5/23/10 Twenty-Seven Months

[[Yes, there will be lots of posts about COSing. Most are written, and just need to be typed up. But I'm only getting 2 hours of sleep tonight as it is, so I'm not typing them now. Just some thoughts from today...]

I've been out of touch for 27 months.

Not out of communication. Thanks to the miracle of teh intarwebs - with its gifts of Skype and email and Facebook and oh, yeah, my blog! - I've stayed connected to my loved ones.

But I'm out of touch with developments in America.

I hear about the big stuff. I watched Election Night and the Inauguration. I've heard about the tea bagger movement and the various economic crises.

But I've missed the other stuff. Like what movies have come out, and who's the latest "It Girl", and other things that honestly, I didn't mind missing.

I've also missed the recent waves of technology.

How much can change in 27 months?

A lot, it turns out.

iPhones. Dude, people can check their email and surf the web with their PHONES now. What's up with that!? Sitting in a cafe in Holland Park, London, I can confirm my flight and figure out how to get to Gatwick at 5am. Plus, with their built-in GPS and Google Maps and Enhanced Reality, people may never be lost again.

Computer chips embedded in ATM cards. This one's a bugger. I've been spending the remnants of my Peace Corps stipend, transfered into local currencies...but in order to get more funds, I need to use the ATM card attached to my American bank account. Problem is, my cute little twenty-seven-month-old card doesn't have one of these chips...which means that 90% of ATM machines reject it. Whoops.

Kindles. Which are just SO COOL. ::drooling::

How much can change in 27 months...

And in non-technology changes:

* The host cousin who was a silly 15-year-old when I arrived in Berberville is now married. MARRIED. (She's 17, he's 18. She met him the day before the wedding.)

* The host cousin who was a thoughtful 18-year-old is now married AND HAS A BABY BOY. (She's 20, he's 30. She met him TWO days before the wedding.)

* My host mom had a baby.

* My sitemate's host mom had a baby.

* My host aunt had a baby.

* My American nephews grew up from being a munchkin and an anklebiter to being a kid and a munchkin (respectively).

* I learned enough Tam to carry on complex conversations with nearly anyone. Well, any one of the 50,000 or so people who speak it. =/

* My American friends and cousins got married, had kids, graduated from their doctoral programs, and changed careers...without me being there.

Twenty-seven months.

In which I learned to walk down the middle of the street, how to eat *anything* with my hands, how to handwash anything, and other lessons that won't be terribly useful in the First World. (That first one has nearly killed me a few times already. Dude, you can't take me *anywhere*.)

Some cravings that have already been met:

* Mexican food

* Leafy green vegetables (including broccoli!)

* Seeing a movie on a screen larger than my laptop

* Lots and lots of cheese

* Root beer (including a root beer float!)

* Wearing a tanktop in public (and I have the sunburn to prove it - skin that hasn't seen sunlight in two years is *sensitive*, it turns out)

The "reverse culture shock" has begun. And will hopefully be of very short duration. :) 'Cause if I've learned nothing else from Peace Corps, it's how to deal with the unexpected with grace.

5/14/10 Berberville Says Goodbye

In its own, inimical style, Berberville has given me a goodbye present.

It snowed!

Yes, it's mid-May.

Yes, I had left laundry out overnight, since it was still damp after yesterday's clouds.

So, yes, snow piled up (about an inch deep) on every cranny of every recently cleaned garment.

But it's still the prettiest goodbye present it had to offer, and I'm taking it in that spirit.

And the sun came out this afternoon, so my clothes may yet dry before I have to pack them.

I'm leaving Berberville for the last time - for the foreseeable future, anyway, though I keep promising folks that I hope to return - in less than 24 hours.

This week has been filled with goodbyes - with PCVs and HCNs - and yet more giving away. Ama has a sister with eight children, so most of my clothes are going to them. (The thermals I'm not keeping are going to a newbie PCV, though.) I've made several dozen cookies, and have more to bake, 'cause that's part of the goodbyes, too....

Off for tea and cookies with yet another family!

5/2/10 Going Away, Giving Away

A few nights ago (Friday night), my SouqTown buddies got together for a goodbye party. Like thegoing-away, giving-away party I threw 27 months ago, this was both to see loved ones and to get rid of my stuff.

Thanks to the generosity of friends and family, I've accumulated quite a stockpile of care package boxes. I distributed these around my living room, labeled with the names of the various guests coming to the party, and proceeded to fill them with whatever I found. Spices, uneaten foodstuffs, books, appliances, things I've bought, things I've been sent, things I've inherited from previous PCVs... They all got divvied up.

