Running and Not-Running

Since January 8th I've been training for the Marrakech half marathon (13.1 miles) on the 31st of this month. Due to the close proximity of the race, the trick has been to increase mental and physical endurance to an adequate level within the time frame without injuring myself. So far, so good. Occasionally I am accompanied by my friend Abderrahim, heading out on the long, flat road west of town toward a neighboring village. Early in the morning, running alongside the groves of olive trees and open fields, the air is cool and clean. On the return trip we run facing the mountains as the sun peeks out from behind the long range of snowy summits.

Today was the longest I'd gone yet- eight miles round trip, and I felt like I could have turned around and done it again. Luckily the part of me that desires to maintain functioning lower limbs intervened, though before long I will be making that return trip as, bit by bit, I add the miles.

It's funny how you start to think about it: "Ok, well today I ran eight miles, so if I just double that and then add ten more, I'm already at full marathon distance!!"

I've been thinking a lot about distance. And time-- how malleable it is, how we can adapt to great quantities of it. The time required for PC service and the recent running have had me considering how such blocks of time change-- that the time or distance can always be related to a greater or smaller quantity, and thus can quickly expand or shrink in one's perception. I find myself often thinking of the twenty seven months spent here in relation to the span of an average lifetime or full scope of potential experiences, so as to reduce it into something more mentally manageable. The remaining ten and a half months can seem like such a vast stretch, though one can simply step back and perceive it as almost nothing-- a mere blink. Depends on how you look at it. Completing a time or distance seems more feasible as one successfully endures more and more of it-- those great lengths become easier to conquer as your mentality adapts, and one can continue to push the boundaries. Interesting also how perhaps the amount of personal growth and development within this PC experience is, due to the nature of the circumstances and environment, much more so than what would "normally" unfold, though I suppose that's heavily dependent upon one's attitude. Here I think back to my life before Peace Corps. I can't say that's something I'd care to return to (family, friends, and the beautiful Midwest excluded, of course!), though everything has led me to here, and for that I can't help but appreciate all of it.

Is this getting too sappy?

me, warming up at dawn

 

Alfayn u 3chra

Stephanie came out to spend Christmas and New Year's with me-- her third trip to Amizmiz, the first being when we met last December at Ami's. It was a long-anticipated visit, as I had literally been counting down the days since her departure last May.

It was a nail-biting experience for the both of us as she waited to take her plane from London into Marrakech. Due to snow and bad weather, her initial flight was canceled and it didn't look like she'd be making it in any time soon with the holiday travel rush. It seemed for a bit there that our time would be cut frustratingly short, though just an agonizing day of waiting later, she miraculously made it over.

The visit was thankfully long and leisurely; we spent time cooking at my place, taking walks up the mountain road and the mountain itself, had lunch with TeaMaster and my good buddy Abdel Ali, saw the place where they turn olives into olive oil via horse, grinding stone, and press, a Moroccan cooking lesson, and had some good conversations with my friends and classmates from the neighborhood. Christmas Day evening we spent with Donniell, by the light of my humble fake tree adorned with dental floss strung popcorn, feasting on a holiday meal or our own creation, as well as three (three!) desserts prepared by my sitemate extraordinaire.

Several days after Christmas we left town for Taghazout, a small coastal town I had heard about from several other volunteers-- a supposedly quiet and beautiful place, perfect for a romantic seaside getaway in which to ring in the New Year. After a six-hour trip via bus, taxi, bus, taxi, and another bus, we rolled in to town. Some hasty negotiations for an apartment stay and an exploratory walk around later, we realized we had come to a trashy, smelly tourist trap overrun with surfers. We spent some time searching for those quiet beaches, but only found stretches with garbage literally strewn thickly across the shore. We did find a rocky area near a heavily trafficked and camel-ridden (yes) footpath on which we were able to watch a distant area of beautiful surf:

Over dinner that night at our candlelit table plagued by the subtle-but-pervasive bouquet of rotting fish, scraggly stray animals, and repeated visits by a paint-huffing local, we opted to bail out of town early the next morning in order to spend New Year's Eve at my cozy residence. The travel gods were not looking upon us favorably on the return trek, however, as every step of our journey was a headache. BUT we did make it back safe and sound, even watching the clock of my computer turn to midnight in the seconds before falling asleep. Thusly went our twenty-four hour romantic seaside getaway.

It was tough to part ways last Monday, and I've had a bit of post-visit blues, though I'm getting back into the swing of things now. There's lots to work on and keep busy with. I'm going to begin building a website for the Amizmiz cultural tourism project. Just as I had resumed attending my English class, we were informed that the landlord needed the garage we use as our classroom, and went to find a big padlock across the door bolt. Our scheduled time normally spent in class each evening has been temporarily replaced by nightly walks around the neighborhood until we acquire a new place.

Lots to look forward to (visit to San Francisco in May, anyone?); I'm excited about the project here, and everything to come this year. Onward...