The First Two Weeks

5/19/2010

I have been in my site for two weeks now and am beginning to settle in nicely. My service got off to an inauspicious start with a solid week of Dysentery (yes, like Oregon Trail) and went be with very little accomplished by yours truly. I stayed in bed, went to the bathroom every half-hour (which is not easy; squatting is difficult when you’re dehydrated), and watched TV on my computer. A course of hardcore antibiotics cleared me up and I am feeling great now, although I have no false hopes of staying this way for long. But hey, while I am well, I should write a blog entry! So, after my first wasted week of dysentery induced fog, here is a full report on week 2!

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I started my week with two days of traveling to Errachidia for a two hour meeting with other volunteers concerning our evacuation plan (just in case…). Traveling involved a four and a half hour transit (Mercedes Van) ride from my site to my souq town and then a one hour taxi ride from there. I enjoyed seeing my friends again, especially two of my CBT mates (you know who you are!). We talked and had our meeting, and hung out in the Café Imichil, which has extensive shady gardens and serves chilled banana juice, which is as good as it sounds. I ate a wonderful sandwich from one of the vendors near the bus station; it was fresh bread (a round, cut in half like a pita) and stuffed with eggs, something like sausage, fried potatoes, and spices. This was made even more sublime by the fact that it was the first real food I had eaten after a week of malnourishment!

My friends and I stayed with another volunteer in a town south of Errachidia; located in the Sahara just north of Erg Chebbi. Our hostess was (is) an excellent cook and we enjoyed a dinner of made-from-scratch Buffalo Chicken Pizza! It was absolutely incredible and made better by the fact that the only hard cheese available in this part of Morocco is Edam, which is amazing anywhere.

The next morning, after an unsuccessful attempt to get my internet renewed (yes, I live in unimaginable hardship…) I was informed I needed a Cartes du Sejour which is a form of identification proving residence in Morocco. These are very difficult to get; more on that later. So, I shrugged off the general frustration of failure and went to breakfast at a high end “French” café and breakfasted with other volunteers from the region on runny (and delightful) eggs, pastries, and juice. Afterward, as I walked down the street toward the bus station I realized that this was the first time I had been completely alone and independent in a third-world city, and that I was actually comfortable with that. The throngs of people didn’t bother me and I enjoyed some urban anonymity for awhile (anonymity in my site is completely impossible; i.e. “fishbowl effect”). Then I saw a familiar face in a Café, it was a man from my village that now lives in my souq town. My predecessor introduced me to him days before and now here he was in Errachidia. I said hello (in Tamazight) and we had a short conversation before I continued on my way; two months and Morocco is already getting smaller.

I bought a bus ticket with no problems and rode the hour to my souq town. The bus was nearly empty, which was unusual, and I enjoyed having my window open with no locals around to protest the “bad luck and illness” brought in by the wind. After the bus ride (I will never get over that stretch of road, it’s breathtaking) I arrived just in time to reserve my spot on the last Transit of the day, which is something you have to do about an hour before departure. It’s an honor system, all you have to do is leave a belonging in the seat you wish to claim and nobody will move it until you get back. This can be a book or plastic bag and occasionally a vegetable of some kind. I went to get some yogurt (I am trying to do right by my antibiotic ravaged intestines) and returned just in time to grab my seat. I am glad I arrived early to claim a spot; at one point during the ride I counted 21 people inside the transit, with a few more on top. Needless to say, it was grinding up the hills and, in the Atlas, there are many of those to contend with.

I arrived back in my village and realized that, for the first time, I was alone in my site with the added benefit of being well. I went to my future apartment and sat for awhile, taking in the quiet, and then walked up the hill to my family’s house. I enjoyed dinner (mashed potatoes, Ait Hadiddou style) and after some conversation and some tea (which keeps getting better, the conversation, not the tea; that’s always good) I went to bed. I slept late because my shutters were closed and woke up refreshed. I had breakfast of coffee and bread and enjoyed conversing with my host mom. The rest of my day consisted of a trip to the post office and a trip to the Gendarmes where I learned what I needed to acquire my all important Cartes du Sejour. Otherwise I spent the afternoon napping and writing letters; I figure if I can just accomplish one or two things a day, at least at the beginning, I am doing well.

