yessir

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.

Allah is at the Door

I sit behind a knee-high table in the salon each morning awaiting breakfast. My host mother appears from around the corner carrying a plastic tray on top of which sits an empty bowl, a pot of hot, soupy, oatmeal-like liquid called harira, and a small plate of dates.

“Kayn lbrd lyum,” she says, setting the tray down in front of me. “It is cold today.”

“Kayn lbrd bzaf,” I reply. “It is very cold.” I work on chewing the date fruit from around its seed and watch her open the front door and peer out into the street disapprovingly.

“Kayna shtah,” she says, before shuffling back into the kitchen, “there is rain.”

The harira warms me as I cup the bowl with both hands and sip from it. At this point I usually stare at the opposite wall and zone out deeply as my mind catches up with my body. This particular morning, however, an odd noise distracts me from my dumbed-out bliss.

“Gaaaah,” it cackles hoarsely.

Looking up in the direction of the disturbance, I notice my host grandmother in the corner, peering out at me from within a little nest she has made-- a blanket cave.

“Kayn lbrd,” she says, her voice warbly and unsteady.

“Mm! Yes! Kayn! Kayn lbrd!” I reply, exaggerating the motions of my mouth shaping the words and nodding emphatically. She is almost completely deaf. Seeing that I seem to understand, she nods and we frown together in mutual displeasure. I break eye contact and go back to eating. A moment passes.

“Kayna shtah,” she says-- this time with a little more punch to her delivery. I look up. Her eyes are both meek and half-wild, and she has raised both of her trembling hands to mid-chest level as though she might cast a spell on me or attempt my destruction with deadly energy rays from her fingertips.

“Mm,” I reply, nodding and smile-frowning. My host brother sleepily clops down the concrete stairs.

“Kayn lbrd,” he shivers….

On several occasions I have asked my host mother to show me how to make certain foods, as I’d like to be able to attempt some Moroccan dishes when moved to my own house. It usually goes like this:

My host mom calls me into the kitchen in the evening. Things are already in full swing; the pressure cooker hissing, the flames from the butane gas burners whooshing.

“Here’s what you do,” she says in Arabic, proceeding to demonstrate some variation of ingredient adding, kneading, or mixing. “Now you try.”

Within the first two seconds it is determined that I am doing it wrong. Way wrong. I could not, in fact, be doing it wronger if I tried. She takes over and finishes the job with the grace and ease you’d expect from so many years of practice.

“I need to write this down,” I say.

At dinner she gives all credit to me. “This is Samir’s bread! Samir made this!” If by “made the bread” she means “added bacteria to by touching it awkwardly”, that would be accurate. Still, so kind of her to say. She’s a good host mom.


Back to Grandma. A very sweet and well-intentioned woman, though this is often overlooked due to the bit of loony-ness she’s adopted with old age. She does her best to help out. For example, when my host mom insists my host brother wear a hat because of the cold, and he refuses, grandma tries to add a bit of wisdom:

“Yes! You should wear the hat because it is cold and when it is cold it is good to wear hats because the hat will keep you warm when it is cold! The hat! Wear it! Kayn lbrd!” Poor Grandma, no one listens.

One afternoon Grandma, my host mom and I were sitting in the second floor salon. I was reading, my host mom sewing, and grandma looking at the TV. The doorbell rang (it sounds like birds chirping). My host mom sprang up and hurried downstairs to the door. Grandma, not having heard the doorbell of course, asked me where her daughter was going. With my index finger I pointed up to the doorbell high on the opposite wall. Grandma looked upwards briefly then nodded gently in understanding.

“Ah,” she said, “….Allah.”

Poor Grandma. In the evenings after dinner when we all watch TV, my host mom and brother fight over what to watch. He wants soccer, she wants anything but. Whatever the program, he demands no talking during it. I get a free pass, however, should I say something. Sadly, Grandma does not. When my host brother hits his breaking point he jumps over to her, climbing on her, and screams into her blanket cave for her to shut up, literally an inch from her ear. It’s pretty harsh, and were I his real older brother perhaps a bit of “adjustment” would take place in such cases. But alas, poor Grandma.

