Rescued

We filtered through the cluttered old city. Eastman and I followed Mickey, keeping track of his red jacket. He guided us through the crowds, avoiding distracting shop keepers. I was at the tail, carrying Eastman’s backpack, full of his bulky travel needs. He hadn't checked into a hotel room yet. To get us moving to the beach quicker I assumed responsibility for the bag, telling him he could find a hotel later. Sometimes, to get moving, you just have to go. I figured they wouldn't make me carry it on the way back. We emerged from the old city and climbed a lazy crest. Below us lay the Atlantic Ocean. The water was churning into different colors, violently stretching and contracting against a perfect sky. It was a brand new day!

I was rousing from hibernation, life pumping through my veins. The clouds and rain of the last few days had made the world so small. I hadn't seen much besides the buildings across the window from my hotel room. The ocean was vast, and nothing was stopping me from attacking it head on. I had had enough of my tiny world and the jetty poking into the Atlantic looked like a refreshing escape.

Although we had the football with us, I figured what we’d do first is walk to the end of the jetty. Mickey refused, saying he didn't want to get wet and wandered onto the dirty sand with the backpack, the football, and his stupid red jacket. Indeed, the bigger waves were crashing over the walls and rocks, slapping the walkway ferociously. A few barriers blocked the entrance of the jetty. We squeezed through them, deciding it was okay to ignore them since several people were strolling or fishing on the jetty. Further out on the jetty there were fewer people, and I wondered if I could find some privacy on the rocks. I had to pee.

Waves heaved back and forth along the walkway. Below their clashes I could hear the ocean growl. It grew deeper and louder as Eastman and I walked further into the Atlantic. He remained half a beat behind me, along for the ride, but not urging me forward. A few waves sprayed us, teasing us to go on. I determined we should reach the end of the jetty and stand on the protective wall to really witness a full demonstration of Poseidon’s power. I quickened our pace, thinking it had been forever since experiencing anything significant. I wanted something to happen.

“Stop me before I do something stupid, Eastman.” We passed a young couple huddling together against the wall. It was like they had come to the end of the world to hide their romance. There was nobody beyond them. Eastman and I became the last people on Earth.

I climbed up on the walls pushing towards the tip of the jetty. If a wave got above the wall I planned to jump off back onto the safety of the walkway. Eastman climbed up behind me. The water churned. Boiling textures slapped the rocks on the other side of our wall. The wind whipped through my thin layers. Our first real wave was rushing towards us. I no longer noticed how pure the color of the sky was. The wave rolled up the rocks and shot over the wall. It loomed over me for a moment. As planned, I dropped off the wall to get back on the walkway. The wall was only five feet tall.

The world shook. Something rattled my vision. Why was I laying in my back? The back of my head hurt pretty bad. I stood up quickly to prove to myself that I wasn't seriously hurt. I cursed loudly in confusion. I almost fell again. The walkway, at the very end of the jetty, was under several inches of water, and coated with a slippery green slime. My heels must have slipped out from under so quick that I couldn't break my fall. I had slammed onto my back and my head. It was an embarrassingly nasty fall. I sloshed through the puddles slowly, trying not to slip on the slime. Eastman casually worked his way back off the wall.

It didn't occur to me for several steps. Then, I understood that this was that kind of pain. It hurt like blood. I touched the back of my head and studied the crimson on my fingers. It was worse than I thought. I explored some more and imagined a red waterfall on my neck. I rationalized that since my hair and clothes were soaked with salty water, there was less blood than it seemed. It just looked gruesome because water spreads blood around like that.

“Are you alright?” Eastman and I met on dry ground. I had never heard that question posed so sincerely.

“Yea, dude. Fuck. God damn it.”

I wanted to avoid the young couple but they were practically right in front of us. My stupidity was shameful and it sucks to be judged. My gaze met theirs, and I could read in their eyes that they were not disgusted by my behavior, but concerned for my well-being. Their worry drew me in and the guy managed to hide the bleeding with his scarf. For a second, I wondered if he would want his scarf back. It was such a soft material. But he spoke first.

“You need to see a doctor.”

“Are you sure? Is there a lot of blood?” I wished so badly that this wasn't real.

“Yea. Find a doctor.”

I needed to explain to him that being wet just makes things look bloodier than they really are, but I didn't. The guy was right. He was clearly in a better position than me to make the judgment: dry clothes, a beautiful girlfriend, and sense enough not to climb onto the exposed walls. He was bright enough to offer a form of help by offering his expensive scarf. His girlfriend probably loved him so much when he did that. I thanked him, and then there was no reason to stay. Eastman and I retraced our steps. Anytime we passed somebody, I kept my head down, and my hand pressed against the scarf over the source of blood. I was ashamed of my belligerence.

Before reaching the barriers that blocked access to the jetty, a cigarette vendor whistled for me and jogged over. He didn't talk, but motioned for me to kneel down. He removed my scarf and applied his own bandage: a thin yellow cloth wrapped tightly around my head. Then he added the scarf over it. I don’t know if he knew what he was doing, and I swear the yellow band looked dirty, but he wanted to help. He even gave me a small pack of napkins for free. I wanted to tip him. I even took out my wallet to get some change, but I only had bills. I decided it was a good thing I didn't pay him. That would've actually been a pretty awful reaction to human generosity.

At the entrance to the jetty other Americans from our organization were collecting, exchanging hugs, ready to spend the day at the beach. The city was abuzz with American chatter, as volunteers from the furthest reaches of Morocco had come to the capital to spend Thanksgiving week. It was an impossible network of relationships and acquaintances. Blood spilling down my neck didn't help my social anxiety. I didn't want to ruin the excitement that comes with reunions.

While Eastman spoke on the phone with Dr. Toufiq, our doctor at headquarters, I tried my best to greet the group appropriately, and describe my situation. I downplayed the severity of my injury, trying my best to keep the mood light, but Em wasn't fooled and assumed control of my rescue.

“We got to get you cleaned up. Come on.” She motioned towards the entrance of what looked like a restaurant. I didn’t think the employees would really just let us barge in.

Em and Eastman pushed me ahead and we were inside, away from the wind, and the sun, and the waves. It was a bar, the rarest of establishments in Morocco. We didn't say anything to the waiters or bartenders. The bar’s layout funneled us into the back corner, where Eastman led me into an immaculate bathroom, the second rarest of establishments. Em followed us in a second later, and my rescue was in full swing.

Eastman washed my head and my neck, blood splashing into both sinks. The toilet flushed and a man stepped out of the stall.

“Oh no, what happened here? Was it the waves?” he forced communication.

