Cars

America's dependence on automobiles gives me anxiety. Sitting in traffic, avoiding accidents, trying to park, buying gas, and paying for maintenance are requirements for holding a job, running errands and surviving the grind. It's so stressful.

Before arriving in Morocco I was living without a car at the edge of Missoula, Montana. Errands were a drag. I tried carrying beer in plastic bags on my bike's handle bars only to have them break through and explode in the street. I didn't know how to function without a car. My social life was hard to coordinate. Getting out of town meant finding a ride. I couldn't take myself or any of my things anywhere. I often felt stuck in my living room.

In Morocco though, not owning a car is not a handicap. With compact towns and an even distribution of shops and businesses, a car free lifestyle is encouraged. Errands, work, social functions, and even travel require little dependence on private vehicles. This is one of my favorite perks about Morocco.

With few privately owned vehicles, small town Morocco exhibits a different style of human movement. This morning I went shopping for breakfast. I walked less than a block away to get milk, bread, and butter, and then another two blocks to pick up some fruits and vegetables. With no windshield to hide behind, I greeted familiar faces and chatted with one of the store keepers. My errands provided the opportunity for positive interactions with other humans and it felt good. I was able to sync up with the rhythm of the day, feel the sunshine, and get a little exercise. It was convenient and pleasant. It felt like a very important part of the human experience.

Everyone in my town can get to where they need to be without the aid of a car. Though the population is somewhere around 15,000, density is high and everything is walking distance. Kids walk to school and adults walk to work. Socializing involves circulating around town to cafes or friends' houses. To bring the groceries home from market the women hire horse carts to transport their fruits and vegetables. Long distance taxis, buses, and trains provide the infrastructure for travel. It's a system of cooperation that forces face to face interactions to navigate the day.

In the streets of most American cities there are more cars out in public than there are people. Neighbors don't bump into each other often. People don't greet familiar faces on their way to the grocery store.  We miss our daily greetings and go about our business inside our own heads without connecting with the person selling us our sandwich. People of different social classes or age groups have little contact with each other and we struggle to develop empathy towards other demographics. Cities are designed according to the machine and not the individual. With urban sprawl and increasing commute times American's are spending a huge fraction of their lives inside cars, not exactly a relaxed natural setting for Homo Sapiens. It's a system of independence that promotes social isolation.

I understand why cars are so popular in America. Montana is a fun place to explore by car. I love driving to the Black Foot river in the summer and driving up the Bitterroot Valley in the winter to ski at Lost Trail. Nothing symbolizes freedom as well as having the means to explore a playground as big as Montana. However, it would probably be best for us to love our cars a little less. Besides encouraging social isolation, obsession with cars is detrimental to our health, safety, and environment. For a healthy and happy population, the automobile needs to be used in a practical non-indulgent manner. It's something American culture could work on.

There 4,000 tigers in the world.  There are 20,000 white rhinoceros in the world. There are over 1,000,000,000 cars in the world. That's more than any species of large mammal (except for humans).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Effects_of_the_automobile_on_societies
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lists_of_mammals_by_population

Harassment

It's different walking around with Erin, my site mate.  By myself, I can almost feel invisible when I want to be. With an American female walking with me, not so much.  Anyone that sees her takes an extra long look. The stares are suffocating.

But for her last night as a volunteer in town I feel likes it's important for her to get out.  She shouldn't spend her final hours in the apartment.  I want to show her that we can go out and enjoy a pleasant evening despite the attention she draws.  We'll go to a nice cafe by the garden and relax with the sunset.  I know she must be annoyed by the hassle of walking around, but being outside is worth it if only for the sake of leaving the apartment.

So we get a table on the sidewalk next to the garden.  We work on a crossword puzzle and chat about Erin's imminent transition.  She is about to head back to America now that she has completed her two years of service.  Such life changes conjure a wide range of intense emotions.  There is a lot on her mind.  The sun sets and we embrace the chill of the Autumn night.  Summer was hot.

From the darkness of the garden somebody requires our attention.  The man is asking me for a cigarette or a dirham (2 dirhams = an American quarter).  I shake my head and ignore him.

How will Erin describe her experience to her friends back home?  Most volunteers will tell you that Peace Corps is an incredibly powerful experience; an important step to understanding how to lead a fulfilling existence.  Most Peace Corps volunteers will also tell you that the experience comes with frustration as cultural barriers generate a sense of isolation.  Few volunteers extend service beyond the standard two year commitment.  Erin is not one of them. Soon she will be absorbed back into her culture; expressing herself freely without fear of judgement or harassment.  She appreciates the Peace Corps experience, but is ready to move on.

The man emerges from his dark corner and approaches our table.  His eyes are slightly glazed over and he mumbles as he speaks.  I wonder if he's been huffing glue, not uncommon in the town.  Erin asks to know what he wants.

"Give me a dirham," he says.

Erin tells him to go away.  He remains.  Again, we tell him to leave us alone.  He stands near our table with a drunk smirk on his face.  We try ignoring him.  But, he continues to be entertained.  I've seen such an expression in Morocco before.  I hardly ever receive it, but I've seen it directed as my Asian American friends, at my African American friends, and at my female friends.  It's a leer of racist/sexist amusement, and it is incredibly disturbing.

Soon, Erin cannot support his presence.  She threatens to go to the police and he remains unfazed.  She gets up and walks to the police station, which happens to be nearby.  I'm not sure if she is bluffing or not.  The man continues to enjoy the show he's created as Erin storms off.  I remain at the table.  The man is less interested now that Erin has left, but doesn't leave.  He waits for her to come back.  A few minutes pass and she returns without police aid.

I follow her lead and we take our coffees to a table near the entrance, where other customers are gathered on the well lit terrace.  I'm shocked that the man follows.  He finds a way to remain hidden and glower over our table at the same time. He's relentless.  We tell him again to leave us alone.  He remains at our side and unnoticed by the rest of the costumers.  I feel frozen, not sure how to get rid of him.  I wanted Erin to enjoy a pleasant evening.  She is the only female at the cafe and is getting harassed by the man in the shadows.  I wanted her to feel safe and I'm failing.

Erin steps up.  She goes inside the cafe to find someone to help us.  As she gets up a five dirham coin drops to ground under the table.  She walks inside and the man makes a move.  I grab Erin's bag unsure what the man might do.  He takes the coin on the ground and runs off.  I yell and make a lame effort to chase after.  I can't believe what just happened.

"Did you guys see that.  The thief, he stole five dirhams."  The men around laugh.  It's only five dirhams. Nobody consoles.  I just got owned by a glue-huffer and feel pathetic.  At no point during the entire ordeal did I step up to demand respect and now our dignity has been trampled.

Two employees then come out with Erin, trying to figure out what the problem is.  It's too late though.  The man got his amusement and then got some money.  He's gone and the pleasant evening has completely blown up.  Everyone stares at us whispering what I imagine are negative comments.  We want to get back to the protection of the apartment.  I pay the waitress, the only other female at the establishment.  She provides an apologetic look, and Erin's final excursion is over.  It's time for her to go to America.

The Immigrant

We find that with French we can hold interesting conversations. It's fun for him to practice English, and I appreciate him listening to my Arabic, but when we aren't necessarily looking to improve our language skills, French is our medium. We still stumble, but that's what makes our conversations charming. At one point Hicham wants to say “dice.” Instead of searching for the right word that I would understand, he flicks the lighter in the air, catches it, looks at it, and announces “five.” Immediately I understand his charade, and the conversation resumes. Shortly after I fall into a fit of laughter. Why the number five?

Together we make dinner for his last night in town. I fry some veggies while Hicham figures out how to prepare the sheep shoulder. Neither of us can cook well, but I've been experimenting and Hicham says he remembers seeing his ex-wife bake mutton. So we have some fun in the kitchen.

