Christmas Comes Whenever You Want It To Come

If you think enough about them, holidays are kind of weird. A random day picked during the year, to celebrate a random thing (that you may or may not realize you’re celebrating). Now, I don’t mean to offend anyone by saying that Christians celebrating Christmas is “random” or Muslims celebrating L-Eid El Fitur is “random.” Not at all. To an outsider, though, they’re kind of strange. But, nonetheless, to the people celebrating them, they matter. A lot.

A couple days ago, I was teaching an English class on phonetics, and we were practicing the various sounds in the English language. While going over the “th” sound and the “wr” sound, the word wreath came up. My student asked me to explain what a wreath was, which I dutifully did, using the context of Christmas to explain. The response I got was a facial expression that was either a look of judgment, or continuing confusion. To be honest, it was probably a bit of both. “You guy’s bring bushes inside for Christmas too don’t you?” On one hand, this was a great opportunity to teach the word tree, on the other hand, I could do nothing but smile a little and think “Yes. Yes we do bring trees inside.” It may be weird, but it’s our tradition, so I’ll take it as a teachable cultural exchange moment and call it a day.

But if you ask anyone what their favorite part of Christmas is, or whatever holiday it is they celebrate, it will probably come back to the same thing: celebrating that holiday with people who also are celebrating. Maybe your favorite part is the feeling of Christmas spirit. But who is making that feeling? The people around you. Maybe your favorite part is running downstairs on Christmas morning to a tree filled with presents and the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls in the oven. But what made that? The people who put the presents under the tree and the cinnamon rolls in the oven. I’m going to stop writing bad examples, because I think you get my point. Having people to celebrate with makes the holiday what it is, and is also what makes being away from home during the holiday’s the hardest thing.

However, I think the most important thing I’ve learned about holidays from being 5,500 miles away for them is this: They’re whatever I make them to be.

For Thanksgiving, our amazing Country Director here in Morocco organized a giant Thanksgiving feast for all of us Peace Corps Morocco Volunteers. Now while missing out on being around my family was one of the most difficult times I’ve had since arriving in Morocco 11 months ago, it was also, in a way, one of the best (or at least coolest) Thanksgiving’s I’ve ever had. This Thanksgiving was the most genuine celebration of what Thanksgiving is all about I’ve ever had. It was a testament to what it means to come together with those around you and simply enjoy seeing what life has brought you. We all brought something to contribute, we sat outside under palm trees, and I ate couscous with my Thanksgiving dinner. There were almost 200 of us there for the meal, and it provided a chance to see other volunteers I hadn’t seen in over six months, and in some cases, meet volunteers I didn’t know previously. Maybe I wasn’t home with my mom and dad and sister, but I was still with a family. I have chosen to make for myself a family of Peace Corps Volunteers while I am here, and I have no problem saying I ate my Thanksgiving meal with family. Instead of being miserable because I wasn’t back in Washington, I took my current situation, and made a great holiday out of it. And I loved it.

Christmas is no different. Alright, it’ll be a little different. My parents are flying to Morocco, so I will get to see them for Christmas (can I get a Humdullah!?). But they also aren’t arriving until the day after Christmas, and I don’t care. Christmas for me is going to be whenever my parents and I are finally reunited, and decide to celebrate it. The fact that Christmas is on the 25^th of December every year (yes Greg, the 25^th, every year), is entirely arbitrary. Especially if you consider that Jesus was born in the spring-time and the Church moved Christmas to December to make it more likely the pagans would take part, but I digress.

The point is this: the 25^th is nothing more than another day of the year. Christmas is about coming together with people, maybe exchanging some gifts if you want, and enjoying traditions that will always bring a smile to your face. Whether you do this on the 25^th, the 26^th, or August 6^th, who cares? It’s the action that matters. Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year. Setting up the Christmas tree one night with the whole family, and later sitting staring at it with a cup of hot cocoa. Rearranging the nativity scene every few days because let’s be honest, nobody really knows what the setup was that night. Or decorating about a hundred cookies because mom still didn’t listen to me and my sister telling her to “please… just please don’t make a double batch this year.” This is what matters to me on Christmas – following traditions, being with people that matter to me, sharing memories and experiences. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it needs to be the 25^th for me to do that.