“Yea. I was being stupid.” I tried to give him some room at the second sink so he could wash his hands. That’s what you are supposed to do after you take a shit. But he left us alone after dropping a few words of encouragement.

Em shined a flashlight into my eyes and told me my pupils looked good. Again, Eastman called Dr. Toufiq, explaining that there was a lot of blood. He told us to meet him at the hospital. Em wrapped the scarf around my head again. The hospital would fix me.

The scene I was causing had invited everyone to drinks. As we worked our way back out of the bar, my American friends were half way through the first round of drinks, bringing the early afternoon to life. Vince jumped out of his bar stool to offer me his hoodie, then, he ran ahead to wave down a taxi. Several others walked with me across the boardwalk to send me off.

“Get in the car. This guy is going to give you a ride.” There was no taxi, but Vince had found an obliging driver. I apologized for the inconvenience a couple of times, as Caitlin and Eastman got in the car with me. There were too many people involved in my ridiculous rescue. My heart sat heavy in my chest. The adrenaline was wearing off and the back off my head throbbed.

“What happened?” The driver asked.

“I was walking by the beach. I wasn’t thinking. I walked almost to the very end. I should’ve thought more. A wave came and hit me and I jumped and fell. And I hit my head” I said it in an I’m-not-very-fluent-in-Arabic kind of way and the stranger chuckled.

At the hospital, I sat with Caitlin and Eastman in the lobby as Dr. Toufiq discussed the situation with some hospital staff. It seemed like he was convincing them to see me right away, like this situation called for special treatment. What if the girl begging me for change earlier had fallen and cut open her head? Who would sew her head up? I battled a guilty conscious until Dr. Toufiq called me over.

I was led into a sanitary waiting room, while Caitlin and Eastman remained in the lobby. I sat on the bed shivering, holding the scarf around me head wondering if the bleeding had lessened. Dr. Toufiq explained that we had to wait on a specialist to stitch up the back of my head. He examined my wound and then made me follow his finger with my eyes. After taking my blood pressure, he ran out of ways to keep busy and sat in a chair across from me. He was good company. Doctors always have a comforting presence

All my clothes were soaked, but it was mostly the wet socks that kept me shivering. I figured I would worry about warming up later. Stitching my head was a priority over warmth. I still had to pee. I thought I would hold it until my head was fixed, but that didn’t make sense. I asked for the bathroom.

“You can tell my friends that they can go back now.” I told Dr. Toufiq back in my waiting room. “They don’t have to wait for me. They can go back.”

He went back to the lobby to tell them. When he returned Caitlin and Eastman were with him. “Your friends wanted to say good bye.” They demonstrated worry and encouragement. I wanted to tell them thank you or sorry but hugs were all we really needed.

After freezing for a half hour, the specialist arrived. I laid face down in his operating room and he began to explore my gash.

“So you are a Peace Corps volunteer. I want to tell you what I think you guys do and you can tell me if you agree.” He began to shave the back of my head around the cut. It felt like my hair was being ripped out. I bit into my shirt sleeve and let tears of pain dribble onto the bed. “America is a diverse place with a lot of backgrounds. Everyone has their own family history. It creates a sense of global mindedness in the American people. Americans have an urge to explore the world. Even more, you guys want to help the world rise. You want to share the privileges that come with the American standard of living. By volunteering you show that we all deserve small victories. By winning sometimes, we can all be happy.” The razor kept jabbing the gash. I tried to focus on the doctor’s speech. “Have you ever played tennis?” I affirmed with a muffled grunt. “Let’s say I played tennis everyday. And everyday my friend beats me. I lose every single day. What should I do? I can’t get better. Maybe I could stop playing. I could try to cheat. Or maybe I could change the rules. If it meant winning, and I was really sick of losing, I may do something extreme. Ok. Now we will inject the anesthesia. You will feel two pricks, but then the pain will go away. You see here in the Arab world, we have been losing a lot. Violence in the Middle East has been relentless and nothing seems to get solved. Lives are not improving. Even during the Arab Spring, when it seemed like a spirit of revolution could bring people out of oppression, we still lost. Imagine losing like this all the time. Would you find a different way to play? There are a lot of people who do. They figure out ways to cheat or change the rules. Ok. Now let me know if there is too much pain. We are going to begin stitching up your head. So some people decide that they can win by killing others. They figure martyrdom is a shortcut to heaven. They think that they can fly planes into the World Trade Center and go to paradise. They trick themselves. They become so sick of always losing that the only way to ultimately win is to kill or die. You see how dangerous it can be to lose everyday. Now, if we help others, and share the victories I think we can be okay. But there are a lot of people out there always losing, looking for ways to change the rules and cheat. What do you think?”

“If I always lost at tennis, I would just play another sport.” The screaming cut in the back of my head had been silenced.

He smiled, “come forward. The stitches are done. Hang your head off the table so we can wash your head.”

Icy water rushed over me, and my breath caught in my chest. Blood streamed into the bucket below me. The water kept flowing, its color beginning to fade. Then, the water was pure. The wave had passed. I had been rescued.

The specialist shook my hand, wished me well and added, “You look cold. You should change into some dry clothes.”

Trash

There is too much trash. The 7 billion humans on this planet, all trying to live as comfortably and respectfully as local and global cultures dictate we should, consume a tremendous amount. In turn, there is waste. So much waste that the climate is changing, ice caps are melting, and polar bears are dying, among all the other environmental concerns that most of us have grown numb to. This is a global problem originating from the western world’s industrial revolution. Yet, westerners tend to be very critical of poor communities’ waste culture.

Often, the first thing a westerner notices upon arriving in a "developing" country is trash. Unlike America, Morocco isn't good at concealing its waste. In my town, streets accumulate garbage, sometimes consolidated into an alley or an overwhelmed dumpster. This pile will either be further consolidated into a dump outside town, or burned. The result of such a system appears messy from a western perspective. There are wrappers, bottles, and cigarette butts scattered throughout the community. Fire and smoke erupt every now and then as a neighborhood tries to reduce its trash pile. Local culture appears to lack respect for environmental cleanliness. However, it is important to first consider America’s own consumption and waste management before judging others.

Despite advances in recycling and conserving energy, America must afford a brunt of responsibility for the global environmental crisis. Criticizing other cultures’ respect for the environment is more than a little hypocritical. It is America, among other countries that led the industrial revolution, that demonstrated how cheap coal could be, showed the power of re-networking hydrology, and romanticized the freedom of driving an automobile. As much as American’s feel proud of bagging groceries in there own shopping bags, or fining those who litter, they forget how excessive and wasteful other habits can be. Do we really need a machine to dry our clothes? Do we really need to import tropical fruits? Is there a way to run errands without a vehicle?