Hicham can be an intimidating. He is big; tall and muscular. His passion erupts with every punch he throws in kick boxing class. And he is so loud. Whether he is serious, or upset, or happy, he is so loud. I've never heard someone laugh harder. I've had neighbors tell me to be quiet on nights that Hicham comes over to hang out. However, behind his massive frame hides a philosopher, continually trying to work out his purpose in life.

He has let me into his thoughts, trusting that I won't think he is crazy. He worries about love, hoping to one day know a girl he can feel passion for. He worries about freedom, complaining that Moroccan culture limits his potential. Contemplating life's purpose since childhood, he has always felt different. While most other Moroccans found the answers within Islam, Hicham decided to look beyond religion. He studied biology at a University in Al Jadida, but struggled, and became frustrated with the education system. This followed with years of seeking pleasure through partying. When that did not fill his emptiness, he succumbed to family pressure and got married and had a boy. Again, he felt dissatisfied, lacking passion, feeling as though there was still another path out there that would lead to passion and happiness. He got divorced.

I have been told not to hang out with Hicham. Other friends of mine warn me that he is a little crazy and that I should be careful. He is a divorced father. He doesn't pray. He doesn't fast during Ramadan. From a Moroccan perspective these things are bad. Only a bad person would decide to not practice Islam. Only a bad person would see divorce as a solution. From an American perspective, however, I understand that Islam is not the only way. We don't agree on everything, but we listen to each other and learn.

After we eat my eggs and veggies, and my sweet potato fries, and his baked mutton, Hicham asks a favor from me. He is shy about it, but manages to politely ask for a suitcase. I agree to give him a backpack. He needs it. He is about to embark on the scariest of human experiences. Tomorrow, Hicham will board a flight to Istanbul and begin the clandestine life.

He is leaving everything to begin his search for freedom and happiness. He won't have shelter. He won't be able to communicate. Things will function according to a different set of rules. Everyone will be a stranger. He will be very alone. His existence will be illegal. No one will care about him. No one will love him. He will have no one to love.

But, he says he is excited. He says he is not afraid. He says he is so happy. He says he has been waiting his whole life for this. He says he needs things to function according to a different set of rules. He says he will find freedom and all the beautiful things in life.

Peace Corps is hard. Being an illegal North African immigrant in Europe is infinitely harder. Good luck Hicham. I hope you find your freedom. And thank you for showing me that migration is not always an act of desperation for the sake of survival, but sometimes an expression of freedom.

Hicham's best quotes:

“No freedom, No life.”

“If we could all get a Visa to go to Europe or America, there would be no one left in Morocco but the King.”

“Adventure is magic.”

and finally, in an attempt at English, while talking to me on the phone on his way to my house:

“I come in you.”

Second Language Acquisition

I learn Arabic and I teach English. I have never focused so much thought on language. I fumble with sounds attempting to communicate information through Arabic. Every English lesson I teach leaves me surprised, realizing I can't always make sense of my own tongue. I feel the kids progress with their English and compare it to my level of Arabic. I'm dedicated to experiencing and understanding language acquisition, fueling a passion for language that seems to be fully surfacing for the first time in my life. This is great. I find passion hard to come by.

It's rewarding to intensely try to improve my Moroccan Arabic. Every little piece that brings me closer to fluency is precious to me, and applying those little pieces to effectively communicate is a rush. I have not taken extensive pauses from actively improving my Moroccan Arabic. Day to day I cannot feel a steady climb towards fluency, since the different tools building the language all receive sporadic practice, but from month to month, growth is almost traceable. So traceable, in fact, that I traced it. This is how I visualize my attempt to learn a language:

The 'Level of Mastery' does not begin at 'worthless,' the way it probably would with an infant. Information can be conveyed without any vocabulary, and simple phrases can be memorized in a day.

At first, second language acquisition gets off to a slow start. Everything is new, nothing feels related, and words are easily forgotten. Learning the language seems impossible.

Then, something begins to click. When enough vocabulary is built, it is easier to find relations that incorporate new grammar and vocabulary. Associations to new vocabulary allow words to stick easier. Patterns begin to feel natural with grammar. The knowledge of the language builds on itself, and the 'Level of Mastery' begins to accelerate over time. This is where I believe I am at with Moroccan Arabic and I don't expect my skills to taper off anytime soon.

Inevitably, the 'Level of Mastery' flattens. A child will continue towards 100% fluency, but an adult, almost always, will not. Linguists have proposed that a second language is an independent system that struggles to operate in the same fashion as a native language. It is more mechanical and less natural, and students are generally only able to approach the fluency of a native speaker. Learners struggle to let go of influences from their native language. Corrections are not made to awkward, yet understandable grammar. For some people complacency takes over and the rate of acquisition flattens. Sometimes people stop studying a language because their professional or personal life stops requiring it. Practically everyone who studies a new language will hit a ceiling, unable to achieve fluency. It can happen to beginner or advanced students coming from all sorts of internal and external blockages. Linguists refer to this phenomenon as fossilization. Its a sad ending to the trajectory, but at least it has a cool word to describe it. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interlanguage).

In practice, my graph would not be so smooth. If you could actually measure 'Level of Mastery,' there would be all sorts of ups and downs and plateaus. How cool would it be to see those curves and their strange patterns? How would my inconsistent French studies compare to my more consistent shorter term Arabic studies? My graph for learning English as a child would shoot towards fluency. That has got to be one of my life's greatest achievements: learning English without understanding what the hell was going on.

For other foreign language learners out there: What would your graph look like? Did you experience different rates of learning? At what 'Level of Mastery' did you experience fossilization, if at all? Why did you experience fossilization?

Help

“Do you know how to buy a ticket?” A young Moroccan male asked me. I usually respond to questions from strangers by saying that “I don't know” or that “I don't understand Arabic.” This time however, I realized I can be of service. I could in fact show him how to buy a ticket from the machine. I could teach him a thing or two about his own country. The Casablanca tramway system is something I am more familiar with than many Moroccans.

In Peace Corps I've discovered that a volunteer must have faith in the generosity of strangers. It is our most valuable resource. Strangers have fed me, housed me, and taken hours out of their day to teach me something or to speak on my behalf. The first step in accomplishing even the simplest tasks is asking for help. Establishing oneself in a new environment requires embracing the hospitality that exists at the core of any culture. I suppose no matter the situation, being kind and accepting kindness is one of the defining cycles of the human experience. I know that's a basic lesson taught to any child, but it is incredible how often I forget to live by it. Anyway, this is what went through my head as I taught my new friend how to use Casablanca's tramway system.

I showed him what buttons to push. I told him when to insert the seven dirhams. I taught him how to swipe the ticket to enter the platform. I explained how our platform would go in the direction of Sidi Moumen, his destination, and how the other tram would go towards downtown and the beach. I pointed out the sign informing us that the tram would not arrive for another twelve minutes.

My friend was a local, and yet he depended on my help in order to get home. It would be his first time using the new Casablanca tram. Sidi Moumen was located at the very end of the tram line. All he had to do in order to get home was sit on the tram until the last stop. There was no way for me to mess this up. It was completely within my power to help this local get home. After being on the receiving side so often, it was exciting to have built up the knowledge and confidence to provide help to a Moroccan.

I was inflated with optimism as we got on the tram. My young friend followed me on. He sat next to me and listened attentively. I told him that I would get out halfway to Sidi Moumen and how he would get out at the final station. I described who I was and what I was doing in Morocco. I was speaking Arabic. I was completely in tune with the rhythms of Casablanca. Morocco was easy. I was high on integration. I was a bad-ass.

“Where are you getting off,” he asked me.