I may not be in a predominately Christian country this year for Christmas, where Christmas spirit is all around whether you look for it or not, but that didn’t stop me from making my own spirit. I spent an afternoon (alright, it was really like, 45 minutes, but go with it), making my own Christmas tree out of cardboard. I made snowflakes and paper chains to hang around my house. And I stuck a bow on my front door, just to make me smile every time I enter or exit my apartment. And I love all of it. If you don’t believe me, ask the various friends and family that I keep Skyping excitedly just to show off my latest decoration I’ve hung up.  I made my own Christmas spirit because I wanted to, and I’m making this holiday what I want it to be. And when I celebrate Christmas morning on the night of the 26^th, or mid-day on the 27^th, it will be glorious.

Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays, from Morocco!! 

The Best Things In The World!!

Let me first give you the back-story behind this list. Back in July, I was working at a summer camp in the coastal town of El Jadida here in Morocco. The camp was mostly run by Moroccan staff, and us American volunteers ran classes in the mornings and afternoons. Other than those times, though, we were mostly free to do as we pleased. AKA, we had a lot of time on our hands. My best friend here in country was also working at the camp with me, and, inevitably, when you put the two of us together, we tend to talk about all the things we miss about America.

One day, we happened to sit down and write a list of "The Best Things In The World!!" and post it on the wall to try and give everyone a much deserved smile. I was going through some old pictures today trying to find something, and came across the picture of the list we had made during camp, and figured it deserved to be shared with the world. When you're in the Peace Corps, it can sometimes be tough to keep your spirits up, and making this list (and stumbling back across it today), is just one example of how the little things in life are what truly make for a good day.

I hope you all enjoy it as much as we do:

1. Reese's
2. Snow on Christmas morning
3. Driving in the summer with the windows down and the music blasting
4. Thanksgiving day
5. S'mores
6. Airports
7. Pie
8. Family
9. Coming home
10. Thunderstorms
11. Getting lost in a good book
12. The Olympics
13. A cold beverage on a hot day
14. Sunsets
15. Stargazing
16. Campfires
17. Sonic Happy Hour
18. Ice cream
19. Baby animals
20. Getting mail
21. Clearance racks in stores
22. 24 hour business hours
23. Eye flirting
24. Guys holding the door open
25. Ballparks
26. Ballpark food
27. Late-night food
28. Forts
29. Feeling clean
30. Feeling healthy
31. Pets
32. Siblings
33. Being outdoors
34. Mountains
35. Hugs
36. Fresh clothes from the dryer
37. New socks
38. Timing stoplights perfectly
39. Frank updating Postsecret
40. Good luck
41. Good first dates
42. Falling in love
43. New car smell
44. The perfect fit
45. Good news during a bad time
46. Snow
47. Fresh powder
48. Sharing memories
49. Reunions
50. Chocolate
51. Having the perfect song come on the radio
52. Having people be proud of you
53. Saving a life
54. Cardgames/Game nights
55. Seeing a community come together
56. Being speachless
57. Random acts of kindness
58. Witnessing history
59. Vacation
60. Looking forward to something
61. Traveling
62. Getting lost in a project
63. First cars
64. BBQ/Grilling
65. Being productive
66. When someone tells you you can't, and you do it anyways
67. Traditions
68. Having a plan come together
69. Having someone you trust
70. Feeling safe
71. Being happy
72. The smell of home
73. Arriving safely after travelling all day
74. Good company
75. Good food.


Have more you think should be added? Comment below and let me know!

The Adventure of Arriving at Special Olympics Morocco

“Sorry, the bus strike started today. The bus to Ifrane isn’t coming.”

“Shit. What time is it?” Bethany asked me.