Someone once told me that after America, Morocco uses the most plastic per capita out of all countries in the world. I have no idea how to verify this fact, and it's probably not true, but I would believe it if the internet proved it to me. Plastic bags are used to carry away the smallest of purchases in Moroccan communities. Store owners proudly bag groceries as excessively as possible. It’s a bad cultural habit in terms of environmental health and city beautification. Plastic bags scatter across fields, waving like tiny flags. They float down the local creek, jamming up when the flow tightens. I spot plastic bags in the sky, gripped by the wind. On the other side of the Atlantic, plastic waste is hidden. It is whisked away from households, using efficient and modern consolidation systems (that a developed economy can afford). American’s can sit on their porches, overlooking pristine neighborhoods, without bits of trash reminding them how their consumption is environmentally destructive. It’s like the garbage has disappeared.

Since an American neighborhood is so sanitary, but America consumes and wastes an awful lot, I believe a visitor's disgust to Morocco's trash problem is mostly aesthetics. The complaint will be that the garbage everywhere is a hazard to the environment and the health of locals, but deep down all that is being said is “ew, why does everyone litter?”  Many foreigners fail to admit the economic advantages that most Western waste disposal systems have, and they also fail to acknowledge their own bad habits that disrespect the environment. Just like a Moroccan tossing his candy wrapper on the street, the American that drives his car everywhere is stuck repeating a certain behavior on account of culture and economics. Behavior is hard to change.

Peace Corps Volunteers have attempted to tackle the trash problem within their communities. The idea is usually a trash pick up day with locals. Volunteers walk around picking up trash making the community look cleaner. ‘Look’ being the key word here. Once it’s been picked up where does it go? I guess you could burn it. Or move it to a big trash pile. Maybe you could try to recycle it, but who really knows how to do that. But, even if a trash pick up is doing nothing more than moving trash around, making a community look cleaner is certainly worth it. A trash pick up encourages a spirit of volunteerism, instills local pride for the community, and demonstrates respect for neighbors that share public space with you. If humans really expect to tackle our titanic environmental problems, we should probably start with these values first.

There is no way to actually make trash disappear. As much as we try to recycle and hide our garbage, it will keep growing. Companies package products and humans buy them, and the packaging and leftovers have to go somewhere. Its hard to ignore the fact that we are putting some pretty serious stress on our planet. Most of us may be numb to the warnings, but we can’t deny them. Out of self-respect, we should continue to curb our wasteful behaviors, no matter how futile the fight to save the environment may seem.

Halloween

I could hear the next group of kids inching their way around the corner. I began growling to prepare myself. I reminded myself to be patient this time, to let them think I'm harmless before barking like mad in my cage.

It was difficult to judge the success of the haunted house up to this point. Each kid tried as hard as possible to not show fear. Whoever admitted to fear lost the game in the eyes of their peers. The first groups were all boys, passing through loudly, using singing and laughter to push away the darkness and the spooky music. They passed by my barks and growls chanting "CABEZA CABEZA" imitating a morning energizer I use to wake the campers up. The word 'head' in Spanish is not the usual reaction to a caged werewolf.  Despite the harassment, I refused to break character.

The group approaching now was the first set of girls. They smiled at me when they recognized me as their morning English teacher, but as my growls grew fiercer they showed discomfort and tried to scuttle past as fast as they could. Not a single one said 'cabeza' to me. As the last girl passed I let out a few vicious barks, producing a few shrieks from the group. I was getting the hang of it.

In the next room I heard the girls' fear mounting. Before entering a pitch black section of the haunted house a girl complained "shame on you guys. What are you taking us through!" Maybe we had made the haunted house too scary. Even the boys who had yelled 'cabeza' at me had probably been scared, or else they would not have had to harass me to calm their nerves. These were not American children, used to scary movies and ghost stories, they were Moroccan and had never experienced anything like a haunted house. Did we really want to scare them? And if we didn't want to scare them, what was the purpose of a haunted house?

I was finding it difficult to demonstrate the purpose of Halloween. What kind of culture celebrates fear? I couldn't even began to describe its history. Like most traditions, I suppose we just do it because it's something to do. Celebration of fear hardly makes sense though. Do you try to conquer the fear, unraveling the essence of Halloween? Or do you let yourself get scared, hardly enjoying the process?

A few more groups passed. I became a scarier werewolf with each performance, despite putting up with several more chants of 'cabeza.' Before the last group entered the music clicked off, marking the end of the hour long soundtrack. I noticed that 90% of the fear in our haunted house was the mood created by the music. That and the darkness. Someone started the track back from the beginning and as the final group entered, I committed myself to filling up that last 10% with my best performance yet.

It was a group of girls. They did not scream or show terror when they approached me, but they were clearly disturbed by seeing their English teacher acting mad. The last girl stopped and stared me down. She had won the costume contest with a kind of Bride of Frankenstein look earlier in the night. I anticipated her to yell 'head' in Spanish at me. Instead she got into character and roared. I pretended to be a scared puppy for a second and then returned to barking at her through the bars of my cage. She stepped closer and again roared at me. I admit her costume was scarier than mine, but I think my barks were more realistic than her roars. We went back and forth a few more times, an English teacher pretending to be a wolf and a 15 year old Moroccan girl pretending to be a monster. I finally whimpered letting her walk away with a victory.

Somewhere in our interaction I think the purpose of Halloween emerged. I'll let the reader analyze it and produce an explanation, because, between all the 'cabezas,' I am still pretty confused about Halloween.

Homeless

Everyone usually ignored him, but today Gaga was the focus of an assault. At first he struggled. What could his attackers possibly want from him? He ripped away from reaching hands, twisting for space. The boys surrounded him and urged him to relax.

They shook his hand warmly and tried to communicate information that Gaga did not entirely understand. Despite the confusion, he started enjoying the unusual attention. Children often ran from him in fear. Most people pretended he wasn't there. His family had disowned him decades ago, his mental problems too much for them to handle. They couldn't afford to send him to the mental hospital in Berrechid, and even if they could, he would not have found compassion from the workers there.

Today, Gaga had encountered compassion. Led by the owner of the juice shop, the group of boys were determined to help him out. Once they had gained his trust, they began to strip off his clothes. Stilted legs supported a surprisingly chiseled torso. The helpers lifted their collars over there noses as a wretched stench escaped from beneath the clothes. They got a bucket of warm water and began to work.

Gaga began to smile. It was like having friends. He was not clogged in misery. He was not walking down the street muttering and shaking his head, stopping momentarily to punch the air and cry "G-gaaa, g-gaaa." For the moment he was feeling joy, forcing a strange smile. It was an incredible relief from the daily suffering.