“I don't know the name of station. I will look and will know. I will see the taxis that go to my town.” I had used this strategy many times, and I believed that the process had become second nature.

“Ok. Do you have a facebook?”

After giving my friend my email address I tried to pay close attention to the stops. My taxi stand would be coming up soon. It was dark, and I it was difficult to recognize the neighborhoods. I focused at each stop. It will be arriving at any moment now, I kept telling myself, look for the big 'Total Gas Station.'

Suddenly I was very pissed off about our sitting arrangement. We were facing backwards, because that's the way seats point sometimes. I could see everything we had passed, but needed to turn around to see what was coming up. Every time I craned my neck to glimpse the future, I lost a tiny bit of confidence. Where the hell was my stop? I would have seen it. I would have recognized it. I wanted to change seats and face the future. I wanted to be able to look into the approaching distance and watch the dark urban landscape creep into formation so I could feel oriented. But I didn't want my friend to know that I needed help. He couldn't find out that my confidence was fake. I didn't want him to think of me as just another foreigner, unable to quite sync up with the flow of Casablanca. So I remained sitting backwards. The neighborhoods flew passed into the night, disappearing before I could make any sense of shapes and textures.

One by one the tram stations went by. Not a single one looked familiar. Our conversation had stopped, because I was becoming nervous, and I think my friend could tell. My confidence was deflated. I felt lost! I kept telling myself that my stop was still coming up. There was just no way I wouldn't have recognized it.

Finally, the tram politely confirmed that I still suck at Morocco “FINAL STOP: SIDI MOUMEN.” I had missed my stop and had ridden the tram all the way to the end of the line. Sidi Moumen is one of Casablanca's poorer suburbs, with a couple shanty towns scattered about. I was not suppose to be here and my friend knew it. I was embarrassed. He looked at me confused, wondering why I had remained on the tram this entire time. I expected him to offer help, maybe figure out where I was suppose to go, or mention that he had extra space if I needed somewhere to sleep. But he just thanked me, and walked home. I asked some people which stop I was suppose to get off at to find my Taxi stand. No one knew. I asked the guard to let me back on the tram since I had missed my stop. He told me I had to buy another ticket.

So I did, and got on the tram heading back into Casablanca. Hopefully I would not miss my stop again. And hopefully, once I got to my stop, taxis would still be running trips to my town. If I couldn't get back to my town tonight what would I do? Where would I sleep? Morocco scared me. I was helpless.

Friendship

After dealing with a final costumer, we are ready to go to the cafe. I help Adil close up his shop. I bring the mannequins inside and arrange the shoes on the wall so that there is room to close the shop's doors. Adil claims that owning a clothing store requires a seven day workweek since you never know when a big spender will show up, but besides that, it seems like a pretty nice gig. He mostly hangs out, listening to music or surfing the internet, taking an occasional hit from his pipe. More importantly he has the freedom to take short vacations, or afternoon coffee breaks with the local American.

Once all items have been crammed into the small shop, contained by locked metal doors, we set off for a taxi. It'll be my first time using a taxi in my town. I've used horse carts before, when the sun is too hot, or when there are groceries to carry, but never have I considered using a taxi. Moroccan towns are arranged into a clutter where everything anyone could need is no more than a few blocks away. The cafe we are going to though, is in the country side, a two dollar cab ride away. Adil says that its nice to enjoy a coffee outside of town, where the atmosphere is relaxing.

Late summer leaves the countryside brown and dead. Some fields have been plowed and seeded, in hopes that the first sprinkles of Autumn are on the way. One field acts as the local dump, ruining my attempts to consider the landscape beautiful. What is a coffee shop doing out here?

From the outside there seems to be nothing unique about it. It seems like a final rest stop for travelers heading into Casablanca. Upon entering, I am stunned by the waitresses. They look sexy, and that is not a typical look for girls in rural Morocco. I wonder if the cafe functions as a brothel during the evening hours. In town, there are a few cafes with women servers, most of whom also work as prostitutes. After greeting a couple familiar faces, Adil leads me into the courtyard. I am impressed by a green lawn and a flowing fountain. How fancy! I bend down to feel the fresh grass, a feature I miss from the American landscape. We claim the table nearest the fountain, to be tickled by its soft murmur. The only other costumers sit at the corner of the courtyard, puffing on their hash pipe.

Adil orders an 'especial,' which I believe to be a kind of beer. For some reason I have it in my head that the waitresses are prostitutes, and the clients smoke hash, and so there must also be alcohol. I start to change my order because it has been too long since I last had a beer, but Adil laughs and tells me that this is not a bar and that he ordered a shot of espresso. I settle for my coffee and milk.

And so I find myself in a familiar situation, chatting with a Moroccan at a cafe. For males in Morocco, the coffee shop serves an important social function. They watch sports on TV, or chat and catch up with friends. Business is often conducted within the safety of a cafe. Ideas are shared. Of course, it is a male only environment, and unless you are in a major urban center, it is rare to see any women at the cafes. Women go about their social lives within the home. Despite a western attitude taking hold in the cities and amongst the country's youth, most Moroccans continue to adhere to traditional gender roles. Fortunately I am a male (seriously, a male volunteer puts up with a lot less crap the a female volunteer), and I can enjoy my freedoms without being judged.

I enjoy my conversation with Adil. He understands my Arabic, and he forms his sentences cleanly, so that I can understand his. We use French and English to help clear any confusion. He is open minded and I find that I can be truthful about my opinions. Too often, I am ultra conscious of being in a foreign culture and sensor myself in order to be polite. With Adil, however, I can act entirely myself. I have no fear of him judging me, and our relationship is very similar to the ones I have with close American friends.

He is able to relate to me. This is partly because he is my age, single, intelligent, and able to keep up with the western zeitgeist through the internet. Mostly though, we relate because he has experienced life in a foreign culture. Ten years ago he flew to Brazil, where a visa is not required for a Moroccan entry. The idea was to start in Brazil, and figure out a way to sneak into America or Canada. Instead, he spent a month in Sao Paulo, indulging himself off the festive atmosphere. He made friends, and got to know the city and culture, and realized that the range of human lifestyles goes far beyond what is offered in Morocco. He ran out of money, and his friend got homesick, and he was forced to return to Morocco with just a taste of what the world had to offer.

That little taste he has of Brazil is the connection we have. He appreciates my commitment to live in Morocco. He appreciates the time I have spent to get to know the language and connect with Moroccans. “Do you like Morocco?” he asks me.

I say that I find Moroccans to be welcoming and hospitable, and comment on the diverse geography and beautiful cities that the country offers tourists. Since I want to be completely honest with my friend, I also explain some of my frustrations. It isn't easy to make genuine connections with people whose culture uses a different format for forming relationships. There is a constant tingle of isolation. Most Moroccans are vaguely aware of this and adjust their communication to be inclusive of my perspective. Unfortunately, there are those that are uninterested in making room for what is foreign. In Morocco, Peace Corps volunteers encounter religious harassment, female volunteers deal with sexual harassment, and Asian-American volunteers experience racial harassment.

He defends Morocco, claiming that the country is used to people of different backgrounds. Straddling Africa and Europe, Morocco has always been influenced by non-Arab populations, and Moroccans have learned to treat them with respect. He also points out that sexism and racism must also exist in America. As far as the harassment is concerned, he admits that small towns in Morocco have little exposure to other cultures and its populations can be rather close minded.

Adil and I have hit upon an interesting topic. Examining Morocco's cultural diversity is not an everyday conversation. I have a lot to say on the subject, but the language barrier becomes more and more of a burden and so we move onto lighter subjects. He tells me stories about Brazil and I share a few of my travels. He recommends that next time we will visit the cafe at night because it is a different atmosphere. I expect him to mention something about prostitution, but he just says that the courtyard will be colorfully lit. Eventually, my Arabic tires and I exhaust my vocabulary. My sentences become less and less coherent. So, we tune our ears to the fountain, Adil lights a cigarette, and I finish my coffee. Adil pays the bill and we hitchhike back into town.