Altogether, I filled 3 giant souq bags, which are about a meter long, half a meter tall, and a foot wide. That's a lot of stuff.

All of which I'm now free of!

My replacement is inheriting the vast majority of my stuff - my bed, my furniture, my giant buta heater, my stove, my oven - but I wanted to share the largess, plus my house has felt crowded lately, and I want him to have room for his own stuff.

So I'm about 100 pounds lighter (which made for a beast of a walk to the transit station, lemme tell you) and that much closer to being ready to leave...

...which, honestly, isn't very close at all.

But it's a step.

When we got here, our mantra was shwiya-b-shwiya. (Take the first sound from Garth and Wayne's "shwing!", add "ee" and then "uh". Shw-ee-ya.) Little by little. Step by step. We learned Tamazight shwiya-b-shwiya. We adapted to the culture and food shwiya-b-shwiya. And now I'm getting ready to go...shwiya-b-shwiya.

Two weeks.

I'll make it.

::deep breath::

5/1/10 My Last Month

Wow.

After months of not-really-thinking-about-it, I can't hide from it anymore. It's May.

MAY.

I swear out on May 19th (inshallah).

I will be in America on May 25th (inshallah - and that's a big inshallah, because I have a stopover in Iceland).

I will be in America THIS MONTH.

I will finish Peace Corps THIS MONTH.

I need to figure out how cell phones in America work. (Those shiny credit-card sized things with a thousand apps? They freak me out. Moroccan cell phones are candy-bar sized hunks of plastic that are good for calling, texting, telling time, and if you're really lucky, playing two games. How on Earth can you access the internet, take photos, play music, and read a novel **all on the same little gizmo**??) Do I *have* to have a contract, or can I pay-as-I-go like I do here? Will my candybar phone work in America, if I buy a new SIM card, or am I stuck buying a new phone?

I need to finalize my travel plans. Most of it is locked in place, but there are still a few holes. (Like will I take a ferry from Tangiers to Algeceris or from Melilla to Malaga? Or give up my dreams of taking a ferry across the Mediterranean and just hop a flight from Fes to London?) Including what will I do with my final days of service? A lot of my friends are getting together to party...but I kinda want to be a homebody and play with my baby brother and chat with Ama. On the other hand, I've still never gotten down to the south, and I'd love to visit Agadir at least once. And then there are the PCV buddies I haven't seen in months - I'd love to visit them one last time.

One last time.

I have to be at 72-hour checkout in two weeks, which means everything is "the last time".

And while my service in Morocco hasn't been all sunshine and puppies, it's been a good two years. Full of love and laughter and joy. And while I know my next adventure will also be rewarding and fulfilling...it's hard to say goodbye to this one.

Very hard.

2/20/10 COS Timeline

For the past two years, my service has been ticking forwards. Now, everyone has started counting backwards – counting down till we Stamp Out on May 19^th, 2010 (inshallah).

T-90 Days:

• Last chance to change your Home-Of-Record address
• Last chance to request an early COS date
• Last chance to request an extension of service

Within the last 90 Days

• Final Language Proficiency Test
• COS Physical Examination (usually referred to as “COS Meds”)
• Exit Interview with Country Director

T-81 Days

• Description Of Service (DOS) Initial Draft due to Program Manager

T-75 Days

• Last chance to change your Home-Of-Record address

T-50 Days

• Description of Service (DOS) Final Draft due to Program Manager

T-3 Days

72-hour checkout begins

Final Medical Clearance

T-0 …Ignition…Blastoff!

We stamp out. Our service officially ends. Welcome to RPCV status.

T+30 Days

CorpsCare Health Insurance, as provided free by Peace Corps, runs out. If you want health insurance after this, pay up.

T+60 Days or whenever you return to US soil, whichever comes first

Peace Corps Life Insurance expires. (For those folks who signed up for it, and had a few bucks pulled out of each month’s readjustment allowance to pay for it.)

T+90 Days

Peace Corps Passport expires. (Not legally – it’s good for years – but officially, we’re supposed to return them to PC/Washington. I’m not sure why, exactly. What’s wrong with letting RPCVs travel on a perfectly valid passport?)

T+18 months

CorpsCare Health Insurance expires

T+forever

Continue Goal 3 work – sharing Moroccan culture with Americans.