Pedestrians began to take interest in the public bathing. A naked homeless man on the corner of the street was not especially usual and couldn't be ignored. Some girls walked passed and turned their heads away disgusted by the scene. Some children laughed at the sight of nudity. Several neighbors gathered into a small crowd, watching respectively, admiring the generosity of the boys.

Two volunteers entered the scene stretching a blanket across the sidewalk stage to censor what some may find offensive. The others continued to scrub and splash water.

Soon, Gaga's stench had been defeated. His hair had been shampooed. His skin had been purified. The group decided a nail clipping couldn't be ignored. The oldest volunteer hacked away at brown growths at the ends of his fingers and toes. One nail detached completely from the toe as he tried to grip it. The others maintained enthusiasm even though there wasn't much left to do. They thought about giving Gaga a haircut, but determined it wasn't necessary. The owner of the juice shop produced a box of second hand clothes, and the boys sorted through the pants and shirts for Gaga's new outfit. His old clothes were a toxic hazard. One boy thought it would be a good idea to gift Gaga a cigarette.

Before returning to his misery, they did a series of cell phone pictures to remember the event. The photos would have tricked anyone to believe that Gaga was a happy homeless man. He returned to wandering the streets, half a piece of bread in his hand, a cigarette tucked into his mouth, looking fresh and halfway handsome. The volunteers patted themselves on the back.

The Salesman

Sometimes there is no escape. At tourist centers, fake guides rope foreigners into relationships based on dependence and guilt. The local insists that he is helping the tourist out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he knows if he dedicates enough time to a tourist, he will be monetarily compensated. They abuse the Arab reputation for hospitality. They mock honest human interaction.

My mom messed up. She had promised our afternoon to the service of such an individual. The city was not a major tourist destination, but it was a historically interesting location, a gateway for caravans to cross the Sahara Desert. The town was important enough to distract lost tourists, and local capitalists had developed strategies to take advantage. A young man sat at the edge of the restaurant as we ate out lunch. He kept track of us, making sure we didn't disappear from my mom's promise. He would take us to our guide. I saw no opportunity for escape. There were no excuses. We had eight hours to kill before our night bus to Meknes, and I had no idea how else to spend the day. After our meal, we followed the young man to meet our guide.

He looked like an asshole. His face was small, and his neck wrinkled like a turtle's. His eyes were empty. His mustache was mostly grey, and I think his hair was too, but a dirty hat kept it covered. He was a little bit passed middle-age, but greeted us with energy. "Did you drive here in a car, or did you take a bus?"

"We came on camels," I was not in a cooperative mood.

"This is a good idea," he forced a laugh.

He showed us the old fortified city, boring me with worthless facts. My mom seemed interested though, so I let him go through his routine. His English sounded good, but only when reciting the facts he had listed for tourists so many times before. The old town was not beautiful, but during the tour I understood the historical significance of the edge of the Sahara. There was great wealth for those who could transport resources and luxuries across the sea of sand.

"Now, the tour is over. I invite you for tea, because you are good people and you are my guests."

I did not want to have tea with him. He was a liar. He was not inviting us for tea because he liked us. He was doing it because we were white and foreign. The idea disgusted me. Our relationship with our guide was fake. I sensed manipulation. I had been living in Morocco long enough to know the difference between getting hustled and getting invited to tea. Still, we had no where else to go and we needed shelter from the pressing heat. We agreed to drink his poison and he led us into the rug cooperative.

Shapes and colors dangled from the tall walls. I was struck with admiration. My mom was in love. She ignored the tea and began to explore this new world.

I could already feel a bubble of guilt in my chest. I grew up with capitalism and learned that nothing is free. It would be an insult to not buy anything. However, if we did make a purchase, the transaction would be tainted by my own disgust of the situation. I determined the pressure should be on my mom. She was the one that got us into this. She had money. I lay down on one of the Moroccan couches lining the waterfall of colors and I let the energy flow through me.

Our guide transformed into a salesman. He laid rugs out on the ground, describing each one. The first was a style from the anti-atlas region in southern Morocco. The next was made from both sheep and camel. The third contained a sequence of traditional symbols. Describing the rugs was his profession. I could tell he was very good at it. As much as I wanted to hate him, I enjoyed listening to his descriptions. His terrible English had a beautiful well-rehearsed rhythm to it. He would even speak to me in comprehensible Arabic, as if to kindly admit that my Arabic was better than his English. By the end of his performance the tile floor was drowned by twelve rugs.

"Which one do you like? It is not so I sell it to you. No, I just want to know your opinion. This is a cooperative so the money is not a problem. This is not like Fez or Marrakech where they lie about the quality and the prices. If you like something we find a good price. This one is a beautiful piece, yes?"

I explained again how we were not going to buy anything, and he insisted he was just curious to know which rug we liked. We picked our favorite. My mom told me she wanted to buy it for me as a birthday present, and the pressure shifted back on me. He asked for a price. I refused to give him a price, and told him we couldn't buy anything.

He sat down next to me with a pen and paper and wrote down a price: 250$. I looked at my mom, both agreeing it wasn't as expensive as we thought it would be. It was a good deal, but there was no way I could accept. Receiving an expensive gift from my mom felt wrong. Then, he scratched out the price and wrote 200$. My mom was eager to buy it for me, but I continued to refuse. I should have let my mom buy me a gift, but everything felt wrong. This was not an honest transaction. The rug would be cursed. He scratched out 200$ and wrote 160$. My stubborn attitude persisted, even though I couldn't remember why I didn't want the rug. A minute later he wrote 120$.

"I want to get you something for your house. This can make up for all the birthdays I've missed," my mom's comment made my head swim. I explained in Arabic to our salesman why I couldn't purchase the rug, even though the logic wasn't clear in my head. I revealed my emotional state and told him the rug could no longer represent something beautiful. He stopped trying to sell. For the moment, he had given up. I apologized to my mom.

For compensation, my mom offered him her hat. He accepted, returning the favor by gifting her a scarf. Clearly, he wanted to make a sale, but he did his best to hide his disappointment. I expected him to bid us farewell, but he continued to be friendly. Then, he transformed back into guide form, offering to give us a small tour around the modern city.

Did he still expect a tip from us? Would he try again to sell us merchandise? Maybe he felt bad for acting as a salesmen and was trying to make up for it. Maybe, having spent the last four hours together, we had become friends. After a short walk around the city center, he served us a humble meal of beans and bread. His brother joined and we all enjoyed an enlightened discussion about history and politics.

"Now, I will take you to the ruins. You still have two hours before your bus leaves."

