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.

Communication

It is not unusual for a human to be multi-lingual. Many grow up surrounded by two or more languages within their household or community. Despite being illiterate, most the men I knew while in Peace Corps Mali could speak two or three languages. Here in Morocco most the population has studied French since elementary school and can't help but speak it well. Humans speak second or third languages almost by accident, as their language abilities are generally just products of their habits and environments. They do not go out of their way to learn a new language. They are not scholars or geniuses. It's almost like it should be natural for humans to be multi-lingual.

For the sake of survival, Peace Corps volunteers intensely study and are immersed into the local language. Unlike studying a language in America, there is no escape from the exotic sounds, words, and phrases. Sleeping is the only escape, and even then I dream about verbs. It's sink or swim. Lots of volunteers swim (or at least tread water), and results are amazing. Most volunteers I've met learn local languages and can speak them confidently and effectively. By local languages I do not mean French or Spanish, I am talking about languages most people have never heard of (Bambara, Do-nosso, Fufulde, and Tomokan just to name some that were taught in Mali).

In Morocco all volunteers are taught Darija, or Moroccan Arabic. Standard Arabic is not spoken across the Arab world. Like Latin, the original tongue has morphed over time and space and today different dialects of Arabic are as different as Portuguese is to Italian. Moroccans and Saudis would struggle to converse with each other and with other Arab speakers. Darija has evolved its own unique sounds, words and grammar. It has also been injected with sounds and words from Western Europe and from the original Berber settlers. Though it is considered a 'dialect' of Arabic, perhaps it should be thought of as its own language within the Arabic family.

Learning a language is a strange process. More than any other skill, it is all about practice. The theory helps, but it can also be incredibly distracting. Do I memorize verbs? Or memorize phrases? Maybe I should let the sounds wash over me and the language will sink in. Or I could listen attentively and pick out the words I understand. Should I try to use the phrases I've learned or will I sound like an idiot? Is it alright to engage with someone for the sake of practicing even if I don't really care where the taxi driver is from? I probably should not worry too much about it because it's too exhausting. But then I won't learn it!

Beneath the frustrations are miracles that make the struggle worth it. It's astounding when my efforts are understood. The noises come from my lips but they do not belong to me. I am borrowing sounds that do not register in my brain, but ring clear for the listener. How can the performance be more meaningful to the audience than the entertainer? Like a spell, the sounds I mutter are non-sense that feel like magic when understood.

It is practically impossible to measure improvement. There are moments where I swear I have forgotten every single word, and can't form the simplest syllables. There are moments where a flurry of sounds coming from the TV make perfect sense. When I feel confident and in control of a conversation I begin to think that I'm a sort of linguistics master. But then the next morning I forget how to say 'good morning.' I am constantly being tested, and since I am hardly ever prepared I am getting good at failing.

I should be able to express myself more and more every week. Maybe I will even be fluent eventually. But what does it mean to be fluent? I don't think I am even fluent in English. There's lots of stuff going on in English that I don't understand or can't express. This post is a perfect example of how bad I am at English. I swear half these sentences I write are bad English. Someone asked me to translate lyrics to a rap song once, and I couldn't do it. I could tell it was in English, but I had no idea what the rapper was trying to say. Shouldn't someone who is fluent at a language be able to translate the words of a song? So I guess fluency does not mean perfection, because of course I am fluent in English. Maybe it doesn't require that much to be considered fluent. I will be able to communicate effectively in Darija, and I suppose my words will 'flow,' and so that would mean that my words are 'fluent.' So yea, sure, I'll be fluent in 6 months or a year or something. Or not, depending on how you define fluency.

Really, what I am doing is inventing my own system of communication based on Darija. Word choice varies greatly from person to person. Within the same language, what one person speaks is not the same as what another speaks. Words define backgrounds and personalities, and even in English there are so many words I do not use because I have never practiced using them and it doesn't feel like me if I were to use them. In Morocco I need to memorize a bunch of words that are Darija in order to survive, and I also need to create a Darija personality. I can't rely on my American words to show who I am. My personality is now reflected through new sounds and actions, that can't reveal more complex facets of my personality. I need to discover how to say which words in order to generate the right emotions. How does an American in Morocco make friends laugh? Or demonstrate sympathy? How do I show that I am sad? Or happy? Or serious? Or need help? Or want to be left alone? It will take more than memorizing certain phrases to do this.

Actions speak louder than words, especially when you can't use words. Language is a tool that attempts to express the wide range of human attitudes and emotions. But it is not always effective and sometimes it even distorts understanding. In English I can disguise my true feelings and desires with words. In Morocco I can't bullshit. I must represent myself without words by using non-verbal communication like laughter, touching, shaking hands, playing and all sorts of other behaviors that haven't even occurred to me yet. Even subtle facial expressions say a lot. These simple behaviors can carry more weight than I would expect, and even without using language, family and friends have a good idea of my basic personality. In the future, more Darija skills will help develop deeper understanding with certain people, but also allow for distortion and manipulation. Language makes life complicated sometimes.

The Volunteer

A villager is stuck at the bottom of a dry well.  There is no way to climb out.  His situation is desperate.  He cries for help.

An NGO worker from the capital hears his cries for help.  He peers into the well and sees the helpless villager.  "Can you help me get out?" the villager asks.  The NGO worker thinks he has a solution.  He throws money down into the well, and then walks off.

The next day the villager remains stuck at the bottom of the dry well.  He continues to cry for help.  A missionary hears his cries and arrives at the well.  He stares down into the darkness at the poor villager.  "I need someone to help me out," pleas the villager.  The missionary is sure he has the solution.  He throws a bible down into the well, and walks off.

By the third day the villager is losing hope, but continues his cries for help.  A Peace Corps volunteer arrives at the well.  He looks at the helpless villager.  "Please, I need help!" the villager demands.  The Peace Corps volunteer does not know what to do.  There is no way to pull the villager out of the well.  He thinks for a moment.  Then, he throws himself into the well.

Once he has made himself comfortable next to the villager at the bottom of the well he realizes "God help me, I am broke and have no idea what I'm doing."