Through the Window

Ten-hour bus rides are fun. Especially when they turn into twelve hours when you get a flat tire on the road. All twelve of which you spent staring out the window, because the road is too windy and your stomach too upset to do anything else. And at first, you are frustrated, because you have a book to read and you really want a nap.

But then...you start to actually look. Not mindlessly, not wishing you were doing something else. You start to look, and you see, and you wonder.

You see the landscape changing, from lush green

to spots of green

to mostly just brown.

You see construction sites, and their materials, and their methods. How does that work? Why do they do it that way? You know a little bit about construction here, and the differences, but why are they that way? Does it have to do with the climate? With the culture? Where do these differences come from?

You see colorful laundry and colorful carpets hanging on the sides of the road, draped over short walls and prickly bushes and what looks like wire. The carpets are for sale, but the clothing is there to dry. Why there? Why not on a clothing line? Is it that much cheaper, or is there another reason? And wow, think of the time it took to do all that wash, likely by hand. You think of the woman in 1984, the one who is described as spending her life doing laundry. Do these women ever feel that way? What would they say, if they saw you taking pictures of nature's drying racks?

You see men irrigating fields, and you think of the methods used on the farm at home, and you wonder how they compare. It looks like flood irrigation; where does the water come from? You know there's an aquifer- is that the main source? What are the common crops here, and how much water do they need? 

You notice the phone lines that get in the way of your photographs, and they make you pause. Not every town you pass has phone lines. There are satellites on many roofs, but not all of them. What is it like, to live without those? To live in a world where you don't need those? Does all our technology make our lives better, or would you be comfortable living where cell phone towers and Internet access don't dictate your happiness?

The bus passes through a city, and you get your camera up just in time to catch a picture of his man, wheeling a bicycle with cow hooves hanging off every side. Oh, the things you see!

The bus passes roadside stand after roadside stand, some more elaborate than others. You admire the pottery, the carpets, the knickknacks you see. They shine in the sun, like they want to present their best selves to you as you speed by.

You notice a field of a yellow grain - wheat, maybe? It's full of men holding a tool in their hand - a scythe? You don't know. You can guess, you can imagine, but you have no experience with this kind of crop nor this type of farming, so all your thoughts are pure conjecture. But pure wonder as well. They move so fast, these farmers cutting their crop. How do they do it? Their hands fly, and the wheat falls, and the bundle is tied and left behind before you have a chance to blink. It's beautiful, the field of half waving stalks and half cut and shining bundles.

You pass so many different types of topography- mountains, plains, greenery, desert. You notice the rocks change color during one portion, changing from the browns you've seen all day to a unique dark black. Interesting. You watch the cliffs flash by the bus windows, and you study the rock formations and the marks in the stones, trying to remember the geology you learned in school four years ago but also mostly just admiring nature's art.

You pass buildings and homes and fascinating architecture. People working in the fields, people working in the yard, people sitting in the shade and watching buses go by. You pass children playing by the side of the road, more games of street soccer than you can count. Grandparents and infants and pets and livestock; all these lives so different than yours. It's a privilege to witness them, if only through the window.

You stop in the city for lunch, and you see this adorable girl playing on the steps while her family waits for the bus to leave again. It makes you think of the families you know, here and back home and everywhere else. All these differences you notice, all these strange and interesting new things; it's nice to be reminded that we're all the same in the end.

The Ladies of the Hair Salon, anthropologically speaking

My host sister leads me to a curtained doorway on a Moroccan side street and pulls me inside. I'm apprehensive, excited, anxious; I'm about to see the inner sanctum of a demographic to which I've never before had access.

The ladies of the hair salon.

Whether they abide in a physical hair salon, as is seldom the case, or whether they function among us, it is quite easy to spot an LHS (Lady of the Hair Salon) when you see her. She's fashionably dressed, capable of taking the most unfashionable discards and creating an outfit of beauty. She knows words like 'bronzer,' and her make-up kit is a marvelous thing. We know her by the way she walks, the way she holds herself, the way she presents herself to the world. She is an LHS.