11/27/09 3id Preparations

I went over to lunch at my host family's house today, as I do most Fridays.

Baba is out of town, showing the mountain nomads to a tourist, so Ama has been rattling around the house alone for a few days. (Well, she still has two pre-adolescent boys, a 2nd grade girl, and an infant, but she hasn't had any *adult* company in a while.) So she was eager to talk.

I learned all kinds of interesting things.

For one, the gigantic mountain of ifsi I'd noticed in the courtyard had been brought down by her cousin, who lives in her home village, a bumpy dirt-road trek about 20km off the main drag. He'd brought it in his transport-the-tourists oversized-Jeep-like-truck, which is why the mountain of ifsi reached up to the top of the (one-story) house. I estimated that it would have taken four or five donkeyloads to transport that much ifsi without the truck.

I also noticed just how *big* the shrubs were. I'm used to seeing ifsi used as a whisk broom, because it's the right size, plus it's the only use for the prickly bush during warm weather. (In cold weather, of course, it's used to supplement the expensive firewood purchased from wood poachers who in turn steal it from distant National Parks. They bribe the forest guardians to allow them to poach the wood; the higher the bribes, the more expensive the wood to my friends and neighbors. This is reason #13 as to Why Kauthar Doesn't Have A Wood Stove, But Endures The Smelly Butagaz Stove Instead.)

So from whisk-broom-sized ifsi to shrubs a solid meter in diameter...I wondered if it was actually the same species.

It is.

Up in Ama's village, there are few people and lots of mountainside, where the ifsi grows.

Here in Berberville, there are *lots* of people and the ifsi only grows out by the lake and in the cemetery, so every year, the women gather pretty much every last twig. During the spring and summer, it regrows from its stubborn roots, but gets only a foot or less in diameter before fall returns and the women come back with their scythes.

Think about the difference in volume between a one-foot sphere (not that the bushes are perfectly spherical, but it's close enough for the thought experiment) and a meter-diameter sphere. Volume goes up with the *cube* of the radius, so these remote-village-ifsi are *enormously* larger than the little bitty ones I'm used to.

Tonight, when we're all sitting around the stove, waiting for the henna to dry on our hands, I'll talk to Ama and my siblings about the implications of this. The relationship between the over-harvested ifsi and its ever-shrinking size, plus what that means for soil quality and erosion. Of course, words like "erosion" and "resource management" only exist in Arabic and French, not Tamazight, so I'm going to have to think about how to phrase it in ways that will make sense to my illiterate-but-highly-intelligent host mother.

Other highlights from lunch:
* The king is coming! The king is coming! Sometime after l-3id. [[This makes the *ninth* time people have told me this in the past 20 months. I'll believe it when I see his motorcade roll into town, and not before.]]

* My little brother interrogated the entire neighborhood to find out who had picked up my cell phone after it fell out of my pocket. ("It belongs to our tarumit!") Only after he offered a cash reward did the finder speak up, and even then he wanted to keep it. Apparently, my brother and the other kid got into a fight over it, with the result that when I returned from my recent trip to Rabat, the other kid came up to me on the street and said, "Hey, I found your phone! Come over to my house and drink tea and I'll give it to you!" I thanked him profusely, but didn't offer cash, which is why Ama was now explaining to me that I'd need to make my little bro's promise good. Which I'll do tomorrow, when I stop into that household on my round of 3id visits.

* She asked after my entire extended family, knowing that in my travels, I'd've had the chance to reach out to them on Skype. She has a phenomenal memory - I suppose you'd *have* to, if you have no way to record information for later recall - and often asks follow-up questions to anecdotes I've told her weeks or months before.

* Ama knows just how quickly the next six months will pass, and how soon I'll be gone. She grew up with four sisters, but they've all scattered; she doesn't have any family of "her own" in Berberville, she said, except me, so she'll be very sad when I leave. The silver lining that she keeps reminding herself of: Someday, I'll return with my husband and cute children - one boy, one girl. I always answer inshallah or msh irra arrbi (as God wills or if God wants it) , but I know how much it would mean to her. And I do certainly plan to come back to Berberville someday. Spouse and kids? Yeeeeah, we'll see about that.

* She's been under the weather for the past few days, so hasn't been able to make the holiday cookies that she's known for (and that are expected fare, come the morning of the 3id). So when I presented her with a box of fancy cookies from Souqtown, she was tremendously relieved. When I told her that I planned to spend the afternoon baking more, she got even happier.