The next day, today, was great. I slept not quite so late this time and had breakfast like before. I took a shower after breakfast and spent the morning doing laundry, a chore which was supervised closely by my host mom. After hanging the clothes out to dry, I finished my lengthy letter to my best friend (in response to his equally lengthy work) and walked to the Post office to mail it. Before I left I found, quite unexpectedly, the missing document that was needed to apply for my Cartes du Sejour, a document that I was not supposed to have yet and that I thought I had to go back to Errachidia to obtain! I immediately went to the Gendarmes and after a long wait, one round of tea with the officers, and a few miscellaneous errands , I was all set.

After this, I walked down the street toward the center of town, greeting people in my broken Tamazight, until I spotted my host father in a Café on the side road. I sat down with him and one of his friends later joined us. We talked about Imilchil, about the weather, our work, basic guy stuff really. I left after having coffee and went back to the house for dinner.

Imichil is looking like it will be a great site and I am eager to settle in and find my place here!

Thanks again for reading,

Charlie

Zund Typhoid

4/11/2010

I think I will begin by posting a wise proverb that sums up my life right now:

“When different people behold a glass of water, the optimist says the glass is half-full; the pessimist says that the glass is half empty. However, the Peace Corps Volunteer says ‘Hey look! A bath!’”

Not quite sure where this quote came from or who to credit it to, it’s all over the other Peace Corps Blogs. I like it though. I was thinking about it this morning after I showered with a bucket of cold water, which is one step down from my usual “bucket and warm teapot” routine. It amazes me that things I would never dream of doing (let alone enjoying) back home I do almost every day here in Morocco. Hot showers and comfortable beds (or any beds) seem surreal even though it’s only been a month and a half since I left them all behind. I can’t remember what it’s like to be entirely clean, or healthy for that matter.

This last week has been hard, although I knew it would be stressful, since we are in the final countdown before our site assignments—in 4 days. It was supposed to be a week of hard language study before we were introduced to our final sites and host families; if all went according to plan. Ha. While I had a pretty upbeat Easter Sunday, the first one in my entire life when I was unable to attend a church service, and I felt good about my progress in language and life in general, it is the last day I can remember feeling healthy. My week started with a bad reaction to a beesting accompanied by intestinal distress of which I will spare you the details. The sting went away after 3 days of vigorous medicating my the Peace Corps Medical Officer but my gastric ills continued and were soon joined by a low fever and a mind-blowing headache which, after 48 hours, was finally cause enough for me to get picked up and taken back to Ouarzazate in the back of the Peace Corps landcruiser.

Riding through the city, feeling sick and looking out over the press of people, vehicles, and livestock, helped me realize just how far from home I really was. The doctor informed me, via translator, that I had a nasty intestinal infection “most like, and related to, Typhoid Fever”. I suddenly felt even farther from home, help, and all things friendly. Typhoid? I mean, I didn’t actually have Typhoid, but the name is legendary enough that it’s still scary to have one its relatives. Anyway, to make a long story short, I was put on another round of drugs, including a focused antibiotic, and am slowly recovering. All that’s left now is a barely discernible pain behind my eyes and a heavy, blanketing fatigue. Today, two years feels like an awfully long time. But I know it’s not and this kind of physical and emotional harrowing is what I signed up for. I also accept that I will likely go through far worse and far nastier before I service is up. But after you have been sick and exhausted for a full week, the voice of reason seems less, well… reasonable.