It is hard, sometimes, to enter a group to which one does not belong, but this group has long invited me to enter. It was I who hung back, reluctant to give myself over, not knowing if I would emerge a changed woman. It is difficult to suppress your innate personality for the sake of integration, to give up the core of who you are in order to make yourself more like the peoples around you. My core personality could not be more perplexed by this group. When my fashion consists of ponytails and tennis shoes, when my make-up kit includes three items and one of them is toothpaste, when I had to Google the word 'bronzer' before I wrote that... it's clear that I am not an LHS.

Today, though, it was clear: they weren't taking 'no' for an answer. And thus, I found myself going behind the curtain and venturing into a whole new world.

I was greeted immediately by the Moroccan hairdressers, efficient women who were capable of divining my needs despite the language barrier and my lack of knowledge. I submitted myself fully, undergoing the most extensive transformation I've experienced in all my travels. My hair was sprayed and blown and pulled and clipped and a variety of other past participles that appear to be unique to this particular social group. This was followed by the transformation of my face, as layers of a variety of smooth creams were applied to my skin and eyelids and lips. I sat as still as I could, afraid to so much as blink in the fear that they might misunderstand my intentions and potentially drop mascara in my eye. It was difficult, I grant, as my eyes fought their attempts, but sheer will prevailed, and I was soon made over.

Next came clothing, as we left the salon proper and returned to the native dwelling. A blue jelaba (more jargon, which I understood to mean the style of robe native to Morrocco) was waiting, and the LHSes wasted no time in stripping me of my ties to the outside world and cladding me in its silken folds. My feet were tucked into lopsided white shoes, taller in the heel than in the toe, magically making me taller when I walked. Or, at least, they were meant to make me taller; I do not appear to have the genetic make-up that permits one to totter on such shoes, but perhaps it is something I can develop in time.

When my makeover was complete, I was led into a room full of friends, who cheered when they saw me. I felt a redness rising on my cheeks, but that may have been due to the pink powder that had been dusted over my cheekbones earlier in the day. We partied all afternoon, getting henna on our hands, eating delicious treats, dancing to Moroccan music. There was an aura of festiveness and revelry in the air that seemed peculiar to me, given that I was so dressed up. How can one be so festive when one's clothing does not let her breathe and one's makeup does not let her blink and one's shoes forbid her from moving?

I was intrigued by the behavior I saw, so like any anthropologist, I took advantage of my opportunity to observe. I was amazed to discover that the LHS aren't so different from you and me. First, in observing the atmosphere of the salon, I noticed that despite the efficiency, each woman was treated to a period of personal attention as she underwent her transformation. She put herself in the hands of a professional, relieving herself of the responsibility of caring and thereby freeing her brain waves for other things.

But more than her brain is freed. This appears to be a place where, despite the emphasis on being "made over," the LHSes can be free of judgement, whether their own or someone else's. She finds release there, an escape of sorts. Here, in the inner sanctum, she can laugh and joke and chatter with like-minded individuals, and she can do so without fear.

I do not feel this way when I step foot in a hair salon, but I can relate to the feeling. It exists in other communities; I feel the same when I dance, or when I read, or when I play a good game of soccer. When I let go of reality, when I enter a world of other people like me, I don't have to worry about how I appear to those around me. I am removed from myself, and at times, that is a joyous way to be.

I next attempted to understand the reasons behind the frequent forays to the hair salon. All of these women are beautiful anyway, and besides, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Why spend the money and the time to change your appearance if it doesn't need changing? It is a conundrum that I have long labored to solve, and I think I at last observed the answer. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The LHSes find their beauty in a hairstyle and some eyeshadow, and for them, that attitude doesn't fade when they step outside. In knowing that they feel beautiful, they become beautiful, which adds a spring to their step and a confidence to their actions.