* She offered to let me take a shower in their guesthouse. (The main house doesn't have running water at all, let alone a shower room.) I countered with spending the night - if that was OK. I'd been waiting for her to invite me, but I guess I was too emphatic at the last 3id, and made her think I didn't want to. When I asked if I could stay over, she lit up.

So we parted with me promising to return around sunset, cookies and shower stuff and fancy-clothes-for-tomorrow in hand.

Which means I'd better start packing...

4/11/09 Moroccan Man-Touch (and Implications for Gay Travelers)

One of the first cultural differences noticed by Americans in Morocco is the practice that my friends and I refer to as "The Moroccan Man-Touch".

In America, especially among white Americans, there's a strong cultural taboo against physical contact between men. Handshakes are fine, back-slaps are permissible, but that's about it. Some men will hug each other, but many (maybe most) won't.

Morocco is different.

Here, men touch each other all the time. They hug, they lean, they hold hands, they walk arm-in-arm, they kiss cheeks, they cuddle. In public. It's the Moroccan Man-Touch.

I vividly remember one afternoon, when I'd been here for a week or two, I headed out of our hotel (in a fairly large southern city, popular with tourists) and passed by two snappily-dressed, coiffed guys holding hands and strolling the street. My knee-jerk reaction was, "Oh, look, a cute European gay couple!" (Which I thought to myself, but did not say out loud, lhumdullah.) A split-second later, I realized that nope, this is just a perfectly ordinary pair of straight Moroccan men.

Every time I travel, I think about it again. In my site and souqtown, I tend to avoid looking at men, for a variety of reasons. When I'm 8 feet in the air, though, looking through a bus window, I feel much freer to people-watch and even stare. So I see the man with his right arm wrapped around his friend's shoulders and his left arm rubbing his friend's belly. I see the guy standing behind his friend, arms clasped around his buddy's chest. I see the two men approaching the bus station, one with his arms hanging straight down, the other wrapped around his friend's arm, one hand clasping the elbow and the other the hand. I see the long, lingering goodbye hugs, with repeated kisses on each cheek.

It looks like a scene out of Provincetown, but these are all straight men. (Or so they'd call themselves, anyway, but that's an entirely separate can of worms.)

At the Language Camp, two of my male PCV buddies had a running contest going: They fully participated in the Moroccan Man-Touch with the male counselors/instructors, and competed to see which of them could touch a Moroccan man enough to make him uncomfortable. Neither won. They did both end up with a bunch of new friends. :)

Today we had a SIDA (AIDS) lesson with the students at the nearby middle school. Afterwards, we discussed the next lesson with some of the teachers, and showed them images we're planning to use. The images all relate to SIDA, some more obviously than others. The exercise is a creative one, asking the students to create explanations connecting the photos to SIDA. Sometimes the connection is pretty tenuous, as in, "These corrugated iron shanties represent a community in poverty, where the triple cocktail isn't available and therefore HIV is more likely to turn into AIDS."

One picture showed two men, smiling into the camera, one with his arm draped over the other's shoulder. In America, it would clearly be an image of gay men, and students' possible connections could be that AIDS first appeared in the gay community, or that AIDS continues to be rampant among gay men, or something in that vein. Here, though, everyone assumes that they're just two buddies, and the students say things like, "Even if you have SIDA, your friends won't abandon you," or "You can't transmit SIDA by hugging, so this is safe behavior."

Actually, that last sentence was the one I thought of. It wasn't until "Lahcen," my PCV friend who had brought the pictures, explained that it showed two gay men, that I realized that it hadn't even occurred to me. I've become so inured to the Moroccan Man-Touch that it hadn't even crossed my mind that these two men with their arms around each other might be attracted to one another.

And that's where the "Implications for Gay Travelers" comes in.

In America, gay couples often hesitate to show affection in public, for fear of attracting attention and/or harassment. Straight couples can engage in public displays of affection without a second thought (unless they're approaching public decency laws), but for gay couples, public affection is a nearly political act that requires no small measure of courage. Here in Morocco, it's the reverse. It's Hshuma (inappropriate, shameful) for men and women to touch in public (though, like in the US, handshakes are nearly always acceptable), but same-sex couples can be free to hold hands, link arms, put their arms around each others' waists, etc.

It may seem odd to promote gay tourism in a country where homosexuality is a crime, complete with a 5-year potential jail sentence...but as long as you limit your PDAs to the behaviors described here (as in, keep kissing and the rest for your locked hotel room!), you'll actually find a more tolerant populace than in most American cities.