I looked down at my watch, which read 7:30AM. Our week working at Special Olympics Morocco wasn’t off to the greatest start. We had 6 and a half hours to get nearly 200 kilometers to Ifrane, before our first meeting started at 2pm. The bus we were supposed to be on would have gotten us in sometime between noon and 1, and was a direct route to Ifrane. The only other option we knew of was a chartered bus that would get us in at 2:55pm. That option was out.

“Do you think we can make it with grand taxi’s?”

We'd make it to the Games eventually...

Morocco has two kinds of taxi’s. Petit taxi’s are only within cities, run on meters to determine payment, and work very similarly to taxi’s in America. Grand Taxi’s run city to city. They have specific routes, pre-set prices, and manage to fit 6 passengers into the car, therefore making them the least comfortable option. They are also the fastest and most expensive option. Since it wasn’t my site, I had no idea how to get to Ifrane from where I was at. But it was our only option if we were going to make it in time for the first Special Olympics meeting.

We set off across town towards the grand taxi stand, sure that if nothing else, the day would turn into an adventure. We had chosen a city we knew was somewhere halfway-ish between Bejad and Ifrane, and hoped for the best. If we could get to that halfway point, we could hopefully get a taxi from there to Ifrane, or, last resort, we could catch that charter bus as it came through that city (the bus strike was only affecting the souk buses, not charter buses), and show up late.

“You can’t take a taxi to Khenifra, you need to take one taxi to ????, then take a taxi to Khenifra.”
“Alright, what’s the name of the town we’re going to?”
“?????”

“Say it one more time?”

“????”

“Alright sounds good, let’s go.”

“Wait, where are going?”
“I have no idea, we’re just going.”

And with that, we set off in our first of what would end up being four grand taxi’s towards a city we could not understand the name of, and we headed down a road neither of us have ever been down. We had nothing to do but put our complete blinded trust in the random guy that is in charge of the taxi stand. As we drove, I looked at Bethany and asked if she had any idea where we were, with her responding with a shrug and a look that seemed to say “hey if we’re lost, we’re lost together.” The taxi then slowed down and we looked around to realize we were in the absolute middle of nowhere. There was 2 buildings on my left, a single building on my right, and an old rusted sign in the ground that said ‘Taxi Stand.’ There weren’t even taxis at the taxi stand. “Monika I’m not getting out of the car right here. There’s no way we’re getting out here. I have no idea where we are” Bethany said with a touch of worry to her voice. Our plan was to continue sitting in the car until the driver said we were at our destination and we needed to get out now. Luckily, this wasn’t our stop, and we carried on.

When we pulled into a city that actually had people and buildings and cars and dogs, our driver pulled up to another taxi stand. Knowing we were winging it, he made sure to take care of us. He made sure he found where the other taxi’s were heading towards Khenifra that we needed before letting us get out of the car in a strange town, and personally talked to the other driver to tell him where we needed to go for us. We climbed into taxi number 2, amazed at our luck with how fast our trip was going, and knocking on wood every time we talked about our good luck. Our driver asked where we were from, and was so excited to tell us how welcome we were in his country, and how much he loved having us here. He told us a story of an American he had met at some unknown point in time, who also had said she was in Morocco for 2 years, and he had driven her to the airport in his taxi when she was going home to America at the end. Bethany and I smiled at each other, knowing this was clearly another Peace Corps Volunteer that he had met, and very possibly, he was still telling us this story 20 years after she was in Morocco. I hope random taxi drivers still tell about the time they met the random blonde American girl after I go home.

Ifrane, Morocco

Our day continued on this same trend, and we became more and more dumbfounded by the incredible luck we were having. When we arrived in Ifrane I looked down at my watch once more, and smiled as I realized we had arrived 1 minute shy of exactly four hours after we first pulled out in that first taxi, headed to a town we couldn’t pronounce. It wasn’t even noon yet.

“The meeting will be at 5. We moved it because of the bus strike.”