Our guide, my mom, and I stood on another planet. The soil was grey and rocky. There were isolated pockets of ancient homes, mostly buried. Scattered walls continued to crumble as they had been doing for the past 1000 years. In one direction we observed the geometry of the modern city. In the other, an oasis of infinite palm trees. We rested in the shade of a building's remains, and listened to the afternoon fade.

Our guide introduced us to friends as we strolled back into town. We arrived at the bus station comfortably early. I kissed our guide farewell on both cheeks. My mom shook his hand, and we thanked him for all his help. Indeed, we had been stuck in an unknown town. He had sheltered us from the sun, fed us, shared his knowledge, and introduced us to an otherwise meaningless city. He had given his entire day to us. We appreciated his hospitality.

Before we got on the bus he gave me some business cards. "Tell your friends to visit the cooperative."

LA MAISON SAHARIENNE

DRIBI ALAOUI FRERES

Grande Exposition Artisanale

Cuivre - Tapis Bijoux - Cuir

Expedition pour tout Pays

BP 72 RISSANI KASR ABOUAME - RISSANI

0613722971 - 0661255663

0651041277 - 0635126945

Culture

My mother told me once that no matter where you are people are people. It's no revelation, but it's something I remind myself constantly while in Peace Corps. Despite intimidating differences in culture, the people I interact with experience life the same way I do. My fears, my desires, my hope, my sadness, and my happiness cycle through all individuals that share this planet with me. People are people.

When culture gets in the way, I begin to think I'm different. I think I am the only person in the world that ever gets depressed. I think I am the only person in the world that understands joy. How can I relate when I can hardly communicate? How can I understand a life devoted to prayer and salvation? Culture digs deeply into the fabric of society. The subtlest mannerisms and the most powerful paradigms are learned by the population as they grow up. There is no escape from culture. There is also no late access. You can only be born into the club. I can't be accepted if I don't behave accordingly. I have to be very careful. I am an impostor.

Then the idea of culture falls apart. I think about it too much, and I can no longer even define it. Something is not right. I look deeper, past the cultural shell, and the human spirit emerges. I see emotions in people's eyes. Deep sadness hangs over some while triumph bursts from others. The human experience is too intense to be divided according to culture.

Life is a beautiful struggle. Culture provides coping mechanisms to lessen pain and reveal the beauty. I may not understand how it works, but I realize that the local culture is just trying to help people be alive. I incorporate certain local values into my personal culture from time to time, to enrich my human experience. I hope this action is being reciprocated, and that I am helping others appreciate their journey. After all, this is my duty as a human being.

The Immigrant II

I saw him wandering the streets just like me. The garden had been our meeting point, but it was closed. I knew I would see him if I just hung out outside long enough.

Hicham wasn't with a friend like I thought I heard. Instead, he held hands with a toddler, his son Abdel Rahman. This changed Hicham's appearance entirely. I tend to disassociate with the rest of my community. We usually hung out in my apartment, in my miniature American world. It always surprised me to remember that he has extensive family in town. This would be my first time meeting Hicham the father. He beamed with paternal pride.

I lifted Abdel Rahman to my side and he didn't care. Hicham said he was getting over a cold, but he seemed full of curious energy. He was still young enough to realize that the world is a miracle. Even though he could only speak individual words, it felt like his comprehension of Moroccan Arabic was better than mine. He walked balanced, and even could break into a clumsy run. Abdel Rahman was whatever age it is that a toddler reaches maximum cuteness.

"I have news," Hicham said as we settle into a corner of the garden that remained open. He tried to begin his next sentence in English too, but settled for French. "My family is back together now. My son and my wife, we all live together." His life was full of sudden twists.

Not long ago Hicham was living in Bulgaria. In an attempt to discover a sense of freedom in Europe, he had spent four months in a prison set-up specifically for illegal immigrants. In that time he witnessed gut-wrenching tragedy, while becoming well acquainted with racism. With some foreign interference he was allowed to return home. In his first months back, he was trying to reroute his life. At first he talked of traveling to Malaysia where "people love Arabs," but now he seemed very focused on his wife and Abdel Rahman.

It came as a relief. I always encouraged his adventurous spirit, his quest for freedom, with a guilty conscience. Hicham's philosophy, was inspiring and deep, but always overlooked his fatherly responsibilities. "He is your new adventure now," I referred to Abdel Rahman. Hicham smiled in agreement and we watched the movements of the garden.

Already in April, the earth baked during the day, but in the morning shade, the garden felt like a paradise. Why do I spend so much time inside? I was a little out of touch with the breeze and the sunshine. Watching pedestrian traffic captivated me. I was living in the most beautiful place on earth.

"I have work now," Hicham grinned. This too was news. He had been searching in Casablanca for a security job. He also had it in his head that he could work as an actor for commercials. Hicham has a certain charm, and he seemed convinced he could network his way into a comfortable lifestyle. In the past he used to work as a guard for the presidential palace in the capital, but at 250$ per month he could barely afford transport costs to the palace. "I work right here in this garden. In the mornings I water the plants and clean up garbage. I take breaks in the flowers and greet friends passing through." I congratulated him, proud to see him develop some stability to his life.

A small group gathered across the walkway. They tied their dog to a bench and congregated at a table belonging to a cafe. Abdel Rahman clutched his dad's leg in fear. "Dog," he pointed to the over-sized puppy, much younger than he was. He let go of the fear after a breath. Then, he approached the dog cautiously. From ten feet, the dog shifted his position, sending Abdel Rahman running back to us squealing with adrenaline. I explained that this kind of dog was good and he didn't need to be afraid. Again he approached the dog, getting a few steps nearer, before kicking his legs into panicked run back to our bench. "Taxi," he yelled suddenly distracted by the street. He returned his focus to the dog, again creeping closer. On his fourth attempt to get a close look at the dog, he talked to the owner, pointing at the dog trying to communicate important information. Now multiple parties intently watched a toddler discover a dog. But, this time, to everyone's surprise, the dog lunged and snapped at Abdel Rahman. Tears stained his panicked run as he reached for the arms of dog's owner. The show was over. Hicham went to recover his son.

Abdel Rahman had soiled his pants. Hicham took him home and dropped him off with his mother. Then I had him over for some coffee. In my house, away from family, away from judgmental opinions, he let himself escape. He let himself be free without shame. He discussed his dream of immigrating to Malaysia.

Beards

"This guy is a terrorist. He looks like Ousama Bin Laden," Muhammad joked with Aissam, who rolled his eyes politely. Aissam wore a white djellaba, his stomach protruding, his muscular hands attached to a wide frame. He displayed a spectacular black beard. Most locals don't grow full beards. Facial hair has shifted towards western fashions. Still, many continue to be very serious about their beards. Shaving the mustache and growing the beard is Muslim tradition.