Oh, and yes, women do engage in Moroccan Woman-Touch, but (1) It doesn't alliterate as well, so it's not as fun to say, and (2) It looks less startling to American eyes, because every junior high in America has girls clinging to each other all day long. Also, women are much less frequently hanging around outside - if they're out-of-doors, they're probably going directly from one place to another, not loitering for the fun of it, as the men do for hours at a time - so you just don't see it as much.

But here are some examples of the Woman-Touch: (1) Last time I was in a grand taxi for a few hours, the matronly woman next to me first put her arm around me, then pulled my shoulders down so that I was snuggled against her bosom. She'd noticed me dozing off, and wanted me to rest more comfortably. (2) Another time, a group of us were crowded side-by-side in a big room, for a meeting. The woman next to me leaned over to hear something better, and (completely unconsciously) balanced herself by holding my thigh with both hands. (3) During Language Camp, there were always more students than available chairs or sofas in the big room, so the girls routinely sat on each other for an hour or more at a time. (4) Whenever I'm seated next to a woman, I can count on her using my leg as an armrest. (5) In every medina in the country, you'll see women shopping together, bodies intertwined to some degree.

This utter unselfconsciousness about expressing friendly physical affection is actually one of my favorite aspects of Moroccan culture. I've always been a hugger by nature, and while it makes me sad that I can't hug my male PCV buddies in public, I can't help but smile when a Moroccan friend tucks her arm through mine while we walk through town. :)

May 19, 2008 Swearing in

Monday morning, between 9:15 and 9:30, we made our way from our little hotel to a huge 5-star palace of a hotel. (When we had done a mapping exercise early on in training, and had had to construct a map of our training city from memory, we had referred to this swanky place and its neighbors as the “Fancy Pants Hotels.” Because they are. When movie stars come to town, this is where they stay.) The Fancy Pants hotel lived up to its name. The decorations were breathtaking, the ceilings were enormous (in a country where 12-foot ceilings are standard, that’s saying something), and the courtyard was landscaped by an artist.

After a few rounds of oohs and aahs, along with a bunch of pictures taken of each other in our own fancy-pants finery (ranging from a three-piece suit to jellabas to the full spectrum of the business casual rainbow, we made our way up to a meeting/banquet hall where the chairs had been set up for our event.

Health and Environment trainees faced each other across the front of the room, separated one more time, in front of the podium for the speakers and assembled notables. Our families, Peace Corps Staff, and other invitees all faced the podium from a little further back. Come to think of it, I think the chairs were set up pretty much the same way for my high school graduation.

I took a bunch more pictures of the assembled Trainees, the big Peace Corps banner, etc, and then it was time to get down to business. There were a series of speeches, from Moroccan dignitaries (translated by our Training Coordinator, since only ~12 of us have learned Darija, which is what he was speaking); from our Country Director, who spoke in careful Darija as well as English, addressing our host families and us, respectively; from the Ambassador’s representative, who spoke in French and didn’t translate his remarks; and then from three Trainees. One representative of the highest scorers on the Language Proficiency exam, in each of the three languages we’ve been studying – Darija, Tamazight, and Tashelheit – gave talks. The Tam speech was the funniest, according to the laughter of the invited Morrocans. (It was also the only one I understood more than a quarter of, which may also be part of why I enjoyed it.)

And then came the big moment. The Country Director – who will be leaving Morocco before the next group swears in, so this was an emotional moment for him, as well – instructed us to raise our right hands and repeat, line by line, the oath we had all signed and sworn a few days before, to protect the Constitution and to serve the people of Morocco. Most of us were misty-eyed before we got through the paragraph-long oath. The girl next to me was clutching my hand for emotional support.

And then we were no longer Peace Corps Trainees. So long, PCT status, hello two years of service as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Then there was feasting, more picture taking…and there was great rejoicing. :) Eventually, we said goodbye to our host families – mine was one of the last to leave – and ran back to our little hotel to grab our bathing suits. The Fancy Pants hotel, of course, had a pool. And we were allowed to avail ourselves of it for the next four hours. And there was great rejoicing. ;)

Wednesday, May 14, 2008 Henna, cont.

The henna continues to catch eyes, mostly because it’s really beautifully done. (I have no modesty qualms about praising it, because all I had to do was sit there. The talent was all on the part of B**’s host sister, M**, who is an artist with plant-based dyes and a syringe. Yes, syringe. That’s how they apply it in such delicate lines: they take out the needle and use the narrow tip to dispense the henna.)