Again, other social groups can relate to this feeling. I know what it is like to carry myself with pride, knowing that I just beat my 5K time or that a magazine wants to publish my work. These elements of my being and my life give me confidence, just as the LHSes gain confidence from their time in the salon, and both of us complete our activity with slightly higher self-esteem than we had before.

My final observation was this: revelry is also in the eye of the beholder. If you are most comfortable, most confident, happiest in silk robes and high heels, wear them. If you'd rather go wear jeans and a T-shirt and go square dancing, wear them. If you'd rather stay home and read a book, do so. Know who you are and what works for you, and don't apologize for it.

That said, go out of your comfort zone sometimes, not because you are told to but because curiosity is a blessing and the world is an interesting place. The LHSes and I have different ideas about how to party, but that's okay. Deep down, I still don't fit in the world of the hair salon, but that's okay too. We had a wonderful time together, and I came away with a deeper understanding on the elusive Ladies of the Hair Salon. Also with henna on my hands, which is pretty darn cool.

Nonverbals Speak Louder Than Words

Make no mistake; I like words. Spoken, written, recited, sung, performed. I love coming across beautiful written words that call to me. I love the sound of voices raised in perfect harmony. I love putting thoughts on paper in eloquent and expressive sentences, and I love seeing the power words have over us, the way they can change our thoughts and actions.

Which is why it's so incredibly good for me to spend a significant amount of time unable to satisfactorily communicate myself.

When I came to Morocco two months ago, I knew about twenty words of Darija (Moroccan Arabic.) I've never before moved to a country knowing less of the language and yet being expected to navigate the streets almost immediately, move in with a family within a week, run activities in that language within a few weeks, and pass a language test within three months that will decide my future in Peace Corps. It was daunting and overwhelming, and even though I am a more experienced and more confident language learner than most, there have been days when I questioned my decision.

The amazing part about the language-learning experience, though, is all the things you learn that are unrelated to vocabulary. One of those, I'm discovering, is that the way you speak is not indicative of who you are as a person. Or how smart you are, or how much integrity you have. You can learn a lot from what a person says, but quite frankly, there are a lot of falsehoods that come from between the lips. You learn a lot more from what a person does when they think you can't understand them. Or what you do when you know that no one around you has the least idea what you're saying.

And then, little by little, you stop saying those things that no one can understand, and you start focusing on what you can do instead.

Imagine that. Imagine that every sarcastic little thing you mutter under your breath went unregistered. We pretend that we say these things to ourselves, but if that was true, why would we say them out loud? No, the reason we mumble under our breath is so that someone else will hear us and understand that we are annoyed.

What if no one understood? Would you continue to mutter?

Imagine that every witty comeback you deliver made sense only to you. We prize a quick wit, the ability to hit someone with rapid-fire words, but how often do those words lead only to hurt feelings? When you don't speak the language, you have to carefully construct each sentence and consider each word, and as you stumble through the sentence construction, your wittiness (and your emotion) are slowly removed from the equation.

What if your comebacks scored no hits? Would you continue to fire them?

Imagine only speaking one tenth of what you do now. Imagine those intense conversations, where you just have to make your voice heard, and yet you can't formulate the words fast enough to have a say. And yet, we have two ears and only one mouth, many acquaintances and only one “me.” Would it be such a bad thing to have to listen instead of speak? To quiet our inner champion who yearns to sally forth into the battle of spoken word, and instead release the peacekeeper who hears what others have to say?

What if you listened more than you spoke? How much more could you learn?

I'm a lover of words, but as much as I enjoy reading and hearing words produced by others, I'm learning to love to listen. There's no sense saying words for the sake of saying words, but it turns out there's a lot going on in the world if I just shut up and open my ears to it. When I stop worrying about things to say...my Darija improves and I learn new vocab, but I also exchange smiles with people I wouldn't normally make eye contact with, and I become more perceptive to when a friend needs a shoulder for leaning on, and I get really good at finding a different way to say something. Apologies are less worrisome, because I just say it the best I can rather than searching for the perfect words. When I want to buy something but can't find it but don't know the words to describe it, I smile and shrug and decide I don't need it that badly after all. I actually listen when someone else talks (rather creepily, actually, because I have to stare at the other person's lips in order to really understand them when they speak Darija), instead of spending the whole time formulating my next comeback.