Too often, I crave American company in order to remind myself of who I am. My outing with Adil is a refreshing reminder that I can be myself without my culture around to back me up. Interactions with Moroccans are not superficial as long as I feel comfortable about representing myself honestly. Cultural barriers are very real and establishing true emotional connections with non-westerners is challenging for me. As a Peace Corps volunteer though, making these connections is an important goal of mine, because when it does happen, humanity seems to burst with optimism.   

Middle Class

I've had the unique experience to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer in two countries of different economic structure. Mali and Morocco may both be considered 3^rd world or developing countries, but the truth is that the two countries are on very different standards of living. While serving in Mali I would refer to the Moroccan version of the program as Posh Corps, in an effort to feel better about the struggles of living in Mali. Now, living in Morocco, I wonder how I ever survived Mali without an outlet to plug a fan into. However, the differences between working in a place like Mali and a place like Morocco go far beyond lack of creature comforts. A healthy middle class exists in Morocco, influencing the way Peace Corps volunteers function.

With practically any indicator, Morocco is far ahead of Mali in standards of living. Life expectancy in Morocco is 72 years and in Mali it is 55 years. Literacy rate in Morocco is 56% and in Mali it is 33%. Most interesting, the Per Capita GDP in Morocco is 5,400$ while in Mali it is 1,100$ (CIA World Factbook). In fact, many Malians hardly used currency, harvesting their crops and praying that it will last them until the next rainy season. Moroccans, on the other hand, can afford meat with most meals, can afford multiple sets of clothing, and almost always live with electricity and running water. A host family I lived with had satellite TV, internet, a washing machine, and a vehicle, and I wouldn't consider the family wealthy. A strong middle-class is present in Morocco.

A recent visit to the Ouzoud Waterfalls in central Morocco illustrated this fact. At mid-summer, the falls were swarmed with tourists. Many came from Europe or America, but it felt like maybe 75% were Moroccans.  The image above shows my friend Vince jumping into a swimming hole with Moroccan and European tourists walking along the canyons main path.  With temperatures soaring and no school in session, the falls make for an attractive destination. I saw Moroccan families picnicking in the shade or ordering a meal at one of the waterfront restaurants. Kids splashed in the shallows while teenagers encouraged each other to dive in from the steep edges of the river. Many groups were composed of young Moroccan males looking for a hike, a swim, and a relaxing place to smoke their hash. Ouzoud is quite the playground with swimming, cliff jumping, hiking, and spectacular views The fact that so many Moroccans can afford to visit indicates that this is a population with a bit of economic flexibility.

Economic stability fuels business in Morocco's urban areas. Not too long ago, most Moroccans farmed, but today, the country is 57% urban (Mali is 35%). Towns are crammed with shops and the economy is much more diversified than basic agriculture. Though unemployment concerns Morocco, there is enough freedom to fit into an agreeable occupation. My neighbor interested in languages teaches English at the High School and owns a book store. Moustafa is passionate about travel, and works as a taxi driver, giving him the chance to explore the sites of his country. Yunes is a barber, and I guess maybe he's into fashion or something. Though, these people often complain to me about poverty in Morocco and lack of employment opportunities, they are not stuck in agriculture. They can pursue their interests and can afford to go to the beach a few times per summer.

As a volunteer, my role feels much different in Morocco than it did in Mali. Receiving the same pay as I am in Morocco, I was by far the wealthiest person in my village in Mali. I ate the same food, fetched the same water, and lived in the same style mud hut as people in my village, but I was still relatively rich, and afforded trips to splurge in the cities. This created certain challenges. There was an overwhelming expectation for me to rescue the village by funding a large scale project. For many in my village, my purpose was little more than a source of money. I never did get the chance to raise the money that was expected from me, and to this day I have weird feelings about it. There was also the guilt of spending money on traveling and visiting American friends. Every beer I drank could have been money spent on fruits and vegetables for my neighbors. Observing the raw beautiful life of rural Mali touched me deeply, but I struggled to function and blend into the structure of the village's economy.

In Morocco, these stresses have been washed away. I am a piece of my town's economy now and my function makes sense. In Mali, I mostly observed. In Morocco, I have a chance to participate. Economically, I fit right in, affording a lifestyle similar to most Moroccans. Also, Through the inevitable cultural globalization that accompanies economic development, I am more able to communicate with and relate to Moroccans than I was able to with agrarian Malians. Our interests and hobbies overlap. I'm just a regular teacher, and integration comes natural. My language skills and understanding of Islam are much better than they were in Mali. I am able to share values and attitudes with those around me. Even though Morocco doesn't provide the opportunity for the mud hut organic lifestyle, its advantages still produce a powerful experience, where I am doing much more than just observing the activity around me.

I am very fortunate to have experienced a Peace Corps life in two countries. The differences between the two experiences allow me to realize the wide range of human lifestyles. In Mali I was rich and lived poor, struggling with the cruelties of rural Sahel and feeling guilty any time I used money to escape from it. In America I was poor but lived rich, abusing my creature comforts and feeling too much pressure to participate in consumerism that I could not afford. Morocco on the other hand, is a comfortable middle ground where I really can't complain about my financial situation. I do hope I get paid tomorrow though, because right now I am totally broke.

Below is Vince, Matthew, and Rebecca enjoying being middle class at Ouzoud.

Holidays

The holidays in Morocco are a little different from my usual Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years combination (whoa, do we really have 4 holidays in a two month span?). While I usually use such celebrations as an opportunity to indulge, I find that the Moroccan holiday season celebrates by abstaining from pleasure. Instead of using champagne or turkey to demonstrate an appreciation for life, Moroccans celebrate by burdening themselves with thirst and hunger. In Morocco and in the rest of the Muslim world, The Islamic holy month of Ramadan uses suffering as a way to cherish life.

In a lot of ways, Ramadan follows the same principles as the holidays in America. There is less work, and more time to spend with loved ones. This means lots of traveling and shopping. Sounds just like America. In fact, during a visit to Morocco's fancy mall in Casablanca I could have sworn I was in America. Complete with escalators and Starbucks, the mall overflowed with packs of shoppers. Western consumerism has arrived in Casablanca. Even the name of the mall is given a creative American name: “Morocco Mall.” This leads to confusion as everything else in Morocco is labeled in French or Arabic, and neither Maroc (pronounce it with a French 'r') nor Mghrib (pronounce it with a French 'r' for the gh and a Spanish 'r' for, never mind, you probably don't care and I've probably misspelled is anyway) sound quite like 'Morocco.' The point is, Moroccans enjoy strolling around shopping centers with family during the holidays as much as Americans do. In terms of spending time and money with loved ones, American and Moroccan holiday seasons serve the same function.

At a personal level however, Moroccan holidays provide much more than a reason to travel and relax with family. While the holidays in America hardly relate to God anymore, Ramadan in the Islamic world is entirely associated with an attachment to a higher being. Ramadan is a month dedicated towards bettering oneself as a person and as a Muslim.

The defining characteristic of Ramadan is the fasting. For an entire lunar cycle, Muslims are required to abstain from putting anything into their bodies during the daytime. There is no smoking, drinking, eating, or getting sexy between the first hint of dawn ( 3:30am) and the moment the sun touches the horizon (7:30pm). Certain people demand that fasting expand to no showering, no deodorant, and no teeth brushing as well. But, I mean, c'mon!

