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Gaining Perspective...Volume 4
Two Years in the Kingdom of Morocco
By Charlie Kolb
03/03/2011
It
is funny how I again find myself writing on the train. After my home
visit at Christmas and my brief detour in Frankfurt, I have spent a
large portion of these last two months in my high mountain village
alone and trying to get through the winter. It has been intensely cold
and, in the mornings, before dawn, even the air seems to have frozen
during the night. When my living room heats during the day, tiny
icicles shower down onto my head, and I occasionally have to break
through a crystalline rime covering the basin in my bathroom.
~
Winter is relinquishing its grip slowly but surely on the Atlas, the
sun came out a week or so ago and allowed me the four hours necessary
to do my laundry by hand on the roof. I came out of that day with a
huge bundle of clean clothes and a matching set of abrasions on my
knuckles. The following week, I went to the capital city of Rabat for a
volunteer committee meeting. I took a 10 hour bus from my market town
of Rich; transport here has become so easy now that I hardly even think
about it anymore. I just go with the flow and hope that I arrive at my
destination at some point. Occasionally I find myself at the wrong
destination entirely, but that doesn't particularly bother me either. I
can always backtrack.
Today
is an auspicious day in my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer, it is the
one year anniversary of my arrival in this country. One year ago today,
I staggered down onto the runway at the Mohammed V airport in
Casablanca. The pavement was wet from a recent rain, and the weak
morning sunlight barely illuminated
Winter
is relinquishing its grip slowly but surely on the Atlas, the sun came
out a week or so ago and allowed me the four hours necessary to do my
laundry by hand on the roof.
the
swaying palms that stood in a row before the terminal. I was tired,
confused, and apprehensive; not to mention surrounded by people who
felt the same way. We were facing the unknown, my colleagues and I;
twenty-six months in Morocco lay before us and that fact gave us
pause. We came from all walks of life, from all over the country. We
all had differing notions on what brought us here to Morocco, and what
we expected from the country and from ourselves.
I
can't remember what I expected of this place; that memory has faded as
time has gone by. I know that I certainly expected much more hostility
toward me as an American from the people here, but I quickly learned
that expectation was simply born of fears seeded by a sensationalist
media, theirs and ours. The people who surrounded me, who took me in,
and who cared for me and still do—these people were no different from
you or me, and ultimately I began to see more similarities between our
cultures than differences. Though there were still enough differences
to ensure a steep learning curve indeed. I had to relearn most aspects
of my life; from how to speak and how to eat, to how to clean myself
and use the bathroom. I do my laundry by hand and all my own cooking.
Eating out is a rare pleasure that only happens in cities. But though
the trail has been rocky and the way steep, the benefits far outweigh
the difficulties. Part of what I have gained from my experiences of the
past year is a deeper understanding of the world as a whole and how we
as humans relate to eachother globally. I have gained a new respect and
understanding of my own culture and have come to realize just how
unique America is. We have an amazing amount of freedoms. I also have
gained a deeper understanding of myself; who I am and what I want.
Out
in the village, the men spend much of their days outside, sitting in
whatever cafe happens to be in the direct sunlight. Like a flock of
migratory birds they move from one side of the street to the other;
everyone wearing a jelaba (robe), including me. The women seem to be
inside much of the time, so I see very little of them. But occasionally
when I smell baking bread wafting from an ornately sculpted window, or
watch the smoke trailing from kitchen chimneys in the early morning
when I drink my coffee at sunrise, I know that they are in there
working.
In
many ways, this ancient society is set up in two spheres by necessity.
To survive up here, it seems that two lives must be lived to maintain a
single home. The women here are proud of the role they play in keeping
their home running and the men are proud of their work and socializing
outside the home. I am not saying that I agree with this separation of
identities, and concrete assignation of roles, but I am saying that as
a Peace Corps volunteer and single male in the Atlas, I very much feel
as though I am living two lives. I have even gone so far as to schedule
"village" and "home" days on my calendar, so I am able to devote equal
time to both.
I
am able to travel confidently, communicate effectively across language
barriers, and am more at ease overall than I have ever been. I have
found solace in my solitude and have come to treasure the days, weeks,
and months spent in my high mountain aerie. I have found beauty even in
these harsh and desolate
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