It's amazing the things I hear, when I shut up long enough to listen.

Imagining Volubilis

Archeological sites fascinate me, providing fodder for daydreams and questions, so spending part of this weekend wandering around the historical site of the ancient city of Volubilis (outside Meknes, northern Morocco) was a joy. I moved from building to building, wondering, picturing. What must this place have been like?

Imagine a city from 5,000 years ago. Imagine it being home to the Phoenicians in the third century, then becoming a Carthaginian settlement. Imagine its conquer by Roman centurions, in the years when Rome was powerful. As the olives and agriculture of Volubilis furthered Rome's prosperity, the city flourished. Picture this triumphal arch 

and these mosaics, testaments to the beauty of this town. Imagine what they must have looked like, what the people walking past them sounded like, the sights these architectural remnants must have borne witness to.

Imagine the town's pride as it grew into a  city to be proud of, a city with baths and temples and beautiful things. Morocco was the edge of the Roman Empire, but what did that mean? Did Christianity spread here? Did Volubilis witness the early Christians and their struggles?

Picture the day when local tribesmen overtook Volubilis and won her for their own. What did that day look like? How did they fight - by stealth or by strength? Did they creep into the city under the cover of night, or did they run through the gates with proud cries? And the Romans, sitting in their temples and their mosaic-ed baths - did they know what was happening? How did they react? Picture the destruction and the pain, all for want of a city.

Now we imagine Volubilis' period of change, from a Latinized Christian community to an early Islamic settlement. Imagine that. A city that watched the beginnings of Christianity is now on the forefront of Islam's growth. Can you picture it? Can you picture the people, so different from the Romans who once walked the streets. What language is spoken now, as people visit the market and chat idly with their friends? What is worn, said, used, done in their daily lives? 

Imagine Volubilis as she grows in glory once more, until she is the seat of power for the founder of the Idrisid dynasty. She witnessed the beginning of Morocco, all those hundreds of years ago. She watched customs get formed and changed, languages develop and merge and grow. Can you imagine?

Then, again, the fall from grace to rubble as the seat of power transfers to the city of Fes. How would a city feel, when power is taken away for a reason she can't understand? When the whims of men decide her importance, never mind the thousands of years she has toiled to serve them and make them great. She is abandoned, her glory faded, her people moved away. Earthquakes and sun and looters take their toil, stripping her dignity as they strip her of the few valuables remaining. Her ruins now are amazing, but they pale in comparison to what must have been. 

Don't you wish you could have gone on that journey with her, from Phoenician to UNESCO Historical Site, from Christianity to Islam, from one language to another and ending with the variety you hear today, a true sign of a tourist site. She's seen so much, Volubilis has. Can you imagine?

Musings on Life with Host Families

I've been with my Moroccan host family for only a few days, but already, they are wonderful. They've shown me around the city, taught me about a million vocab words, and been incredibly patient with my ability to only remember one out of every million words they teach me. I'm sure we're going to have fun together!

Adjusting to a new family has got me reminiscing about the many, many families who have hosted me over the last five years. If I'm counting right, I've lived with eleven different host families, for anywhere from three days to six months. Some were incredible, and have become lifelong friends. Some were a bit more difficult, requiring adjustment and more than one night of comforting myself with ice cream. All have taught me lessons about life, lessons that have an impact on me still today. I thought I'd share a few of these thoughts with you.

1) It's going to be a change. That's the point, right? If you didn't want change, you'd still be living where you lived before. Expect this change, and don't try to recreate your old environment in your new one.