But hey, how about some good things about my week? Despite my illness, I only missed one day of class and I haven’t fallen nearly as far behind as I anticipated I would. While I was sick I finished two books. My host family has been wonderful although I bet they are convinced that Americans never eat after being around me. One night after being asked by my Language Teacher if they could fix me a small bowl of salted white rice for dinner that night, I realized to my dismay that they had prepared the same bland dish for the entire family and nothing else. I felt guilty and ill. Today is my off day and they let me sleep in for most of the morning without disturbing me. I am quite grateful to have them as my caretakers, but am carefully ignoring the fact that one they are also my personal “vectors” as well. If anyone remembers how Typhoid Fever and its relations are transmitted, you will understand what I mean by this. In other good news, my family’s cat had kittens and there are now two little furballs curled up in the storage room off the courtyard. They are adorable, their eyes aren’t even open yet.

So, this first low spot as been survived and will help me deal with the next one which I am sure will not be long in coming. Four more days and I find out my final site! I will post it when I find out.

Also important: I will be getting my new P.O. Box Next week. If you want to continue writing to me (or start!) then email my father for the new P.O. Box sometime before the end of May. They’ll be returning letters to sender from the Rabat address in June. Until I know more, I hope all is well in the states!

The First Month...

Much has happened since my last posting three weeks ago. I stayed in Ayt Gmat with my CBT group for roughly 12 days before returning to Ouarzazate for more shots (I can no longer get rabies!) and some overall group training. I then returned to Ayt Gmat for 6 days before coming back to Ouarzazate for the same reason as before. Another 12 day stint and I will return again, this time to learn the location of my final site (VERY important) and then spend the next week traveling to the site and staying there solo for a week to check things out; Peace Corps Morocco does not like surprises. After that, there is one more week of training and then a swearing in ceremony on May 3^rd, service begins on May 5^th. This is when my address will change!!

Thanks for all of the letters! They have been a joy to read and I have unfortunately been able to reply to only a few of them so far. Send me a letter whenever you think of it, I enjoy catching up on your lives back in the states. I have been learning as much language as I can hold, although Tamaziġt Berber is still extremely difficult. It’s coming right along though, and I am confident that I can achieve fluency in the first year of service. I have been sick; I knew it would happen and, now that it’s over, I am somewhat relieved that I am past that milestone. Sure it will happen again, but that first time of huddling ill and alone in the middle of the night in a bathroom with no toilet—that at least is over with. Unfortunately, it was on top of a chest cold that was fairly nasty as well. Welcome to Morocco, immune system!

I feel that I am learning much more about the culture of Morocco, piece by piece, one experience at a time, and there have been many experiences here’s an example:

A walk

My host sister Hayat, her best friend Hoodia, my little sister Nouhayla, and Anton a volunteer from a nearby village (who is learning Arabic instead of Tam) are accompanying me on a long walk through the fields to the Kasbah. All of the Peach and Plum trees are in full, fragrant bloom and the Almonds and Figs are just beginning to show small green fruits between their leaves. The air is full of farm smells and birdsong and the sun is bright overhead. The Kasbah looms ahead and I head down the path to pass under it and continue to the river, only to be stopped by my host sister who motions me to follow her through ancient wooden door, which is hidden in the shadows. I duck through the low portal and follow her into the first room where an iron pot is suspended inches above a cold hearth by a great chain, which is fastened securely to the vaulted ceiling. The room is dimly lit by a sunbeam that shafts in from a high window and by its rich golden light I can see over a hundred handprints lining the walls. My companions are quiet and lead me into the second room.