All that work to get to Ifrane in time, and we didn’t even need to do it. Well, damn. At least at this point in time, I was in beautiful Ifrane, and, in many ways, felt like I was back in America for a week. City planning was a thing again, maple trees dropped leaves for me to jump on like a five-year-old, and I actually ate legit, real cheesecake. I may have floated a few inches off the ground during that last one.

Teams marching into the stadium

The Games started with the opening ceremony, as is Olympic tradition. Each of us volunteers was assigned a team to lead into the stadium for the ceremony, while we held a sign that read where in Morocco the team was from. I escorted the team from Kasbah Tadlah into the stadium, and couldn’t help but laugh while one little girl with down syndrome spent the entire time working the crowd: waving, blowing kisses, smiling into the TV cameras, everything. If I had gone home that day right after the opening ceremony, my time at Special Olympics still would have been the most moving, humbling experience I’ve had thus far during my Peace Corps service. Walking the entire track in a parade of over a thousand athletes, plus their coaches and assistants, gave me chills the entire time.

In Morocco, people with special needs have a huge stigma attached to them often times. Many are sadly kept in their houses all days, and never see the light of the world. Having the chance to interact with so many associations that are fighting for the rights of these people every day was an incredible experience to be given. Some of these teams had travelled 15+ hours to get to Ifrane for the Games even. Ifrane is also the wealthiest city in Morocco (hence why it probably feels like I’m in America, as it was originally built as a vacation spot for French colonists), and a place many average Moroccans can never afford to visit. The chance to participate in these Games was, I’m sure, the highlight of most of these athletes’ year. The officials were all so amazing at working with the competitors, the events were specially planned to make sure not to push them too hard, and a sense of opportunity and friendship was much more prevalent than hardcore competitiveness. I was in awe every day by how amazing this entire chance was.

The gold medal winner of tennis hugging his
coach right after winning the final match. 

With everything from weightlifting, equestrian riding, cycling, or swimming to gymnastics, bocce ball, badminton, and tennis, the entire range of summer Olympic sports was represented, with athletes from every corner of Morocco there to compete, it was truly a moving and humbling experience to have. While my job may have mostly consisted of just sitting on a bench and cheering for each and every athlete, I still felt like I was accomplishing something.

And, just to keep our luck up with transportation, we spent most of the week walking places because we couldn’t get our buses to pick us up when we needed to be anywhere. We couldn’t actually forget we were in Morocco for a week right? 

The La Tomatina Festival

I'm on my 3rd round of soaking my laundry (using about 4 times as much soap in each bucket as I normally do), and yet, my bathroom, entryway, and the public stairs that are unlucky enough to share the wall with my bathroom window all still reek of rotten tomatoes. It's been just over 3 days since me, and 20,000 other people, spent an hour throwing four dump trucks worth of tomatoes at each other for an hour in a small town outside of Valencia, Spain, and I still feel like I've had my ass kicked in and I would like to sleep for 24 hours uninterrupted.

The La Tomatina Festival is commonly known to be the worlds largest food fight, held annually on the last Wednesday of August in Bunol, Spain, a small town of (on a non-Tomatina day) around 9,000 residents. 2013 was the first year that the festival has decided to require the purchase of tickets to enter the event, in an effort to control the size of the crowd, mainly. However, when you realize that the number they chose to be the appropriate number of people was 20,000, you can see what kind of event this is (previous years have reached upwards of 40,000 people, 4 times the population of the town that holds the festival). To this day, nobody actually knows how the festival ever started, but the story I like the most involves a group of boys back in 1945 that started their own food fight on the street, and kept up the tradition ever since. The town has officially supported the event since 1950, and believe me, it's amazing to see the community truly support such a messy and insane event, and openly welcome 20,000 (mostly) 20-something's to make a giant mess of their home.