I've been doing my best to fast along with the rest of my community (I haven't been perfect, but I've done pretty good). I have voluntarily suffered through thirst and hunger everyday for nearly a month now. By suffering I don't mean that I am starving, I mean that I am putting myself through discomfort. Fasting isn't as hard as it might seem, especially considering that I sleep past noon everyday. Still, Daylight sucks. Few people are out during the day. Those that are out are often cranky from hunger or thirst or a nicotine addiction. I've seen fights break out during the late afternoon hours. It's a celebration!

During sunset, time stands still. Families gather to await the call to prayer signaling the end of the day's fast. Never has a date tasted so good.

What a great image to decorate this post with.  Fasting makes them look beautiful.  Oh yea, the point was that dates are often the first thing a Moroccan will eat to break their fast.

Breaking fast revives my community. After a grumpy day, with little activity, the streets erupt. Until midnight, everyone is out and about. Going out for coffee, or snacks, or shopping (the activity at the Morocco Mall happens at night during Ramadan). Business does better at night than anytime during the day. Kids find a well lit street to play soccer on. The plazas and parks are abuzz with music and conversation. My friend explained to me that everyone is in a good mood because God has locked Satin up for the month of Ramadan, but I think the positive energy has more to do with the communal experience of fasting. At three in the morning Moroccans eat again to prepare there stomachs for another hungry day. The nocturnal lifestyle is where Ramadan gets its charm. The day's suffering makes the night's party that much sweeter. It's a celebration!

Fasting is a personal feat, but it is cool knowing that Muslims around the world are participating with me. Most my friends tell me that the purpose of fasting is to understand what it is like to be hungry and thirsty. I can't think of a better way celebrate life than to learn how to cherish our most basic necessities. It is certainly a more powerful technique than the indulgence I'm used to. Suffering feels good. It brings Muslims closer to God. The combination of intense prayer and fasting, raises the spiritual consciousness of many individuals, empowering individuals to discover themselves. I have no religious connection to my fasting, though it still effects me in a similar way. Like any challenge, it is satisfying to accomplish a day's worth of fasting. It provides a sense of freedom to practice this kind of self control. I learn that our minds and bodies are more capable than we might realize. I feel empowered through voluntary suffering, and the important things in life come into focus.

Religion

I get up again to stand under the shower, as it is the most effective relief from the heat. The water is life pouring over my body. As the drops wash over my lips my instincts scream at me to open my mouth and drink. Instead, I spit out the water, denying myself the pleasure. The thirst remains. I am fasting, participating in Ramadan, the Islamic holy month. It is an opportunity to connect with people and get to know humanity a little better. Ramadan is also an opening to continue the never-ending discussion of my religious beliefs, and why I should embrace Islam. Moroccans are passionate about religion, and do not hesitate to discuss it openly.

Americans avoid religious conversations. Spirituality is not very consistent, and we consider it taboo to casually compare sets of beliefs. It can brew negative feelings. In Morocco, where practically the entire population is in agreement, religious conversation is completely acceptable. If I am around, religious conversation is encouraged, as Moroccans are excited to share their passion for Islam. After asking for my name, the next question from a new acquaintance is generally “are you Muslim?” This is probably because I give them my adopted Moroccan name (Kareem), but still, if you met an Arab in America who said their name was John, your next question would not be “are you Christian?”

I've had strangers be quite direct about their passion for Islam, with words approaching religious harassment. One day I was trying to buy a plunger from a lady. When she found out I wasn't Muslim, she forgot all about the plunger. “You must embrace Islam,” she cried, “it is the best religion in the world. You need it if you don't want to go to hell. I knew a woman from France, who became Muslim because she learned how beautiful it is. You must try to pray, OK?”

“OK, how much does the plunger cost?”

Another common occurrence are strangers trying to make me declare the Shahada. They will tell me to repeat after them: 'There is no god but God, Muhammad is the messenger of God.'  It is the first pillar of Islam and a simple step towards conversion. The first time it happened I wasn't sure what was going on and so I said it. I guess I must be a Muslim now. They got me good.

Sorry, I don't mean to make fun of these strangers. They really are doing what they think is right. They are trying to save me. It is just something I am not use to. Besides the occasional door to door proselytizer, or Mormon acquaintance, I was never told to follow a particular religion in America. In Morocco, such encounters are frequent, and sometimes it just trips me out.

With friends, religious discussion is also frequent, but much more enjoyable. My friends may also want me to be Muslim (of course they don't want me to burn in Hell), but their strategy for saving me is much more humane. They believe that I have the choice to follow Islam, and if I learn enough about it, I will want to convert. They do not tell me I must embrace their religion, they are simply happy to explain to me why it is a beautiful set of beliefs. When I admit that I am interesting in knowing about (but not converting to) Islam, they are satisfied. By fasting for Ramadan, they give me smiles that say “see, slowly but surely you are becoming a Muslim.”

Religious conversation with friends can be interesting, as I pick up on the importance of religion as well as the details that set Islam apart from other religions (namely Christianity since my community thinks I'm Christian). Most of what is said about being a Muslim can be said in regards to Christianity. On several occasions I have had Heaven and Hell described to me the same a way a Christian might. There was one particularly enlightening discussion where my neighbor described how the human temptation to sin can lead us away from our greater purpose in life. This conversation was complete with the story of Adam and Eve and an explanation of Satan.

After hearing such descriptions I say, “oh, hey, that's the same as Christianity.” Then the conversation takes a turn. Based on the talks with friends and neighbors, there are a handful of crucial differences that make Islam 'better' than Christianity. There is of course Jesus, who, according to Muslims, is not the son of God. Muslims find it strange that God would have a son, and figure the true religion would not believe such a thing. The difference between the Bible and the Koran is another point of contention. Muslims are very proud that their book has remained unchanged since its creation while the Bible have been watered down by time and translations. A final interesting point is that Islam is the youngest of the major religions, allowing it to perfect all the religious developments from the past.

I don't know how accurate such information is. These are the things I often hear in my community. Some arguments make sense and I can feel genuine passion, but some presentations are irrelevant and do little to demonstrate religious pride. Islam is the best, because so many Christians choose to convert to Islam and Muslims do not choose to convert to Christianity. How true is that? I hear that fact surprisingly often... freaking Cat Stevens and Muhammad Ali.

Like I said, I find such talks interesting, yet, at the same time, there is a certain amount of frustration. The problem is that I have yet to be able to represent my beliefs honestly. I usually say that I am a Christian as it more understandable than Agnosticism or Atheism. This sets up a debate, where I guess I am suppose to defend Christianity. The discussion compares Christianity and Islam to determine which one is better. Since I know as little about being Christian as I do about being Muslim, my arguments fall short. When I am not able to properly explain believes and behaviors of Christians, and admit that religion confuses me, they give me that smile that says “see, slowly but surely you are becoming Muslim.”

It would be less frustrating if I could take the debates to another level, where I can be more honest about my spiritual beliefs. Lately I've stopped calling myself Christian and explain that I try to learn and follow all religions. It is less of a lie than claiming to be Christian. Hopefully such a set up can lead to conversations that deal less with details and more with the big picture of religion. It would be nice to perhaps discuss the existence or general nature of God, where I can be real, instead of being put in a position where I must support Christianity over Islam.

Despite not being completely honest about my faith, my input forces others to think through new ideas. To defend myself from conversion I ask: “Would you follow a religion different than your parents'?” or “If you lived in Europe and everyone wanted you to become Christian would you consider it?” The other day I had some fun hypotheticals for my good friend:

“If you were in love with a Christian girl, would you marry her?”

“Yes.”

“Would your parents be upset that you married a non-Muslim?”

“No. They just want me to be happy.”

“Would your kids be Christian or Muslim?”

“Hmm... I don't know?”

“And when you die, she would go to Hell and you would go to Heaven?”