"Why don't you have a beard?" I asked Muhammad, who is also very devote.

"It's not necessary in Islam, but some people like them."

Aissam disagreed, "excuse me, but to be a true Muslim you need to grow a beard. These were words from God."

Muhammad shook his head. For a second they hesitated, then the conversation leaped forward and I my comprehension couldn't keep up. However, like most my interactions, I could feel the emotion besides the gibberish. A debate ensued. Are beards a necessary Muslim male attribute? I had expected a simple explanation. Clearly, the opinion on Muslim facial hair is not universal. Both men argued passionately. Emotions verged towards anger only to cool off and wait for the next flare of pride. I spectated, admiring the Moroccan spirit.

Then the battle halted. Aissam said the American equivalent of "well, look who it is." Were they expecting someone? I figured the debate was over because both men had exhausted their arguments. Instead, the lesson was just beginning. The unofficial judge of the debate walked into the shop. He too had a full beard, mostly white. Warmth radiated from his smile as he greeted us. His confidence made him seem taller than he really was. He was the Imam of the neighborhood mosque, the spiritual leader of Muhammad and Aissam.

"Excuse us. We were talking about a certain subject and were hoping you could enlighten us."

They presented the debate, and the Imam assumed his role as religious instructor. Again, I was unable to decipher the diction, but I could feel a change in the mood. It was no longer a debate. The students stopped fighting and listened intently. They nodded, murmuring an occasional "yes." The Imam appeared to have an effective solution to the confusion. They thanked the Imam for his wisdom, and described how the debate begun, pointing at me.

The Imam turned to me graciously. "Tu comprends Francais?" I told him I did understand French and he continued his rhythmic speech. "The beard is required in Islam. There are more important things in Islam than growing a beard of course, and many Muslims adopt to follow different fashions. With globalization you see the beard becoming less popular. If you are a Muslim, though, you should grow a full beard. Even though the beard is not that important, it is required." Then he asked me if I understood.

"Je comprends."

The Teacher

The soccer ball escaped onto the street with a boy running after it. Our taxi jerked to a halt and Monique looked at me, "see, I tell you there is something wrong with the people here." The boy returned to his game and our taxi turned onto the the Casablanca road.

"You don't like it here?"

Monique spoke to me in English with little hesitation. "I hate it here. I have been teaching here for four years and I can't support it any longer. The people here are not friendly. People don't respect me. Fortunately, my roommate is my good friend. This saves me. We are both teachers who don't want to teach here, so we can relate. If it wasn't for her I would be very sad. I would be alone. You know, we were talking about you the other day. We thought, if it is hard for us to live in this town, it must be really hard for the American."

"I don't hate it here. It's hard to live here, but it's also very interesting," I said.

"I think I know why," Monique said, "it's because you volunteered to live here, and you weren't forced to do it. Since you chose to be here, it's easier to like it, even if it's a bad place. Also, I think the people here treat you special because you are foreign." I couldn't disagree, Monique was a bright young lady.

The short lived winter was burning off. Inside the taxi it was almost hot. Both of us were on our way to Fez. She was going to visit her husband and I was going to help at a Peace Corps training. We spoke in a secret code that no one else in the taxi could understand. She had been waiting for someone to listen.

"I think there is something wrong with the whole country," she admitted

"What?"

"I don't know. The main problem is that no one can admit there is anything wrong. People always say Morocco is the best. That we eat well. That we have a generous king. They say that everything is perfect. They can't admit we have problems."

"But what are the problems?"

"I don't know. Maybe, that Moroccans can't admit when they are sad."

"Are the people in Morocco sad?" I kept pushing for the reveal.

"I think there are three kinds of people in Morocco. There are people who are happy. There are a lot of people who are sad. And there are a lot of people like me, they are happy sometimes and sad sometimes."

The taxi pushed itself into Casablanca. Monique told me to look at people's faces, explaining that in Casablanca people are not happy. I saw expressions of despair. I searched for a smile and couldn't find one. Is there something wrong with the people in this country? Does Monique realize something I don't? I wondered if the people in Casablanca are miserable. I got scared, thinking that all humans are depressed deep down.

I didn't have the change for a tram ticket to get to the train station. I ran across the street to break 20 dirhams. I asked the waiter for his help confident that a stranger's good will would solve my predicament. Instead, the waiter brushed me off. So, I bought an orange juice. I ran back to the tram stop with my change. Monique remained waiting.

We rode the tram in silence, transportation stress freezing our nerves. The train's expected departure time was minutes away. We hustled into the station and inched our way forward at the ticket line, holding our ground, blocking others from shoving ahead. We shuffled out to our platform to find that our train would be delayed by an hour. The anxiety of running late was reversed, and our pace shut down. Monique stood in the sun and I sat on my bag in her shadow. She resumed her confessions.

"Teachers are sent to cities all over Morocco. My friend was sent to a small village in the mountains. People there didn't even speak Arabic. She hated it. She couldn't teach, or talk to people. It's really stupid. You know, we write our top choices when we get placed. And if you do well on the placement test, they send you to the city of your choice. I wanted to stay in Fez. I wrote that on my placement test. Then, I got the highest score on the placement test. I was number one in the country. I was suppose to stay in Fez. But, one of the ministers' daughters also took the test at that time. She didn't get a good score but she also wanted to stay in Fez. So they took her placement and switched it with mine. I was suppose to teach in Fez. It's not fair."

An hour later the train arrived. Three hours later we had barely moved. From inside the train it was impossible to know why. I was in no hurry, but Monique had limited time to catch up with her family, her husband, and her friends before returning to loneliness. She spoke apologetically with her friends on the phone, explaining that she would be late. The delayed train had robbed her of an evening with loved ones.

"Can you read Arabic script?" She asked me sifting through a newspaper looking for a distraction.

"No, not really," I skimmed some headlines and pointed to a few words I recognized.

"What about this sentence," she showed me the first sentence of an article. I tried to read it aloud. She corrected my pronunciation and translated the words I didn't understand. She scanned the newspaper for easy to understand headlines. We translated every headline and every advertisement into English. Then we started to break down entire paragraphs of articles, experiencing the complexity of Arabic grammar. Between grammar points, we discussed a shared passion for language. Her enthusiasm wanted me to read the whole paper, but I wasn't up for it.

Nevertheless, she was a good teacher.

The Minority

“He says that you should help in the kitchen because you're a girl,” I translate for my sister, “I'm not sure if he's joking.”

“That's fine. I want to see how the couscous is made anyway,” my sister rolls with the punches.