2) The host family can't be the one to do all the adjusting. Many families are regular hosters, with new students/etc every few months. Imagine if they changed their entire lives to accommodate each person? Diet, schedule, language, etc. They are doing plenty of adjusting to fit you in; don't expect them to cater to your every whim. The more you expect it, the more resentful your relationship will become. It's hard to change all your habits, and you will be forgiven for clinging to certain things, but for the most part, try to model yourself after the household. Be as clean (cleaner!) as they are, eat when and what they do as much as possible, try not to disrupt their schedule. No midnight dancing around the house with music blaring!

3) That said, never be afraid to speak up. Your host family can't read minds. If you don't like a food, don't keep eating it and saying how delicious it is. In many, many cultures, it is rude to let guests go hungry, but for many of us, the constant pushing to eat (a sign of love) is draining and annoying. Learn to say no. If you are cold, if you are sick, if you need help: say something.

This especially applies if there's a serious problem. If you feel unsafe, if the environment is making you sick or unhappy, tell someone! I can't stress this enough. The organization that placed you with a host family doesn't want you to be miserable or in danger. I made this mistake once, thinking I'd just tough it out, because I thought that was expected. Nobody knew until after I left how unhappy I'd been, because I never said anything.

4) Try. We all love it when visitors make an effort to learn our language and customs. Host families are great teachers of these things. They know you are new to this, and most will give you an incredible amount of grace, especially if you are willing to laugh at yourself. I have a week's worth of stories about screwing up the language (just this week, I'm relatively sure I told my neighbor, a teacher, that I dislike teachers...) 

Try other things too. Try that strange looking food, that different style of bed, that Turkish toilet. You may learn to like it, or at least get used to it. Going abroad has taught me to like an awful lot of vegetables, because I tasted them and slowly but surely came to enjoy them. From public baths to horseback riding, sketchy roller coasters to fried grasshoppers- you never know what memories you'll make!

5) Be independent, but don't hesitate to ask. I've seen the look on host sisters' faces when they are asked to take me yet again when they go out with their friends, and that's when I know: time to get my own life. Living with a new family is draining for both sides, especially if language is an element. In my experience, though, it's easier for me to make a change than it is for them; they tend to fear being rude, even if they are secretly thinking it. If you cling too much to your family, they and you will be missing out. Find other friends, learn your way around, get involved in other things, say "no thanks" sometimes when your sister invites you out. Don't know how to do any of those things? Ask. They'll be happy to answer.

6) Your experience will directly correlate with the amount of effort you put in. You can hide in your room for months and ignore the family, or you can become a part of them. There will be moments when you need personal space; take them, and don't feel guilty if that's what lets you recharge. But do your best to join in activities, to help around the house, to show an interest in whatever they are doing. One of my favorite activities is helping my host mom cook- bonding and a cooking lesson, and often a language lesson too! (The lessons half worked. I speak the languages, but I'm still an awful cook.)

7) Give back. Your family will spend a lot of time giving to you- time, needed items, patience, space in their house. Show your appreciation; offer to make dinner, help clear the table, treat them to ice cream one night. It doesn't have to be a big production, but it goes a long way toward breaking stereotypes about Americans (and other countries) and toward building your relationship.

8) Watch your tongue. Cross-cultural relationships inevitably yield something discomfiting, scary, even sickening. Sometimes it's small: not wearing seatbelts, eating too much mayonnaise. Sometimes it's bigger, harder to swallow. I really struggle when my family doesn't treat their children well, or things like that. I have to remind myself that the best thing I can do is model other behaviors, rather than criticize theirs. You aren't there to "fix" them, no matter how much fixing may seem to be needed. Hold your tongue, bite back those harsh or condescending words. Once you've gotten to know them, you might be able to approach the situation better, engaging them in productive dialogue rather than just criticizing. And who knows? Along the way, you may learn the reasons behind the action, or discover that their way of doing things is actually better than your own.

Every host family experience is different, and that's part of the charm. But I hope these tips will help you enjoy your family and get the most out of the experience!

Salam, Morocco!

We've been here over a week now, so before we leave for training, I wanted to show a few initial photos I've taken of this country. It's certainly beautiful so far!

Our first sight of Morocco, as we stepped off the plane.

The view from the hotel where initial training is taking place.