When I was hanging out at a tapas restaurant with a group of Trainees, some American tourists wandered by and chatted us up for a few minutes. We would have talked longer, but curfew is curfew. :) They noticed the henna, and asked for a closer look. I wondered for a moment if either or both of these guys were flirting with me – if they’d been Moroccan, it would have been downright naughty to ask to hold my hands, even for a moment – but then I remembered that these are Americans, from a culture where it’s entirely appropriate for men and women to hug in public.

Anyway, after they admired my hands, they asked where I’d gotten it done, and implied that they were interested in getting henna’d themselves. As I talked about it, I heard myself saying something I hadn’t consciously realized: “Henna is done as a gesture of friendship, usually when someone leaves or on momentous days (like weddings). I don’t think you’ll find anyone around here who will henna you for a price.” Before I said it, I hadn’t thought about it, and it made me all the more grateful for the gift M** had given me. Not only did she give me her time and her talent; this is also the gift of friendship, painted onto my hands for weeks to come. Like the tattoo on my back and the piercing on my tummy, this is a way of turning the body into a passport, stamped with important moments of life’s journey. The henna will fade, but the friendship that put it there is a gift for a lifetime. :)

5/10/08 Henna

Fellow PCT J** told me earlier that watching me type is distracting. My hands are covered with brown-stained leaves, flowers, vines, fans, swirls, and zigzags, so the movement of my fingers is eye-catching. Apparently. :)

Sunday afternoon, B**’s host sister henna’d my hands. She spent the better part of two hours on it, and the patterns are gorgeous. Each part of the hand is independent – no two fingers are alike – but they still harmonize in fascinating ways. She was incredibly thorough, too. When she started, I’d thought she’d do a simple pattern in the middle of my palms, but she just kept going and going. Towards the end of each hand, she would turn it this way and that, looking for more open skin to decorate. When the side of a finger looks like an inviting palate, you know you’re being comprehensively coated. :)

I left the henna on overnight, and put my hands in mikka bags, but the bags weren’t tied, so they slid up on the backsides of my hands. This means that my palms are covered with a bright orange design, the backs of my fingers are dark brown, and the backs of my hands (the backsides of my palms, to be accurate, but I don’t think that’s a real expression) are light brown. My wrists are so pale that the patterns almost blend in with my freckles, which are more or less the same color.

In the morning, I removed the henna itself – which is a paste made from a plant – which had dried into black, crystalline lines across my skin. As I flaked it off, it looked exactly like chocolate jimmies. (Chocolate sprinkles to the non-yankees in the crowd.) They were really well stuck on, so I ended up spending the better part of an hour prying them off my hands. Once I had more than 80% removed, I went out and used water to try to get the rest off. (I’d been trying to avoid using water, because the water isn’t working well this week – a pipe burst in the kitchen, so they’re keeping it turned off most of the time.) It took another 20 minutes before the black was gone and my hands were just orange-brown.

As I type this, it’s been a few days, and it’s still dramatic and dark. It makes me happy. Henna usually lasts for 3-6 weeks, depending on lots of factors, like how often you wash your hands and how long you left the henna on. Since mine was overnight, and I used rubber gloves when I did laundry (since Tide can erase henna like nobody’s business), I expect it to last for quite a while. :)

Oh, and one other aspect of the henna experience – you’re helpless while it’s drying. Anything you touch with your hands can get dyed orange, so you don’t use them. Someone else had to tie my shoes. When my phone rang, a (female) friend had to pull it out of my pocket for me. I had to eat with a spoon (in a culture that virtually never uses utensils). As H** told me, "Brides have to accept that they can't do anything for themselves." Because brides, like departing friends, are always henna'd. :)

5/10/08 Packing

I’d left myself lots of time to pack up, since this is the last time I’ll be in this village, barring a visit sometime in the future. But when you have three outfits and four books, it doesn’t take that long to pack – even with dawdling and picking outfits for the next two days (to give myself a buffer on doing laundry). I’d also brought a fleece jacket – a Christmas present from my big sis – which was utterly superfluous as a jacket but made a great pillow. :)

