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.

Justice

The two boys did nothing. One was drunk and hassled Vince for a cigarette, and his friend just stood there and watched. Nothing happened.

The next day we were at the police station with both of them. They were a few inches shorter and a few years younger than us. They were forced into a room with Vince so that he could watch them get smacked around by the police. Later the boys' families arrived and they were beaten by their fathers. I did not see it happen, but I could hear crying and yelling and hitting. The families told us that they were deeply sorry for their sons' actions. The Police told us we were welcome in Morocco and that they would make sure we had a safe stay. One family told their boy to apologize and in between sobs he cried out “please forgive me.” I tried to shake his hand and say that I forgave him but he was cuffed to the chair. He kissed me on each cheek and I felt his salty tears.

I expected to file a simple police report, but we remained at the Police Station for three miserable hours. Vince and I were horrified by the boys' treatment, but we knew better than to interfere. The entire situation was beyond our control.

“This is awful. We should have never come to the Police,” Vince told our Peace Corps supervisor.

“There was physical contact when he approached you for the cigarette. You were physically harassed. Our procedure is to file a police report,” she replied.

“Yea, file a police report. Not this! If only my host brother had not mentioned the incident to my host Mom. Then the incident would have been forgotten. I would not have called the Peace Corps Safety and Security Office. Then, none of this would be happening.”

Vince's host brother stood nearby and understood enough English to solicit a response. Using a mixture of Arabic, English, and French, he explained, “These are bad kids. They have knives and they steal things and sell hashish. This time, no problem, because you were not alone. But next time maybe they steal your wallet or phone. And they are dangerous for the girl volunteers too. Trust me, they are bad. They must be punished.”

Vince was not reassured, “I feel like they are going to want revenge for going to the police. The guy that asked for the cigarette keeps glaring at me. He hates me. His friends are going to hate me. This is really bad. I don't want to make enemies in this town. I mean, nothing happened last night.”

“No! If you do nothing, every time they see you they ask for more or touch you more or try to steal. But we tell the police, and now they are scared. Listen, they are crying. If they come near you again they will be in a lot of trouble. They are scared! Now you are safe. And all the people in the town are safe. They are afraid to do bad things now. This is very good for our town.”

Does it make any sense to deliver justice before the crime is even committed? In America, the punishment comes after the crime, not before. In Morocco, apparently the police can smack the shit of some poor teenagers for annoying a couple Americans. I believe what happened will help keep me safe in my town. I don't believe that such a justice system provides peace of mind for its citizens.

“Will the two kids go home tonight? Or do they go to jail?” I wondered.

Again, Vince's brother had a response, “They go home. They have wealthy families and I saw them give money to the police.”

Hygiene

I place the bucket under the faucets. First the cold all the way, then I crank the hot faucet halfway. My Moroccan host brother say he wanted his water “a little bit cold,” and I hope this is what he meant. At what point is something cold or hot? I try to test the water temperature, but the hot and cold mingle as they slosh into the bucket and I can't tell how cold the water will be. I switch buckets and fill mine up with colder water to wash the steam off my body.

An old gentlemen calls my attention. He sits next to the faucets soaping himself and a grandchild, and talks to me in Moroccan Arabic. I get nervous and can only reply by stammering that I don't understand Arabic. He continues to question me. Even if he was speaking English I would not understand because of the echo in the room. I figure he wants help scrubbing his back, not at all unusual in the public bath houses, but I prefer to play dumb and I tell him that I am sorry and that I don't speak Arabic. He makes some motions and speaks more seriously; something about armpits. Before I can stammer another response my Moroccan host brother comes to my rescue. He explains the situation to the man and then begins scrubbing his back. I apologize again to the man, give my brother a thankful look, and take the buckets back to my corner.

I feel rude and pathetic. I refused to help an old man. It is probably his routine to go to the baths and ask for help scrubbing his back. Not today though, because today he got rejected by a foreigner too nervous to help out an aged man. Anybody else in the baths would have scrubbed his back, but he asked the one idiot who couldn't do it. Even my American friend Vince probably would've done it and he has spent less time in the public bath house than me. However, I would have been terrible at washing him since I have zero experience in bathing others. Maybe I handled the situation perfectly as trying to wash him could have been a disaster. But I still feel lame.

I am at the public bath house in my neighborhood. It is winter and there is no hot running water at my house. Showering at home is not an option. Instead, once a week my family members do a thorough cleaning at the public baths. Moroccans spend hours in the baths relaxing, sweating, scrubbing, washing, shampooing, shaving, and rinsing! After scrubbing away the unwanted layer of dirt, sweat, and dead skin, I don't even recognize the texture of my own body. I have never been as clean as when I leave the public bath house. However, the problem with the public bath house is that it is a public bath house, and bathing in front of strangers is not the most comfortable process.

I sit in my corner not sure what the next step is; or if there even is a next step. Usually, I do whatever my host brother does, but he is busy washing the elder. I've already scrubbed myself plenty, and I should soap up but I don't know which bar of soap is mine and which one is my brother's. I splash myself with my cold water to look like I am doing something. A friend recognizes me and waves. I smile back, wishing I had remembered his name, but I don't even know when we met. My friend wears basketball shorts which I find unusual since everyone else wears boxers or briefs. He dips his cup into his bucket of water, wets himself, and then scrubs his arms aggressively with the stupid sock thing that we wear on our hands. He bathes with his dad in the room adjacent to mine, but through the wide entrance I can watch. Next to them, a father scrubs a whining child. And next to them a gentlemen helps his friend stretch his back. Another does some stretches on his own. Most everyone else is busy soaping and shampooing. One person is shaving his face. In the hot room a group of middle aged men lay on the heat with their eyes closed. The serious atmosphere presses down.

I sit and try to feel comfortable. I keep telling myself that there is no reason to feel awkward and I begin to relax. It is a different culture here, but still the same species, and we all want to be clean. So if I focus on relaxing and becoming a clean person it's unlikely I do anything considered taboo. I am simply at a public bath trying to make myself cleaner. The procedure is pretty straight forward. Earlier a guy was doing some weird stretches and making funny noises so I think you are allowed to do what you please. Last time I was here a teenager was splashing his friend with water and being pretty annoying, but no one really cared that much. Besides, I payed three dollars to come in, so I should be able to enjoy the heat and the water however I see fit.

Once I've gathered my confidence I'm about to stand to refill my bucket when my brother returns from scrubbing the older gentlemen.

“Do you want to shave your armpits now?” He asks.

“My what?”

He motions to his armpits.

“No, that's okay I don't like to shave my armpits.”

“No, you should shave them.”

“No really, that's okay. I don't want to.”

He motions me to come closer and whispers, “In Morocco its bad to have too much hair in your armpits. Look around.”

I see no armpit hair on anyone and realize that my armpit hair does not belong in this country. It is not my style of getting water, or washing, or relaxing that offends people, it is my physical appearance!

“In America men don't shave their armpits,” I try to excuse myself.

“But in Morocco we do.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know how to do it?”

“No. But it's okay. It's easy.”

I accept a new razor from him and wonder how I'm suppose to begin this embarrassing procedure.