Our day started by waking up at 5:45AM at our hotel in Valencia, and out the door by 6:15. We headed out in a state of excited anticipation, with only our imaginations to tell us what was laying ahead of us. We hopped onto the subway and headed to the other side of town in order to catch our 7AM tour bus to head 35 kilometers inland to Bunol. I managed to doze off a little on the drive, and when I woke up, we were surrounded by hills on all sides, in a little town tucked into the countryside, as cute and quaint as they come -- Except for the swarming of the thousands of people who had already arrived and the blaring music coming from a Red Bull tent sent up in the middle of the field. It was somewhere around 8AM, and the party was already on full blast. We all grabbed a mojito and an energy drink from the make-shift bar and got in line to trade in our tickets for wrist bands.

Wrist bands acquired. Mojitos and/or cheap beers drank. A few trips into "nature" to avoid long bathroom lines completed. We've got our swim goggles hanging around our necks and our white shirts on, ready to be ruined in the fight. We've managed to add a guy from India and a girl from China who may be the smallest full grown human I've ever seen to our group at this point, and we're ready to roll. We head up into the heart of the town, and follow the buildings covered in tarps to know where we need to be. Around 9:55AM, we cross through the police checkpoint into the official tomato-throwing zone, where we're checked to make sure we aren't bringing in any beer cans or other hard objects that shouldn't be thrown in the fight.

The streets flowed with tomato mush, knee deep in places

As per tradition, a greased pole is erected for the festival with a ham at the top of the pole. At 10AM, people start trying to climb the pole, with the intention of knocking the ham down. We're lost in the crowd and not able to witness the scramble for the ham, but we know it's happening somewhere. A lightning-bolt flashes and thunder rumbles overhead, followed shortly by a torrential downpour of a chilling rain. Men are (literally) tearing their shirts off their chest, local residents are throwing buckets of water off their balconies onto the crowd, and I swear, I've never felt energy like this. We dance in the street and sing "Ole! Ole!" like we're at a futball match, already soaking wet before the fight ever starts. Suddenly, the water cannon goes off, followed by the roar of an excited crowd of 20,000. I look down at my watch. It's 10:46AM. Someone has knocked the ham down, and the first truck of tomatoes is already working it's way through the crowd. I quickly strap my goggles to my face before I get any tomato juice in my eyes, and get ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

The festival utilizes a total of 4 dump trucks filled with tomatoes, which ends up coming out to a little more than 40 metric tons of tomatoes for the fight. The rules of the game are as follows:
1. You must crush the tomatoes before you throw them.
2. You may not throw anything other than tomatoes.
3. You must move when the dump truck comes through the crowd.
4. You may not rip off someone else's shirt (not really followed all that well...)
5. When the second water cannon goes off, exactly 1 hour after the first, all throwing must stop.

The dump trucks came through the crowd once about every 10 to 15 minutes or so, which worked well at keeping the excitement up. Just as you started to run out of whole tomatoes to throw, a whole new batch appeared, and we got worked into a frenzy all over again. La Tomatina is an experience you can never have rivaled by anything else you do in life. It is the ultimate definition of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and believe me, once is definitely enough. I have a vivid memory of getting nailed in the side of the head by a tomato while my friend ground another tomato into my hair and down my shirt, and suddenly thinking "How the hell did my life get me to this exact spot right now?!" It is surreal to say the least.

After the last truck came through the crowd, a sudden unexplained death crush of people started pushing back down the street towards where we came into the festival. By death crush, I literally mean I've never been so legitimately afraid of having my ribs crushed as I was at that moment in time. The last time I saw the Chinese girl that was with us was about 15 minutes into the fight as she huddled shaking in the middle of the mob of people. As we were pushed down the street, our group, which had done well at keeping together through the fight, began to be pushed apart. I grabbed one friend's hand and we held onto each other for dear life, protected behind us by the Indian man that was with us, who had one hand on each of our shoulders to keep us from being crushed too hard. Seeing a side-street coming up to our right, my friend cried "Go!!" and I made a mad cut to my side and pushed as hard as I could until I was able to breath again. We lost our Indian friend in the escape, and never saw him again.