Here there are more shafts of light illuminating an earth and cement well in the center of the room a rope leads down into the depths and the pulley creaks as Hayat raises the dripping bucket and drinks deeply of the cool sweet water. Anton and I do not partake, we are still afraid of untreated water, regardless the source. The remaining water is poured out on the floor where it runs into a small drain that leads outside. Hayat returns the bucket to its place and leads me through a third door. This room is full of light; the ceiling is high and coated with cracked, white plaster. This white columns support the roof and are interconnected by graceful arches of stone. Dusty prayer rugs and reed mats lay strewn about, but the place is clean and kept up; it is obviously used. A quick little wave of foreboding rushes through my insides, as I realize that this is likely a holy place and that I, as a white, American Christian, am likely not welcome. At the same time the girls decide it is time to leave and we slip away unnoticed; my heart pounds but I am still excited about the gift I had been given and the piece of history I had been shown.

The girls continue to lead me toward the river. Dappled sunlight filters through the Date Palms and the fields grow closer together. The river comes into view, a muddy brown torrent of spring runoff from the Atlas high above. A rudimentary wooden footbridge leads across to another village of earthen houses clustered around the minaret of a central mosque. The women who are doing their laundry in a small waterfall at beside the bridge look up briefly as we pass and a couple wave, they are too far away to exchange a spoken greeting and it is questionable as to whether they would actually speak to me in any case. The gender divide is more apparent in some places than others.

Another Kasbah rises to our left, crowned with a gigantic Stork nest atop one of the ruined towers; we make our way over between massive Tamarisk trees and enter through a low door. While massive, almost six stories in places, this Kasbah is in worse shape than the last one and there are no subterranean rooms to explore here. It is also filled with trash of every kind, and I realize with regret that a site like this in the States or Europe would be a protected historic site, as opposed to a landfill.

Instead of walking back as I expect us too at this point, the girls keep walking through the woods until we abruptly enter another village. My bewilderment increases even more when I realize I, not only do not know where we are headed, but that I don’t even possess the linguistic prowess to ask where we are going. We stop next to a high concrete building and Hoodia pounds on the door. A woman pokes her head out of one of the windows on the upper floor and asks what we want and, upon seeing Hayat and Hoodia, rushes down the stairs to let us in. We enter and walk up the steps; I note that the building is unfurnished but filled with drying Alfalfa plants on every surface. We end up in a small upper room filled with Berber women sorting through wheat kernels with sieves. Hayat and Hoodia promptly join the women in their task, and Anton and I stand there confused about just about everything. Suddenly two rickety chairs are brought in and we sit to watch. I speak briefly with several of the women about their general well being and exchange the formal greeting. There is lots of hand shaking and stifled laughter at my ill-pronounced Tamaziġt greeting but I feel that I am understood by all. Tea is brought in and served with a mass of dried dates, likely grown within fifty miles of this spot, and we stay for a long while watching the wheat sorting, not daring to take part as a man doing women’s work in this culture invites shame.

This is just one of many cultural experiences that I am bombarded with on a constant basis and with even greater frequency as my language continues to improve. I have been on more walks since then, some longer, some shorter, most involving tea somewhere. Speaking of tea, it is amazing here; sweet mint tea seems to be the cure for any ill and is appropriate at any time of day. I have found the coffee to be less than adequate, as it is often weak and milky. Not a fan. But I brought a French Press with me so if can acquire my own coffee, I can prepare it well.

I have started running again and enjoy the constant panorama of rugged mountains that glow with an ethereal light in the early mornings; I couldn’t ask for a prettier country to serve in for Peace Corps. Well that’s about it for now. It’s my birthday today and I have received lots of comments and actual mail from a few of you guys, thanks for the good wishes! The other PCTs surprised me with a cake. So, like last year, I was given a mystery dessert by people I just met in a place utterly foreign to me. (Last year it was North Carolina).

I’ll post my final assignment as soon as I know more. All I have been told is that they are deciding between the Flyfishing mecca of Ifrane and the remote Eastern High-atlas near Errachidia. I was also told that I need to make sure I have all of my camping gear together because I will be spending the night out as I travel on foot between villages. Incredible, I have no idea what they actually want me to do! Exciting!

Until next time, write me some letters, and contact my Dad if you have any questions about my address: kolb@incitelearninginc.com .