I forgot how traditional Muhammad is. Should I also offer to help out in the kitchen? Should I tell my sister to decline and join us in the living room? Should I explain that segregated gender roles can be harmful for society? It's not worth it. I follow Muhammad and my brother into the dining room.

The three toddler daughters are shy towards strangers, but Muhammad makes sure they greet us. They show us some of their school work. The oldest has unbelievable penmanship for a six year old. Muhammad is keen on their education, having received little formal education himself. He affords a cheap private school for them. He hopes to move back to his southern homeland by the time they reach high school.

To do this, Muhammad operates a dairy store 70 hours per week. He watches soccer or the news as he waits for costumers. If shoppers are present he engages. He keeps track of the community this way, always well aware of people's relations, hobbies, and careers. He attentively seeks education from everyone. He often provides his own wisdom too. When someone claimed they could easily pick up English living in an English speaking country, Muhammad asked why he hadn't learned Berber while living in Morocco.

“80 percent of the country is Berber. Most people think they're Arab, but they studied people's blood and most Moroccans have Berber backgrounds,” he explains after my sister returns from her visit to the kitchen. “Like the French, the Arabs colonized Morocco, and forced another culture.” He is proud that his family uses a Berber language in the home despite living in an Arabic speaking community. A friend in his shop once tried telling Muhammad that being Muslim and being Arab were the same thing. As a devout Muslim, Muhammad defended his culture explaining that Iranians and Indonesians are non-Arab Muslims too. After a few minutes of intense debate, they laughed off the confrontation and the man left unconvinced. “Crazy,” Muhammad said in English referring to the man.

I visit him in his shop everyday, as a costumer and as a friend. Often, he gives me free juice or yogurt. My foreign perspective amuses him. He says he would never go to America because there are too many Jews. It's a joke, as he also says Berbers and Jews share a similar culture in Morocco, representing the merchants and traders. Indeed, several of the local stores are run by Berber families. Also, Muhammad knows many Berber families in the south who are in fact Jewish. Today Berbers and Jews share the distinction of being minority cultures in a land of Arabs and Islam. Muhammad sympathizes with other minorities whether they be Berbers, Jews, or American Peace Corps volunteers.

Since my brother and sister are visiting, and live in Bolivia, he has a new culture to explore today. “Who is the president of Bolivia?” World politics is his favorite subject. My siblings describe the political and economical climate in Bolivia. Muhammad's responses show he is not unfamiliar with South America.

The wife emerges with the bowl of Couscous. “Because your sister is here, it is not a problem for my wife to eat with us.” Her name is Naima and I've never heard her talk. She sits on a stool completing the circle around the bowl of couscous. The girls have already eaten and are on their way back to school. “In the name of God,” Muhammad commands us to start eating. Naima balls the couscous in the palm of her hand to eat. My sister tries to imitate the traditional style with some success. My attempts fall apart and I make a bigger mess than the girls did. Muhammad however, eats with a spoon, and admits he can't eat with his hand. It's delicious and I try to make sure Naima understands that we appreciate it. She almost smiles.

We insist we couldn't possibly eat another bite, and Naima clears the table. While she's in the kitchen Muhammad comments on her. “She's too shy,” he apologizes, “she doesn't talk to anyone.” I wonder if she is timid because she never leaves the house, or never leaves the house because she is timid. It's probably a little of both. She joins us again handing her husband the tea tray.

“Thank God for this opportunity. He has led us to this moment. Even though you are American and your siblings live in Bolivia you have come to my house. This is a special conversation. This is what is important in life. Thank God for my family and for my friends," we appreciate the moment.

Muhammad never pushes Islam on me. We talk about religion and he is certainly devout, but he won't harass my beliefs. He has confidence that God will show me the way.

“What did Berbers believe before Islam arrived in Morocco?” I ask.

“Some were Jews maybe. Most worshiped the sun and the moon and that kind of thing.”

“It's a good thing that the Arabs brought Islam to Morocco?”

“Yes. It's great they showed us religion. But the Arabs should have left our culture alone.”

Six glasses wait in front of Muhammad. He holds the teapot but his tongue won't let him pour. He is ecstatic comparing Morocco, Bolivia, and America. Every time he is about to pour another idea jumps out of his mouth and the glasses remain empty. We return the enthusiasm. Naima laughs once or twice, beginning to enjoy the strange company. When Muhammad realizes how long he's held the teapot he explains, “We don't drink tea to drink tea. We drink tea to slow down our day and laugh and talk with friends and family.”

We stay longer than expected. On Fridays, Muhammad doesn't re-open the dairy shop until late afternoon. Naima also seems in no hurry to return to her chores. We are exhausted however. The intake of information is heavy and my Arab-Spanish translations are draining. When we leave, Muhammad reminds my sister, “Come over to greet and spend time with Naima. She's all by herself here all day. She could use your company.”

Evacuation

<<Dear Peace Corps Volunteers, Emergency Action Plan is activated! You are all expected to go to your consolidation city today Friday DEC 20, 2013 as soon as you get this text message. Your warden will be meeting you near the hotel which is your consolidation point. If you are traveling please consolidate to the closest point to where you are.>> 

It was only a drill. I traveled to Marrakech that day, checked myself in, and traveled back to my town. My last Peace Corps consolidation, however, was not a drill. I did not travel back to my community:

My friend returned from the toilet, "I puked on a prostitute. Can we get outta here."

"What?” I set down my morning beer.

“There was a lady using the toilet and I threw up some of the beer when I opened the door. She's not happy. C'mon, lets go to the market."

A cruel laugh escaped my chest, "sit down. Did your vomit hit her or just land next to her?"

We could have been productive. On Facebook, I saw other Peace Corps Volunteers painting murals at schools. Another group of volunteers in a western region had made a zombie movie. They seemed to be enjoying consolidation, or at least making the best of it. I couldn't be bothered though. Most days, anxiety drove me to the bar next door, a place to anticipate my life's most abrupt transition. I waited for important people to announce my future.

“What are they doing?” The bar was closing. Employees shut the gates and cleared away the beers. Everyone was suddenly busy, moving around. Our bartender saw our confusion.

“They say the rebels are coming. We must close everything.” He didn't seem scared, but he was serious.

“The rebels are coming here? They're coming now?”

“They are trying to overtake Mopti and Sevare tonight.”

“That can't be right. The rebels can't move that fast.” We questioned our bartender, but he only shrugged and got back to work.

I played with a bottle cap, trying to roll it around our empty beers. The rebels hadn't made it across the Niger River yet and hardly had access to paved roads. They wouldn't be making it to Sevare. The fighting was still far north of us, we reassured ourselves. However, the rumor was a fierce reminder that we were living in the suburbs of a civil war. The evacuation of Peace Corps volunteers was imminent. I almost ordered another beer, but figured this would be an appropriate situation to practice restraint.

