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.

The First Noel

Last weekend while contemplating death on the bus to Marrakech, my thoughts were thankfully interrupted by the realization that Christmas would be here soon. It wouldn't be here exactly, but it would be somewhere. Without the sensory reminders of Xmas (lights, music, advertisments) one tends to forget about the holiday altogether. Without the religion to back up where the commercial and decorative elements fail to impact, Christmas seemed to be a time at least to appreciate everything and everyone you appreciate, or would like to. But wait, is that too much like Thanksgiving? And why just the one "season" or day? We could make it a regular thing, yeah? Without all the fuss?

Perhaps that would be diluting the concentrated "fun"; tradition + nostalgia + anticipation seem to equal lifted spirits in many cases, and at least a "season" provies many with the opportunity (or, er... obligation?) to visit loved ones.

Enough self-indulgent ruminations on the meaning of Christmas as ruminated by Nathaniel Krause; let's get to the self-indulgent memoirs of life in Morocco as memoired by Nathaniel Krause.

So here, in the High Atlas mountains in the Islamic nation of Morocco, Africa, I spent Xmas Eve sipping hot tea in front of a humble but fancifully decorated fake tree with my good buddy and site mate Ami and her visiting friend from America, Stephanie. We listened to some wonderfully horrific music-- Crosby Croons the Christmas Classics or something, cooked a bunch of food, ate a bunch of food, opened presents, chatted with family back home (thanks for the calls and e-mails everyone). It was downright merry.

A great last few days, in fact-- something to combat the withering sense of purpose and feelings of uselessness common in a Volunteer's first few months of service.

I'm anxious to get out of homestay-- another month seems like an eternity, but I'm sure there will be unforseen benefits to the time spent here. Having a place to live until I find a house is one that jumps to mind. Speaking of which, I have baited some hooks around town in hopes of finding a place. People seems eager to help and for that I am grateful, but we never seem to actually go see houses. It's been difficult to judge how active to be in such a situation, but we'll see. I'm considering hiring a simsar, or person whom you pay to find you a house, in order to hopefully speed up the process. Another situation in which I have to remind myself to be patient; that things take much longer than I'm used to in order to "make progress". I do have a deadline, however, and I don't want to have to rush a lack of progress as January winds down.

That's about it for things here at the moment. Peace Corps staff drove something like eight hours last week to deliver me a sweet new mountain bike. Have a look:

I'm sure I will further camoflague myself into the society pedalling my shiny red TREK through town. If I only had some sort of bright blue helment that I'd be required, under threat of immediate expulsion from Peace Corps, to wear....ah yes, here it is!

Happy Holidays to everyone back home as well as to my fellow Volunteers. I wish you all the best, all the time.

At the risk of

habitually updating only during times of considerable event or circumstance I thought I should provide this stunning development:

Today I bought galoshes.
For galoshing.

l-Eid Kbir

12/09/08

Today is l-Eid Kbir or “The Great Feast”, a religious holiday on which families slaughter a sheep in sacrifice as Abraham once did in substitute for his own son, as Islamic history tells us.

For the past week or so I had a companion on my floor of the house. Kept in a makeshift cage in the area across from my room, he mostly ate hay and bleated dishearteningly well into the night. We never really became friends but still, I was sad to see him go. This morning he, along with what must have been hundreds of thousands of his brethren across the country, with a slash of a knife, exited this earth in a pool of blood.

Sort of. Most of him is still here.

I returned home this morning at the beckoning of my host brother; the deed was about to be done, he said. I walked up to the roof area near my room in time to see the sheep, my irksome companion, in his last seconds of life on the concrete floor. Blood was splattered about, his throat cut, body twitching and occasionally thrashing as the butcher held his legs. When he stopped moving they hung him up by the tendons of his rear ankles *shiver*. Before that, however, they inflated his skin (to ease in its separation from the body) by cutting a hole in its coat and blowing. An inflated sheep, seriously. They proceeded to skin and disembowel it, placing the organs meant for consumption into buckets and trays. In order to remove the feces from the intestinal tract, the man-- I will never forget this-- placed his lips directly to the sheep’s rear entrance and blew forcefully several times. You could see the “digestive material” moving along through the transparent bulbous tubes of viscera dangling from its abdomen and, with the aid of a little water, it fell out in brown pebbles onto the ground from some severed end.

Still reading?

Its body, legs broken, hooves chopped off, decapitated, eviscerated and hollow, hung there from the ladder propped up outside my room. Its head, eyes still open, is sitting atop the heap of skin and fur nearby. I think I ate parts of it for lunch just minutes ago. Not the head, I mean. But that will come soon enough.

Kids have been out in the street, screaming and making taunting-sounding chants down the alleys in anticipation of something ominous to come. Men dressed up in goatskin suits and others with masks and black paint on their bodies (called harmas, I believe) roam the streets with wooden sticks, harassing and chasing people, stopping cars, and terrifying children who are obviously loving it-- all in good fun (I think) in a very Halloween-esque fashion.

Halloween and Thanksgiving, that’s what this holiday feels like. The togetherness, the visiting of family, the bickering, the mass slaughtering of animals, the costumes, the kids running around outside, and of course the eating and eating and eating. Though the official holiday is just today, the celebration will continue throughout the week as we make our way through the remaining sheep parts. I think brain is on the menu. Mbruk l-Eid!

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.