights here and my things strewn around at random, I feel more at home here already than I ever did at the previous place. That’s probably because I know I won’t be kicked out in a week and let me tell you, that’s a nice feeling.

The landlord is in the process of fixing some problem with the electricity; only two lights and one outlet are working at the moment. I’ve been cooking and reading by candlelight in the evenings-- something I’m not at all opposed to, though a brighter source would allow me to more easily not see the food I don’t have. Looks like it’s time to head down to the market and hey, it’s s-suq day! I’d better go peruse the jacuzzi and billiard table selection before the good bargains are gone…

Five Months In

I left homestay at the end of January, moving into a house on the upper side of town in a quiet neighborhood at the base of the closest mountain near to my counterpart, tutor, artisans, and several friends.

Most of January was spent house-hunting. After a few false starts and with the help of several kind individuals I began to actually go look at houses, sometimes even from the inside. Through an odd series of events I’ve ended up here, where I am currently residing, on a road just outside the main area of this side of town-- in a house that is too big for me and nicer than I had ever imagined with four bedrooms, tiled floors and walls, a terrace in front overlooking a small garden area and further, the valley, the town below, and the eastern mountains. A million dollar view for about eighty-two dollars per month.

The downside to all of this is that after signing the rental agreement and Peace Corps’ approval of the place, it was sold by the owners and I have two to three weeks to live here and find a new place. It’s actually all my fault but, er, I won’t bore you with that just now.

So I moved in anyway, eager to leave my host family’s house and not having any other reasonable options. I hired men with horse carts to haul my stuff over, literally riding through town on piles of my possessions (which aren’t many, but still, kind of embarrassing…). Despite being out of homestay, I’ve found it trying to not be able to have a place in which to settle-- to still be “floating”-- that I can’t unpack yet even after five months.

Ultimately, I think it’s a good thing that I won’t be living here. Though beautiful, it’s very isolated and I think residing here would be a detriment to interaction in the community and perhaps to my sanity. I’m not here on vacation, after all.

I can’t say for sure, but at last there are some promising prospects and it looks like I’ll be in a place before long. I hope.

The past month has been the first time since coming to this country that I feel I’ve experienced genuine frustration-- a result of impatience getting the better of me. It’s certainly been an exercise in the cultivation of such a virtue. Learning when to step forward and when to let things work themselves out.

AND, though I don’t yet have a place of relative permanence, I’m at least living on my own and can enjoy cooking for myself, along with buying groceries, doing laundry, and paying bills-- all of those things you get to do when you move out of mom’s house.

I have actually participated in a few instances of Peace Corps-related work in the past few weeks. If I had to leave tomorrow I could say truthfully that I contributed something.

I attended a meeting at the local Chamber of Handicraft with many artisans, my counterpart, and a delegate from Marrakech who spoke in a concerned manner for two hours non-stop. In Arabic, of course. Needless to say, I didn’t catch all of it. Luckily my counterpart’s son who speaks English and who has become a good friend of mine was able to give me a summary afterwards. OK, so no contributions there. Still, something work-related.

It was decided, without my input, that I would begin to teach an English class to the interested youth. I declined, on the grounds that I’m not here to teach English (that’s more geared toward the Youth Development sector of PC), and that my efforts would be better spent working to understand the needs of the artisans. I did agree to informally tutor small groups, mostly just my little gang of friends-- something we’ve been doing all along.

Last night, however, I found myself in front of a blackboard in a small garage transformed into a makeshift classroom complete with desks, chairs, maps of the world-- and students. Oh well; I’m rolling with it. It helps them out with their English, me with my Arabic, and affords an opportunity to interact with people in a new area of town where the integration process has had to start from scratch. And it’s really fun.

It’s been a long, rainy past month with lots of what initially have appeared to be disappointments. Despite this, I think things are, as always, working out as they should, and that’s exciting and comforting.