“Yea. She would have to go to Hell. But I would still text her!”

For the most part, religious talks with Moroccans carry a friendly energy. There is always an agreement that we are all brothers and sisters on our Earth, and it is important to love one another. And at the end of the conversations peace is generally seen as our most important goal. When I get up to end these conversations someone always has to give me a quick reminder “keep studying Islam, and one day you will want to convert. You will see.”

Dating

Morocco is an incredible mix of modernity and tradition. The population is able to explore the excitement of 21^st century culture without letting go of conservative values. Rihanna can be juxtaposed with ancient Berber music. Fancy cars drive past donkey carts. Generally, the two attitudes co-exist with no problem, but sometimes they clash, such as the case with dating. The dating game in Morocco is changing rapidly, and its traditional version does not get along with its modern version. Conservative habits clash with modern temptations, leading Moroccans to date in an unusual fashion.

Dating as a strategy for finding a mate is likely a recent phenomenon. Only economically stable individuals can really afford to spend time courting or wooing a partner. Traditionally, humans did not have the time to seek out a soul mate, and settled for an economically convenient arrangement. This often meant learning how to love one of the few available options. Today a lot of the world has the luxury to try out multiple partners and discover the right chemistry. The advantage is that we can explore personalities and get to know ourselves better, setting ourselves up for a mutually encouraging relationship. The disadvantage is that most humans now expect to be able to find love instead of working towards creating love. Damn, isn't love a bitch?

Morocco is not far removed from traditional arrangements. A couple generations ago dating was rare in Morocco and marriages were not based on passion. I guess they were mostly based on economics and religion. The Moroccan youth of today are different. They seem to expect love to strike their hearts, and spend a lot of energy wondering “does s/he like me back.” With my younger friends, conversation almost always revolves around girls.

Creating opportunities for finding a partner is the hard part. Since Morocco is still very much dedicated to its traditional habits, there is little overlap between men's space and women's space. Men hang out in the streets or at cafes while the women spend their social hours at the home. Most young couples I know met in high school, where boys and girls share the classroom. The only other obvious place would be on the street, where young Moroccan men will post up on a corner to flatter (or harass) girls walking by.

The other obstacle causing friction on the Moroccan dating scene would be parental disapproval of daughters mingling with boys. Traditional reaction would be quick to label a girl as promiscuous for spending too much time with a boy before marriage. This complicates things for girls, as there seems to be a desire to fall in love, yet little opportunity for the falling in love process to take place. The result is an under the radar kind of dating. One that involves cell phone calls, texting, Facebook, and secret walks into the country side.

In the end, it really isn't too different from American dating culture I guess. Pretty much no matter the culture, dating and marriage and being in love are complicated matters. I think Morocco is still a little tangled between traditional arrangements and open dating, but in a way America kind of is too. Actually, I think everything I said about Moroccan dating can apply to America too (or maybe the America of a few decades ago). Hmm... this is one of those topics where I only confused myself more by trying to blog about it. This is the worst ending ever. No conclusion. Just read the last sentence of the second paragraph again.

Transition

My neck sways backward as the train slows to a halt, blinking my eyes awake. I hold a book open in my hands, though I dozed off hours ago. I was dreaming. I can't remember about what exactly, but it had something to do with my relationships with my fellow American volunteers. I look out the window and realize this might be my stop. I feel so sleepy though. Maybe I'll just go back to sleep and get off at Casablanca. It will be the same price to take a taxi from there. I'll just go back to sleep and return to my American friends. But, no, I need to stop being lazy. I need to wake up to reality.

I ask someone where we are and discover that it is indeed my stop. I struggle to retrieve my large backpack, almost knocking a passenger over the head. An older lady inches her way onto the train, and I awkwardly try to make my way around her. People stare, wondering who I am traveling to an average Moroccan town. I make no effort to acknowledge strangers. I am not happy with this transition back to reality.

For the past two weeks, Peace Corps invited all 95 volunteers from my training group to stay at a resort. The purpose was to provide more Arabic classes and present ideas to help us continue our work in Morocco's youth centers. However the experience went beyond training. With nearly one-hundred of us divided up into fancy bungalows, and opportunities for all kinds of recreation, I indulged in American culture. I got to know my fellow volunteers more over the two weeks than I did during the original two months of training. I danced. I laughed. My team got third place in Pool Olympics. I sang Karaoke. I went to some bars. I played basketball, soccer, and ultimate frisbee. I bonded with my old friends and discovered new friends. Relationships developed, or fell apart, or took unexpected turns. I let the drama carry me off into America. It was like an entire semester of college packed into two weeks. I had way too much fun living the dream.

I make no effort to interact with anyone as I seek out a taxi that goes to my town. The past two weeks have given me a social hang over, and I am not at all capable of interacting with Moroccans. I binge socialized with Americans at the resort, and now I'm shut down. What's the point of trying so hard to get to know Moroccans, and integrating into my community, if I will only ever scratch the surface of their values, attitudes, and desires? Communicating is a struggle. How will I ever make an intimate connection with a Moroccan?

I mumble the name of my town while floating around the taxi station. Nobody seems interested in helping me find the right taxi. I don't blame them, I probably don't seem so friendly either. Finally, one man helps by calling out loudly the name of my town, and across the street a man whistles to signal that he will be my driver. I drop my large backpack into the trunk, hoping he won't be annoyed by its extra weight. Then I hand him a large bill, feeling bad because he will struggle to make change. The man smiles, and after talking to a store keeper comes back with my change. He talks to me in French and Arabic, exuding enough positive energy to bring me out of my funk. He lives in my town, and knows the other American who works with me in my town. His name is Moustafa.

He talks with me the entire ride back to my town. Gradually, I shake off by anti-social attitude, and engage with Moustafa. At first we talk about Morocco and the places each of us have traveled to. I'm always impressed by Moroccans' passion for travel and sight seeing. They have a tremendous appreciation for beauty, both natural or man-made. He tells me his dream would be to travel around the world by car. He wants to drive and see everything. Later, the conversation morphs into a discussion about languages. We discuss the technical aspects of English and Arabic, and also assess the importance of learning new languages and being able to communicate with foreigners. Finally, the conversation moves onto religion.

Religion is a tough subject to discuss with Moroccans. I've had some really depressing talks about religion with Moroccan friends. So many seem almost unaware that other religions exist, which shocks me. Knowing that they think I will go to hell for not being Muslim makes me sad. Their insistence that I convert to Islam even angers me at times. I don't ignore religious talks though, because they reveal a lot about a person, and reveal a lot about a culture. Sometimes I even come away with a fresh perspective on the importance of religion. Sometimes I am able to provide a fresh perspective on religious tolerance. For the most part though, they are tough conversations to have, as they usually end with someone begging me to convert to Islam.

When Moustafa asks me if I am Muslim I expect the conversation to shrivel into frustration. Instead, he demonstrates how powerful an open mind can be:

“No, I'm Christian,” I can't help but cringe at my lie. The truth would be too complicated.

“Ah, yes, like this,” he does the motion of the cross, “I know your religion. do you know about Islam?”

“Yea. I want to understand Islam. I know the story about Mohammed and I know the 5 pillars. And some other things too,” then I get defensive to try and stop the conversation from going where it's gone so many times before, “but, I only want to understand Islam. I don't want to convert,”

“Of course not. Your parents are not Muslim. It would be strange for you to convert. We all know about God and that's the most important thing. There are Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, Christians, and Muslims in this world, and it is terrible for us to say that one is better than the other. Islam is for me, and I love it, but so many problems come if I tell others they must follow it. Peace is what the world needs. For Peace we need tolerance. You do not need to be Muslim for us to understand and be tolerant of each other.