“Do you have change for 10,000 CFA?” We paid our tab.

“You should go home. It is dangerous to be out today,” the bartender showed us out unlocking the main gate.

We ignored the warning and walked to the market to shop for lunch. Terror had crept into the city. Every business we walked passed was shutting down. Metal doors and padlocks fortified valuables. The gas station was clogged with vehicles taking turns escaping to southern regions. Whispers of the rebellion webbed the city. We called our Peace Corps manager to inform him on the situation. He was aware of the activity, but determined that the population was spooked by harmless rumors. Peace Corps volunteers were to remain consolidated in Sevare.

The market was functioning at half capacity. Clusters of stalls remained opened selling their fruits or vegetables, but large blocks of the market were abandoned. Still, plenty of locals went about their day as usual. Perhaps they hadn't heard the news. Or maybe the had laughed off the rumors. Or maybe it made no difference. Peace or war, families need groceries.

A jeep halted in front of us. The driver was German. We greeted the man, curious to to see another westerner. He was surprised to see us too.

“What are you guys doing? Why haven't you left?”

“We're Peace Corps Volunteers. We're staying in town to see what happens. If the situation gets worse we'll probably evacuate. But if things can get under control we'll return to our villages.”

“Any kind of control has been lost. It's chaos now. The French NGOs all left the country this week. The Canadians left last week. I thought I was the only foreigner left in town.”

“Are you staying?”

“Absolutely not. I'm heading south now. Everyone is very scared here. That makes it a dangerous place to be. I recommend you leave.”

“We'll see what our organization decides. We really hope we can stick it out.”

“Things won't be calming down anytime soon. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Safe travels.”

The jeep gripped the pavement and turned south.

Our optimism shaken, we pushed on. I would return to my village and complete my mission, I reminded myself. Mali would overcome its current state of anarchy and the rebellion would be mitigated. It was a special country with a terribly sincere population, a democracy that neighboring countries were suppose to strive for, and cultural strategies for avoiding ethnic tension. Mali couldn't succumb to turmoil.

Two army trucks rumbled towards the main highway. Soldiers and weapons piled on the bed. At the tail, an automatic weapon was installed. I turned around to notice the military base nearby. Several more machines lurched out from its entrance. Were they going north to counter the rebel advance, or turning south fleeing to the capital?

At the house we described our journey and listened to a grim analysis of the circumstances. “Amadou Sanogo has to demonstrate willingness to cede power. He must step down for an interim president and help develop plans for elections. If he demonstrates such cooperation, ECOWAS can unfreeze its economic sanctions. At this point, Peace Corps will be able to operate and we won't get evacuated,” one friend explained.

Peace Corps had recently ceased operations in Mauritania, Niger, and Chad. Mali was next in line to be overwhelmed by security threats in the Sahel. Al Qaida affiliated groups were well established in the north. Terrorists had killed several Europeans in Tombouctou. Besides terrorism, a civil war was peaking between the Malian military and rebel Taureg seperatists, also in the north. Ghadafi's death had redirected firepower into the hands of Tauregs and the conflict was getting bloody. Such problems had been in the periphery for years, until finally, the country imploded, shocking the world.

“A coup d'etat has occurred in the Malian capital, Bamako,” a female British voice had announced on my hand held radio. Never had a world news headline been so relevant to my life. A handful of soldiers, disgruntled by failures in the war with the Taureg rebels, had returned to the capital and ousted the governing body. They had stormed the main media outlet to announce the transition. I had stepped out of my hut that day to inform my neighbor that his government had been toppled. “Mali is bad,” he shook his head and returned to weaving a basket. A few hours later I received a text message:

<<Dear Volunteers. We are now in a state of consolidation. Please travel to your points of consolidation tomorrow as early as possible. This is only a precaution. Maintain access to your phones for further instruction. Stay in touch with your regional managers and travel safe.>>

The text message had been a mere inconvenience at first. I explained to my neighbors in my village that I would probably come back in a few days. They were suspicious but wished me safe journey. Sata told me not to leave. I promised her I would come back.

Before sunset, I left the house in Sevare. The streets were calm, but businesses remained mostly closed. We found a hotel bar willing to serve us drinks. We tried to keep the conversation positive. If we got evacuated, there was a chance we would directly transfer to another country. Fantasies of moving to Vanuatu or Mongolia mixed nicely with our beers. Or, with our adjustment allowance, we could travel anywhere before moving back to America. We discussed plans for Togo, Turkey, and Spain. We generated some excitement, but then my mind slipped back into a sad truth. We would be running away from desperate villages we had committed to help.

“Is everything OK?” Our regional manager found us on the street stopping for food.

“Yea, we're fine. We were just on our way back to the house. What's going on?” A friend had informed us on the phone that it was finally happening.

“We're leaving tonight. C'mon, we have to go.”

“So the rumors are true. The rebels are coming.”

“No. The rebels are probably still far away, but the city is afraid and we don't want to take any chances. It's safer to move south. We're chartering a bus. It will be ready soon.” He let us buy some street food and we walked back to the house.

The bus hadn't arrived when we returned. Twenty volunteers sat outside among their baggage waiting to be escorted away from war. The group admitted defeat in silence. There was nothing worth saying. There was nothing worth thinking. I stuffed my clothes into my backpack and ate my beans and noodles.

At 9:00 pm we boarded a small bus.

I focused on the rhythms of the bus. Sometimes we stopped at police check points. Mostly, the driver flew us through outer space. The headlights beamed a narrow highway, but even that was black. The bus swept us away from rebels and terrorists and our homes. At midnight, we reached the safety of the next city, San.

The Peace Corps house there was dead, no guards to let us in. The volunteers consolidated in San were sleeping. We stood in the dim street wondering where we could spend the night. We were exhausted, anxious to move beyond purgatory. The sadness in my chest was swelling. I felt the end coming. Within a week we would board Air Ethiopia and evacuate the country. We would be torn away from people that we had struggled for so long to love and understand. From America, we would wonder what had become of the families that had fed us. Would they be happy? Would they be hungry? Would they wonder why I left when I had insisted I wanted to spend two years with them?

A fat rain drop hit the ground at my feet. Then another kissed the back of my hand. The dirt became blotched with water as the first mango rain of the season pattered down. I hadn't felt precipitation in six months. Life splashed onto the parched earth, tumbling from the night. This was good bye. In the following months such sprinkles would mature into spectacular storms. The desert would recede making room for mud and soil. Workers in the cities would return to their villages and raise crops alongside their families and neighbors. From America though, all I could tell was “Mali is bad.”