We had a day off from training on Sunday, so a friend and I walked around to see some sights. We got to attend the international church, explore the market, and see some beautiful sights. These shots are from the cemetery. It was really sobering and incredible to wander through it.

We wandered the coast and admired the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

And we've spent lots of hours wandering (sometimes running, which is allowed!) the city and admiring its beauty.

Thus far, I like this country! It has given me a very warm mrhaba bikum (welcome)!

Peace Corps: application process

I've officially been in the Peace Corps for nine days, and it's been a whirlwind! Before I go into that, I want to put up a quick post about the application process. It's a cliché, I know, but since my journey was a little different that other people's, I thought it could be helpful.

 

September 30, 2012: Turned in my application.

 

November 2012: Interview (over Skype, on a night when the electricity was out. The sound of the generator made our conversation a bit difficult. On the plus side, the fact that I was wearing a chadar as we spoke probably gave me a bit of credibility when I said I thought I'd be able to handle the challenges of the Peace Corps!)

 

December 12, 2012: Received my nomination for the Health Sector.

 

December 13, 2012: Request for medical paperwork for pre-clearance. (In my case, they wanted documentation on the severity of my asthma. It's different for each person, obviously. My paperwork was slightly complicated by the fact that I wasn't in the States and didn't have an available doctor who knew my medical history. I ended up getting it filled out over email, giving electronic consent for the release of medical information.)

 

January 2013: Received medical pre-clearance.

 

February 15, 2013: Email saying that I was 15 days late in turning a legal kit, which I couldn't remember receiving. This took several weeks to sort, because I was in Afghanistan at the time. There is no reliable mailing service there, so although they had sent the kit to my address, it never arrived. I also didn't know to be looking for it, until I got this email. (I later realized that they had mentioned the legal kit in the original nomination, but I didn't notice the part that said it'd be coming by mail.)

 

March 14, 2013: Went to Japan to visit my friend and picked up the legal kit that the Peace Corps mailed to me through her. The kit required fingerprints, but unfortunately, the Japanese police weren't willing to do that for me.

 

March 30, 2013: After spending two weeks chasing every possible avenue, a friend in Afghanistan found a way for me to get fingerprinted at the Ministry of Justice. Afghanistan (and Japan) only use fingerprints for criminals and don't use them for background checks, so they didn't really understand my request.

 

April 2013: Dropped my legal kit in the mail (Meaning that I handed it to a friend who was traveling to the US and agreed to mail it for me.)

 

May 6, 2013: Submitted my updated resume.

 

May 6, 2013: Received an invitation to serve in the Peace Corps in Peru, starting in September, working in the Health sector.

 

May 13, 2013: After a LOT of thought and prayer (see my earlier post), I decided to decline the invitation, fully expecting that would be the end of my Peace Corps journey.

 

May 14, 2013: Received a second invitation! Morocco, starting in January 2014, working in Youth Development. I was so thrilled and relieved!

 

May 18, 2013: Accepted my invitation and received my Next Steps: Medical Clearance, Resume and Aspiration Statement, activities and forms, passport, legal eligibility, reading materials. I was in Afghanistan, with rather slow Internet, so I wasn't able to get started on most of it, but I did so as soon as I got home in June.

 

July 10, 2013: Submitted my updated resume and aspiration statement.

 

August-November 2013: Finished all the documents and trainings on the New Volunteer Portal (safety and security, living abroad, etc). Completed all medical tasks (Physical exam, lab work, immunizations, dental exam, dental x-rays). Got my official Peace Corps passport, student loan documents figured out, Morocco welcome book read. It was a lot of paperwork; I'm lucky I ended up with a January departure instead of a September one, because there's a good chance I wouldn't have gotten it done.

 

December 2013: Lots of packing, packing, packing! Also a trip to Afghanistan thrown in there, so it's a good thing I kept my personal passport while I was applying for the official Peace Corps one.

 

January 2014: Packing, saying goodbyes.

 

January 12, 2014: Off we go!