Once we had escaped to the side-street, I finally pushed my goggles up off my face for the first time, finally getting a clear look of the chaos the festival had left behind in it's wake. Flowing freely down all the streets throughout the entire town was a river of what looked almost like pasta sauce. In places you were wading through calf or knee deep rivers of crushed tomatoes (no, I'm not exaggerating), and the smell and taste of tomatoes filled your mouth and nose. This is the point in time where I truly gained a respect for the people of Bunol, Spain, who are so gracious enough to allow this event to happen to their town every year, and, once the throwing stops, their hospitality came even more to light.

Down every street we passed, local residents stood in their driveways with their garden hoses, ready to hose down the thousands of people lined up for a rinse. Back on the main street of the fight, locals were still throwing buckets of water off their balconies onto the crowd, and the fire department began their work of spraying down the streets while workers squeegeed mashed tomatoes into the sewers. Following a crowd of people, my friend and I headed down the hill to the river that runs through the middle of Bunol, ready to, if nothing else, get the tomato chunks out of my shoes. We joined a couple hundred other people, stripped down to our underwear, and climbed into the river to wash off, and rinse our clothes out, as much as possible at the time.

Me and a friend, tomato covered and happy.

Once we were "clean" we headed back to the edge of town where we first arrived, grabbed a beer and some food, and waited under the Red Bull tent, which had been pre-decided to be our meeting point in case of separation for our group of eight. The sky started to open up again and drizzle some more, and we sat shivering and discussing how grateful we were for that side-street we found, and wondering what the fate of the rest of our group was. Finally unable to handle the bone-chilling cold anymore, I wandered back into the crowd in search of any T-shirts left available in adult sizes, and threw down 5 Euro's on the only thing left in my size: a neon green tee with a silhouette of someone dancing with the words "Something is moving..." printed at the bottom, with "Tomatofight" at the top. It made no sense, but I immediately stripped off my soaking wet tank top and was grateful for how soft and warm it felt (I think I forgot how soft T-shirts are supposed to be after hand washing my clothes for so long).

After we gathered the rest of our group, we mustered the energy for one last mob fight, and, along with a few thousand other people, tried to get on a bus back to Valencia. Each time a bus pulled in, we took off like thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby and ran after the bus, eventually getting a good enough position to climb into the warm and dry bus back to the city. After a very thorough shower which we completed in teams to help check for missed tomatoes, the only thing left to do was pass out for 4 hours.

To anyone thinking of attending La Tomatina, here is my advice:
Do it. Do it right. Do it well. It's an experience every young person should have. Go all out for it. And damn it, only do it once. 

A Terrible Lesbian's Opinion On Russia: Why Do We Care What They're Doing?

So I’m going to get off the travel topic a little bit, and focus instead on just some basic, world-wide, human rights issue’s real quick. Don’t worry, we’ll get back to the regularly scheduled, travel-related programming soon (like my plans to throw 40 tons of tomatoes at people in a couple days). I want to talk a little bit about what’s going on in Russia right now in the context of the queer community and the actions being taken against them, against us.

“You’re the worst lesbian I’ve ever met” my friend told me.

“Yeah, I’m aware. I just don’t care.” Although my faux-hawked hair, Subaru, and vegetarianism did give me some street cred as a walking stereotype.

The first time I came out to someone was nearly 8 years ago, and I’ve been publically out and open to anyone that cares to barge that far into my business for about 4 years now. When I first started telling people that I was attracted to other women, I made myself a few promises. First, I swore that I would never, ever, let my sexual orientation define what I could or could not do in my life. I will do what I want, and I will follow my heart where it takes me, and my sexuality will in no part play any role in my decision making.

The second thing was not so much a promise to myself as it was just a fact that I knew to be true. Being gay was not who I was. Let me say that again, being gay is not who I am. Period. It is simply another facet of myself. The fact that I snowboard when I need to clear my head, I find traveling to be the greatest thrill in life, or that I wish I could live as a character of Toy Story (Buzz Lightyear preferably) makes up no more or less a part of me than my attraction to the female demographic of society.