I am impressed by his response and want to reply appropriately. “That is why I am living in Morocco. So we can understand each other. You have an open mind, Moustafa. You can embrace peace and love. People with closed minds are the ones who cause the problems in our world.”

It feels like a silly comment, and I really want to demonstrate how grateful I am to hear a Moroccan say these things, but my French and Arabic are unable to express my feelings entirely. I feel frustrated for a second, thinking that I need to say something profound to make this exchange meaningful. However, his expression suggests that I don't really have to say anything. He knows I agree, because he knows why I travel and live abroad. If he had the chance he would be doing it too. It is the best way to open the mind and create a global understanding. Since he does not have the opportunities to go abroad he travels within Morocco, and makes an effort to meet foreigners like myself. Even if we can't share this attitude with words, we can feel it. We can feel that we have similar passions. We are both part of the movement to make the world an open and accepting place.

Our bond may not be as intimate as those I had with my American friends at our resort, but that does not mean that it is not as important. In fact, my bond with Moustafa is more important in a certain way, because the connections one can make with those who are different, are the ones that will help humanity grow. It is fun to bond with friends with similar backgrounds, yet it's empowering to connect with those who we have little in common with. Both are necessary.

When we arrive, Moustafa goes out of his way to drops everyone off near their homes.  We exchange phone numbers at my stop, and agree to meet again sometime to chat. His energy has filled me with optimism. The kids have just got out of class and the the streets are swollen with playful smiles. I can't help but smile too. I have a pop in my step. I have been reminded of why I am doing Peace Corps, and am excited about my transition back to Moroccan reality.

Privacy

Only in the modern era has it become economically feasible for cultures to stress the importance of personal space. In general, humans have been required to share space with others nearly 24 hours per day. It was historically a requirement to work in teams, socialize with neighbors, and sleep as a family. In many modern cultures this is no longer true. In many ways this is great. Humans can finely develop their ideas and aspirations independent of communal pressures. However, it seems that when humans become too attached to privacy, important traditional values, such as sense of community and respect for elderly, are lost, significantly harming society's general happiness.

In many parts of the world the traditional lack of privacy remains. When I lived in rural Mali, I was stunned to observe that the concept of privacy hardly existed. Since houses were dark and hot they were mostly just used for storage, and people's lives took place outside in public. People worked outside. People slept outside. People did business outside. People socialized outside. Women washed clothes at the local spring, and even bathed publicly at the water source. Unless you were going to the bathroom (and by bathroom I mean a field away from the village), there was really no where to go to find private space. If they could have afforded it I believe the people of my village would have build private spaces, but instead they had to learn to live in close proximity. The result was an impressive support system where neighbors constantly checked up on each other and worked together to produce and properly distribute as much food as possible. Their survival depended on their support network.

In Morocco too, I have experienced the need to share space. The families I've lived with in Morocco would share rooms for sleeping; multiple individuals dividing up couch lengths. The idea is to conserve money, but an important result is a strong family bond. Lacking employment opportunities, it is not unusual for several generations to be living in the same space. Even after marriage, a son may not leave the household. Again, I believe they would if they could, but instead they learn to live in close proximity with other family members, developing a support system where everyone is taken care of.

The world's wealthier countries no longer need family or community support to ensure survival, and so reliance on family and neighbors has waned. Such independence is glorified in many contemporary cultures, as people are no longer restricted to follow the same beliefs and aspirations of the family they happen to have been born into. Such freedom has certainly produced many brilliant individuals and helped mitigate conflict. America is especially obsessed with the idea of independence and personal space. Our capitalist spirit doesn't like to share. As soon as they finish high school American teenagers strive to attain freedom from their parents. The layout of American towns is essentially a grid of private properties. We would never share a room with anybody except a partner. America is crazy about privacy

Unfortunately, it seems all too natural to abuse the luxury of being able to afford personal space, ultimately harming society's well-being.

As demonstrated by those wealthy enough to afford it, there is a universal urge in humans to have personal space. For the first time in human history, entire cultures can afford privacy for all its individuals. When we stop sharing space though, we tend to let go of certain human attributes that have been with us for tens of thousands of years. We forget how important it is to know how to tolerate the presence of others and we become detached from family and community. When sharing space, individuals are forced to share struggles and celebrations, and the bonding that occurs is essential to human happiness.

The worst ramification of America's obsession with independence and privacy is our treatment of the elderly. Before the modern world became obsessed with independence from our family, senior citizens had been regarded with utmost respect. Age meant wisdom, and for most of human history wisdom is all we had to go off. The elderly are deeply respected in most cultures, and contribute to the social dynamics of the community. In America we prefer to keep them on the sidelines. I often think about how demeaning it is for me to be doing development work to another country. Sure, there are things Morocco needs to change to improve the lives of its people, but for me to pretend to know what these things are because I am American is ridiculous. There is plenty of change and development that needs to happen in America too (I'm pretty sure we have the least sustainable lifestyle and humanity would surely be doomed if all seven billion of us consumed as much as Americans). If I imagine volunteers being sent from Morocco to America to help us develop, I picture workshops promoting respect for the elderly, telling us to learn from their wisdom and incorporate them into the daily family routine. Indeed, I don't believe America's senior citizens to be a happy demographic.

Another negative consequence of America's obsession with privacy is age segregation. Since we become detached from family and community, we create support networks from our peers. I hardly know how to act around kids or old people because I have no practice at it. I develop my world view only from like minded friends, and have trouble empathizing with the youth or elderly. I admire Moroccans ability to treat kids like they would younger siblings and the elderly like their own parents. The ages of the kids in the English class I teach range from eleven to seventeen and they are all affection to one another. I also admire the smiles on old people's faces, who are so happy to watch their grandchildren grow up in the same neighborhood as them.

Perhaps I've been a little harsh on America's obsession with privacy. A lot of it stems from my guilt of living on my own continent where the lives of family and friends back home hardly concern me. Africa has taught me that this is not a healthy attitude to have. It is possible to have a sense of family and community even if you don't share the same space (let alone the same continent) and I plan on improving mine. Important human behaviors were developed from a need to share space, and even though these behaviors are no longer required for survival, they ought to be continued since we are evolved to expect them. These behaviors include whatever demonstrates love and support for our family and community/friends, as a replacement for not sharing space with them.

Crying

Crying is a thing humans do. Supposedly other species of animals can cry, or have their own forms of crying, but for the most part, I would think that the act of crying is uniquely human. Evolution has granted us the gift of tears for reasons of expressions or chemistry or something else. Humans are serious about this gift. Crying represents intense emotions that must be maneuvered with care. It is used to demonstrate sincerity and love and can do a lot to develop relationships between individuals. At the same time, crying exposes fear and pain. As it is such a powerful human behavior, crying is linked with certain expectations from family to family and from culture to culture.

Humans reserve crying for certain occasions. We are busy creatures, and even though it is a thrill to ride the waves of our emotions, to experience love, we can't be burdened with too much drama. Life would be too exhausting if we always reacted with our hearts. For this reason, cultures often disapprove of crying over spilled milk. We learn to control our emotions, and block the tears.

When done correctly though, displaying tearful emotions is probably very healthy. I traveled with my Moroccan host family to the countryside the other week to visit family. Family members from different parts of Morocco were reunited at a rural home. It was a brief visit for us, but it meant so much for everyone to be together for a short period. One of my mom's sisters cried for a short spell to demonstrate her love for her family and the power of the occasion.

Crying from grief is healthy as well. Tragedy is part of life, and it is important for humans to confront the feelings associated with it. It may be easier at times to block the senses, but if sadness can't be embraced, happiness and love will also be dulled. If we become too desensitized, we lose life's drama, and existence becomes a chore. If we are the opposite, too sensitive, life becomes a different sort of chore. Cultures around the world find different balances to embrace the right amount of tearful drama to suit their lifestyles.