I have a house to rent on the other side of town. I was hoping to be moved out by now but due to lots of rain and random obstacles, I’m at the host fam’s for a bit longer. I suppose I should cherish it while it lasts. They have gone “above and beyond” during my stay; such truly kind people-- endlessly patient and helpful. Though it’s time to leave the nest, it’s good to know I’ll have this family. Here, on the other side of the world, with people I had never met in a place I had never been to, I’ve felt as “at home” as one possibly could without actually being there. I am eternally grateful for their hospitality. I guarantee you no one will be serving me trays of warm breakfast at my new place.

Up next: My new place.

a.m.

I awake before dawn most days, a little after six. I imagine the light from my bedroom window must appear as a beacon to the darkened dwellings below--a strange figure, silhouetted, moves this way and that, darting from one end to the other, as I scramble to dress into clothes the same temperature as the frigid air in my room.

Pushing open the door to the rooftop I find things much I as left them hours ago. The stars are out, the moon gleams overhead. The air is still and sharp. The sun has yet to show signs of stirring from its nest behind the mountains.

By the time I've bundled up and made my way out the door onto the street, everything is colored a dark purple, and orange streetlamps still glow.

My footsteps in the gravel and mud echo down the rows of buildings. Not a soul is out; only the dogs are waking and gathering for breakfast around newly piled trash. A muffled voice glides on ghost radio waves chanting verses from the Qu'ran like a lost signal traveling forever out into space.

This is perhaps my favorite part of the day. The pre-dawn feels content with itself: it has no place to be but here, no regard for the previous day or the one yet to come. The past has been cleared by the sweeping arm of the night and the rush forward has yet to begin. When morning does come this sliver of stillness gently bows out with humility. But those twenty or thirty minutes in the twilight zone are, paradoxically, simultaneously, fantastically electric and deeply serene.

At the taxi stand, faceless men in hooded djellabas slouch over a single butane gas tank cooking their first tea of the morning as though they are performing some seance.

Light leaks into the day-- first pink, then golden. The snow on the mountains is perfect and I can't help but want to be there as I run towards the east, throwing rocks at too-curious wild dogs and choking on the exhaust of the first growling motorbike to pass me by.

Speaking of Talking,

I thought I should write a little installment regarding the new language, as it is such a central facet to Peace Corps life. The majority of training revolved around daily language sessions and now, at my site, learning, speaking, and improving my language ability is an everyday thing.

My confidence with the language comes and goes in phases. I'll have a week or two where I feel as though I've absorbed nothing new and have been repeating the same tired phrases endlessly. Sometimes it feels like I've forgotten half of what I've learned. When people (especially new acquaintances or in new situations) speak to me I freeze up and can't think at all. Contrariwise, there are times when I can blather on conversationally with a fair amount of creativity and ease. I find my listening comprehension to be much better than my verbal ability. What used to be strings of weird sounds are now words and phrases with shape and meaning.

I notice myself using the language more freely. By this I mean that in order to speak I don't always have to "map out" my sentences (conjugation is by far the biggest obstacle) before speaking them-- it's slowly becoming automatic. Very slowly, but that's fine. I forget that I've only been at it for several months. Even during the times where my competence seems to recede progress is being made; such times are natural and ultimately necessary and beneficial.

The tricky thing about my town is that one of the Berber dialects, Tashelheit, is spoken prominently. I can get by without having to learn this, as most people speak Darija (Moroccan Arabic) as well. Moroccans seem to be born linguists-- it's amazing. Many people know Darija, a Berber dialect or two, standard Arabic, and French from a young age.

I'm learning Arabic script as well, though this doesn't get top priority. It's coming along much more quickly than I expected and I can practice casually, reading passing signs or whatever's around-- just learning to match the symbols with their sounds. Of course, just because I can read something doesn't mean I can understand it; I still have to be able to translate it from Arabic.

I meet with my tutor once a week. I've kept a "language journal" in which I just write out the events of a particular day, tell a story, or whatever. I compile a list of questions I've been meaning to ask regarding vocabulary, grammar, etc. We go through the entries and make corrections. Last time we met, however, instead of this we just practiced conversation, something I found to be much more beneficial than using the journal. Both have their advantages, but improving listening comprehension and verbal ability is more practical at the moment.

Occasionally people in Town want to practice their English with me, and I my Arabic with them. So on goes our conversation in two languages, each of us speaking the others'. Cultural exchange? I hope so.