5/11/08 Mothers’ Day, aka our last full day in our CBT villages

The day started with a trip to our souk town to buy going away presents for my family. I’d hoped to get one big gift for the family--a playpen for the baby--but that didn’t work out, so I went with individual presents instead. I gave two scarves – one dark pink and one navy blue – to Sis-in-Law, mostly because she’s always been so sweet to me. Mma got a lovely black scarf with a subtle black rose embroidered at the corners. Little Sis got a pearl grey scarf with an embroidered pink rose. (Her choice.) I wanted to give her colored pencils, but there were no open bookstores/papershops in town. Little Bro and the baby both got tomobiles (cars). Little Bro’s is remote controlled, and the batteries are already fading. Bummer. I also got the baby an adorable little outfit that he’ll fit and/or grow into, inshallah. The gift I’m the happiest with is the drbouka for Middle Bro. Ever since I saw him rocking the rhythms on a table, I’ve wanted to give him a drum. Ideally, it’ll be a gift for the whole family; they’re such a dance-y, musical bunch that I think having a drum and drummer will be a source of joy for many evenings to come.

The buying and giving didn’t go quite how I’d intended, but this is a country without Christmas, and I’m not sure how birthdays work, so I’m willing to be flexible about that. Sitting here, I realize that I do possess the language skills – vocabulary, grammar, and syntax – to be able to say, “If you were buying a drum, which would you choose?” But when I was standing in the shop, all I could come up with was “Whatever you want” – Aynna trit – so Middle Bro knew from the get-go that it was for him. But that’s really not so bad. And he did give me a big Shukran! (Thank you!) as he tucked it under his arm and rattled out a walking-along beat for us.

This morning’s walk into the town – about 5 km – was as beautiful as I’d hoped. Gorgeous sunlight and skies, gorgeous flowers blooming everywhere, gorgeous countryside. One of the photos I took looks like an 18th (19th?) century landcape painting, and not due to any skill of mine – this place is just lovely. One picture I’ve shot repeatedly but never captures the effect is the view of the fields from the top of the bluff. You walk and walk along this rocky soil, and then a velvet green, lush valley appears, first as a sliver between this cliff and the matching one across the river, and then as a broader and broader swath of verdant life. It’s such a miracle, this recklessly spendthrift oasis of grasses and trees and flowers and vegetables. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it always feels unexpected, like a surprise pary or an unannounced visit from an old friend. It’s the gift of life to this village – my village – and I’m always grateful for the sight of it.

Today I got to stroll through the fields, brushing my fingertips along the sheaves of barley, ducking the bamboo leaves, dodging the muddy patches underfoot. I took pictures as I fancied – I think my most frequent word of today was “Blatti” – wait – but a photograph can’t capture the experience of the sun shimmering on the poplar leaves or turning the tumbling river into angel-white sprays. I can’t shoot the coos of the mourning doves or the chatter of the sparrows. Pictures of the storks only show long-limbed flight, not the majestic circling of those enormous creatures as they drift across the countryside or lower themselves delicately onto a mosque-topping nest.

My brothers and sisters are happy to pose for me, but I always manage to get them blinking or mid-word, so their beauty looks like heavy-lidded ordinary-ness. So maybe it's for the best that I haven't figured out how to post photos yet... There's so much more to Morocco than I can photograph. :)

Staging Day 2

Today was another great day, but this will be a short post because it was also a long day. :)

More Staging, which meant more discussions of safety, security, dealing with unwanted attention, what to expect during training, etc. Yesterday's creative expression was illustrating our anxieties and aspirations; today's was creating skits of different types, illustrating adjustment tools and integration/acceptance strategies. One was musical; I couldn't hear the first verse, but the second included the line, "Eeeaaating couscous / All our clothes are loose-loose", which I found hilarious.

Lunch was with another great group of PCVs (I love these people!), and dinner was with a group of old friends who came here to see me. I have such awesome friends! :D In a delightful turn, we ended up at the same fantastic sushi restaurant as a group of my new PCV friends, so I was able to introduce them to each other. (Well, there were about 15 PCVs, and the restaurant was narrow, so only two of my new friends were able to meet my old friends. But as it happened, those were the two I've spent the most time with, and who I'd already told my dinner companions about!)

What am I grateful for today? All the love my friends have shown me, not just in the past few weeks, but over the years. Decades, in some cases. :) These friends gave me two unbelievably awesome gifts: they bought carbon offsets for my flight to Morocco, and contributed to The Loret Miller Ruppe and Loret, Jr. Fund for the Advancement of Women, a special fund that the Peace Corps uses to support projects helping women and girls. I have such amazing friends!

What have I learned today? The Girl Scouts were right when they compared old friends and new friends to precious metals. I love my old friends so much, and I'm making wonderful new friends...and it's all so very precious to me. Love!