During Peace Corps Mali I never saw an adult Malian cry. Their were certainly situations that called for it, but Malians kept their weeping secretive. Life was tough on everyone in a Malian village and crying would not have the power to improve families' desperate conditions. Kids learned quickly to be tough. The less emotional pain one expressed the better. Everyday was a grind, and crying in Mali would have been seen as nothing more than a distraction. Individuals focused on getting work done and their families fed. Emotional health was not a concern, and to concern others with it would be seen as disrespectful. Perhaps it would be better for Malian culture to express more emotion, or perhaps they have found the balance that their environment demands.

In Morocco I have experienced quite the opposite. Moroccans crave intimacy and make efforts to explore their deeper emotions. On a few occasions this has resulted in crying. Two of the occasions were during good byes (most of the crying I've done in my life has come from goodbyes; it seems to be an occasion where crying is acceptable) and another was during the family reunion I mentioned earlier. The crying demonstrated more love than any combination of words could have. The passion Moroccans seem to have may generate more drama than is necessary, or perhaps they have found the balance that their environment demands.

Balancing our heads and our hearts is a challenge of life. Too much heart and the drama of life will drown you. Not enough heart and you will hardly feel alive, missing the point altogether.

Week 1

I made it no further than two blocks from the house when another wave of rain broke loose from the grey sky.  I paused to determine my options, but in that time I could already feel damp pants clinging to my leg.  I needed to get inside.  Through the windows of a cafe, I watched the storm make a river out of the street.  People scattered to find shelter, unless they were unfortunate enough to own an umbrella, in which case they were too proud to admit that their preparedness was no match against the violent weather.  One boy played in the water with a thick smile plastered on his face.

Winter was putting on its final performance.  Earlier in the week, the sun demonstrated it's power and provided a taste of what summer might be like, but it couldn't sustain itself this early in the spring.  It was back to the weather I had experienced throughout my training: wet and windy.  Winter is stupid if there is no snow.

I felt useless.  My only goal for the day was to make a photocopy of my passport.  It took so much effort to crawl out of bed in the morning and greet my family.  I almost went back to sleep after breakfast, but instead I summoned all my energy and stepped out into Morocco.  But now that I was about to do something productive with my morning, I was suddenly stranded, incapable of doing anything just because water was falling from the sky.  Part of me was stoked since I am a big fan of doing nothing, and there is no better way of doing nothing than listening to rain patter.  Part of me was frustrated though, because I had been doing nothing all week, my first week at my final Peace Corps site.

After two months of intensive training, it was awkward to have nothing to do.  The Youth Center in the town is closed for renovations, so I have no official classroom.  Yesterday I was about to give an English class at the women's center, but someone had forgot to leave the key for me, so I failed before I even started.  I had made some friends at the basketball courts earlier in the week, but that too had been cut off because of the freaking rain.

Two men chatted near me in the cafe.  I should approach them, I thought.  Since I was stuck inside anyway I might as well try to meet some of my neighbors.  My job description at this point in my service is simply to make friends.  However, their tone and expressions seemed serious and I felt intimidated.  As I tried to think of how to introduce myself, the waiter walked up to me and asked me what I would like.  I wanted to say that I was just waiting for the storm to pass, but I got scared that it might be rude, so I asked for a coffee even though I had just had some at my house.  The interaction with the waiter  messed up my thought patterns, and I decided that I wouldn't talk to the strangers after all. 

I just sat.  And drank my coffee and admired the storm. 

I paid for my coffee when the rain stopped.  Then I walked to the paper store to photocopy my passport.  I chatted with the store owner and made him smile.  Then I dropped some papers off at the police station.  I chatted with the police officers and made them laugh.  One of them even gave a me a sort of high five.  Instead of going back to my house afterwards, I went to the local boarding house for out of town students.  I wanted to talk to the director about maybe scheduling some English classes in one of his spare rooms.  He wasn't around, though. 

This sudden burst of productivity lasted thirty minutes.  It wasn't much, but it tired me out enough to want to go back home and spend a few hours doing nothing.

Pets

Humans live symbiotically with dogs. Essentially, we provide some food and shelter and they provide some love and entertainment. This relationship varies from culture to culture. Economically developed communities have the time to develop a loving relationship with their pets, and care deeply about the well being of their animals, while communities struggling to make ends meet may view their pets as curious distractions.

Humans have to provide food for their pets. In America, we buy dog food. It is not cool in America to feed dogs human food. IT'S NOT GOOD FOR THEM! To the rest of the world, this sounds crazy, because dogs love human food, and what is the point of throwing away food if it can feed a family pet. The family I live with now in Morocco dedicates time to dividing up leftovers for their three dogs and ensuring that they eat enough. In Mali it was a little different. There, the men would eat, and then the children, and whatever the children didn't eat might go to the dogs. And if the dogs didn't finish the leftovers the women could eat (not true; just a joke; sorry).

Humans have to provide shelter for their pets. Usually this means the dogs and cats make the best of whatever buildings are around. If they have their space, and it overlaps with your space, then its officially your pet. In America we provide doghouses, or install doggy doors, because we are that obsessed with our animals.

For most the world, pet care ends there. Feed them and give them some of your territory. And I guess clean their poop, but we don't need to talk about that. Americans do other things for their cats and dogs.

Unless their fixed, girl cats and girl dogs are always pregnant. Most of the world does not bother to fix their pets. What a strange way to spend money that would be. This means that there are a lot of cute kittens and puppies all over poor communities! Unfortunately, this means that their a lot of dead kittens and dead puppies everywhere too. A cat at my host families house recently had kittens, and the event was mildly interesting to the members of my family. When a couple of them died off, it was also only mildly interesting. In America we are secretive about the reproduction of our pets, and I actually have no idea where kittens and puppies come from.

The economy behind American pet care is larger than the economy of Swaziland (not a fact, just another bad joke). We take pets to the doctor. We buy them beds. We buy them food. Treats. Frisbees. Toys. Scratching posts. We take them to the groomer. Get them fancy leashes. Pay for their training. Pay for pet sitters. We love our cats and dogs. I mean, we literally love them. Like, we cry when they die.

In Morocco, dogs aren't loved, but sometimes they are liked. They are taken care of, and played with a little. I've even seen some taken out on walks. I've also seen many pathetic looking street dogs. And for every Moroccan that says they like dogs, there are three others that say that they are afraid of dogs. They do have it better than Malian dogs, though. In Mali, puppies were toys, and dogs were worthless toys. They would be abused the same way a child abuses his toys and his worthless toys.

So that's what I got on humans and pets. Or humans and dogs. I think this was suppose to be a blog post about pets but I just talked about dogs. Oh well. The lesson: dogs live with humans.

End of Training

Are they really crying? The last two months have been a struggle, and my departure should be a relief. I interrupted their routine. I claimed their living room as my space. They fed me. They washed my clothes. They cleaned up after me. All I was able to give back was a smile. Are they crying because they will miss my smile?

During training I've noticed that Moroccans do not hide their emotions. Conversations in my household would generally consist of both yelling and laughter. My host mom would make it clear if she was upset at me or happy for me. I've seen Moroccans embrace confrontation, and I've seen many disputes on the verge of getting physical. At parties, Moroccans can dance without the encouragement of alcohol. And now that it is time for goodbyes, my family is not ashamed to let the tears flow. They are passionate people.

I hug and kiss my sobbing brother and mother. I was a burden on them of course, but I was also a reward. They deserve as much credit as anyone for my new ability to navigate Moroccan culture. They watched me grow up in two short months. The journey filled them with pride, as they made it possible for America and Morocco to connect intimately. It was an intense experience for all of us, and the challenges it presented has forged a bond between us. This is a form of love.