Current mood? Excited. Happy. I was in such a ridiculously good mood during dinner that I was almost bouncing. Even saying goodbye to such wonderful friends, sad though it makes me, can't take away the joy of knowing that I'm embarking on this wonderful ... journey. In all senses of the word. :)

Words of the day:
Zween(ah) - cool/neat/pretty/snazzy, usually used as a compliment to a spiffily-dressed person
Courgette - zucchini. Because apparently "zoo-kee-nee" is something very x rated in Moroccan Arabic.

Going away parties

I should leave the country more often. It's a great way to flush the luv out from the underbrush of propriety and social mores. :D

Seriously, I've received more hugs, free meals, and spontaneous expressions of affection in the past week than in most months. :) Here's a quick rundown:

2.08.08 - Taken out for dinner and hugs. (Zola - American fusion)
2.13.08 - Given a gorgeous picture frame and hugs.
2.14.08 - Taken out for lunch and hugs. (Capital City Brewing - American)
2.15.08 - Taken out for lunch and hugs and kisses. (Lugiano's - Italian)
- Visited friends at their home, given a goodbye pashmina and dinner (and hugs).
2.16.08 - Taken out on the town (and by "the town", I mean New York City) for karaoke and dinner (Acapella - Italian). Received hugs and kisses from my friend *and* half the wait staff. Affectionate people, New Yorkers. ;)
2.17.08 - Taken out for lunch, dress shopping, a movie, and many, many hugs.
- Taken out for dinner and hugs. (El Paso - Mexican)
2.18.08 - Taken out for lunch (Tao - Chinese) and the Zoo. And hugs.
2.20.08 - Taken out for brunch and hugs. (Panera - Soup/Sandwich Shop)
- Gave away snake, received fourteen (or so) hugs from long-lost friends. Good trade!
- Given going-away ice cream party and eclipse viewing and *lots* of hugs.
2.21.08 - Given help with packing ... and hugs.
- Taken out for dinner and hugs and kisses. (Eggspectations - Breakfast food all day) Given awesome wallet card commemorating amazing women.
2.22.08 - Taken out for breakfast and hugs. (Eggspectations - yes, it's that good)
- Given balloon and hugs.
2.23.08 - Given breakfast, pamphlet, and hugs.
- Given dinner and hugs. (Thanks, Mom!)
2.24.08 - Lots and lots of hugs.

My effort to avoid names is being strained by this post. But I realize that, if you're one of the people involved, you know who you are, and if you're not, it doesn't make much difference which friend did which thing. So ... my friends are totally, utterly, and undeniably **awesome**. Thank you all. :)

Going away ... giving away

As part of my plan to get rid of my stuff, combined with my desire to see my loved ones before I head for Morocco, my friend The UberHostess threw me a going away / giving away party. She came over a few hours early to decorate my apartment with streamers and balloons. (Note from two weeks later: I have to say, the balloons have been fun ever since. We still have them, and have used them for countless hours of catch, hackysack, and a series of practical jokes. Most recently, I had trouble getting into my room because a dozen of them were taped to the backside of the door, preventing it from opening more than a foot or so!) The place was festive and fun, plus there were maps of Morocco on the walls, both to set the mood and as part of her plans...

Long story short: A whole passel of friends came over, ate awesome food (brownies, stuffed mushrooms, tuna sandwiches, chips, clementines, and more), drank fabulous drinks (particularly noteworthy: cranberry juice, ginger ale, and orange slices in a lovely punch bowl), and talked a lot. 'Twas much fun. :)

The UberHostess also had a truly lovely idea, the second half of which I'm looking forward to more than I want to admit: she took pictures of everyone in front of one of the maps of Morocco (which, by the way, I'd bought with her, in my favorite local map store) and had them all write notes to me on note cards she'd brought. She'll print out the pix and put them with the notes into a scrapbook, which she'll send to me once I'm in country. I haven't seen any of the notes or pictures yet, and I'm already deeply moved by the thoughtfulness behind this idea. I have a feeling I'll be fairly overwhelmed by my friends' love when I open this book in Morocco.

After the munching and the toast (to me!), we moved into the Giving Away part of the evening, and I was delighted to pass off to my friends all sorts of stuff. Everything from DVDs and books to kitchen equipment and dishes was carted away to good homes. (The furniture will be going later, when I'm no longer using it.) I've talked about this in other posts, but the short version is, I'd rather have my stuff being used than gathering dust while waiting for my return.