“I haven’t decided yet if I’m coming to the party. I’m not really a huge fan of gay-themed parties.”

“Ha! You’re funny! I’ll see you there” she responded, not realizing that I wasn’t actually joking.

Election night, 2012. Capitol Hill, Seattle.

I think often times in the queer community, it becomes a challenge. It’s almost as if putting 50 people of various sexualities in one room suddenly makes your sexuality less valid, and now, you must prove that you are, in fact, gay enough. It’s like the rainbow flag in my window, my unwavering support of gay-rights issues, and, oh yeah, the fact that I actually am gay, is suddenly called into question because of my lack of interest in glitter, Ke$ha, and the need to flamboyantly announce myself on the world. I have nothing against anyone who is a fan of Ke$ha, or flamboyancy, although I will never understand the desire to have glitter still on your clothes 4 months after the party because that shit NEVER GOES AWAY.

So why am I saying all of this? Because not all of us non-heterosexuals are the same. We are all individual humans. We have different interests, desires, beliefs, and stories to tell. But we all still face many of the same struggles and celebrations also.

“I’m not allowed to come over anymore because my dad doesn’t like that you’re a lesbian.” My first taste at direct discrimination from a friend’s family in high school.

“Dad, I can get married now!!!” A text I sent when Governor Gregoir signed same-sex marriage into law in Washington state.

“I can walk you down the aisle now.” His response.

Terrible lesbian or no, I’ve never wavered in my support of same-sex rights and, in fact, have actually been a fairly vocal advocate for them. My love of travel, though, does influence my actions a little bit. I don’t, obviously, stick to only developed, Western nations when I travel (they’re too expensive anyways!). I love to experience cultures, and have experiences I wouldn’t generally have without having gone in search of them on my own. My first time out of the country was to rural Kenya, I currently live in a conservative Moroccan city. Are these places where I generally walk down the street shouting “I’M GAY! I’M GAY!” Oh hell no. That would be suicide. Literally.

When I travel to places like Morocco, or Kenya, or whatever the hell else the world may take me, I go back into the closet. Voluntarily. My love of travelling overrides my need to be out and proud 24/7. While I have gotten into some amazing conversations with people in these countries about gay rights, and learned very much from them, it’s also not my culture. It is not my place to come in and say “Here is what you should be doing.” Even if it is what they should be doing. But change must be internal. The people of these countries need to make the change on their own (then maybe one day I can be out and open when I travel).  And they are. Little by little. While I’ve definitely had some gut-wrenching moments in my travels, I also see enough hopeful changes that I believe the good is outweighing the bad, overall at least. Like Uganda’s second annual gay-pride parade that just happened.

But things aren’t improving everywhere. Many places, they’re disintegrating. Rapidly.

I’m sure many, if not most or all of you have followed to some degree the latest that has been coming out of Russia in regards to gay-rights. Putin, in all his manliness, has declared it illegal to essentially even tell children there’s such a thing as being gay. Russia has vowed to arrest and deport any gay athletes that show up to the 2014 Olympic Games in Sochi. And, unofficially, people are being beaten and tortured. All because they fell in love.  

This is heartbreaking. It’s an awful state that our world is in right now, truly. And all of the members of the Russian queer community should know that they have the support of their worldwide queer community every day. But here is my issue with all of the coverage on Russia lately: Why are we only looking at Russia?

The press went absolutely ape-shit when all of this started coming to light in Russia in the past month or so. Suddenly it was this huge tragedy that everyone cared so deeply about, and the internet seemed to have a feeding frenzy over any sort of story about the topic. But why? Why do we suddenly, out of nowhere, care so much about what Russia has to say about gay-rights?

A 2010 study found that there are 5 countries in the world that, as a law, say punishment for engaging in same-sex behavior is death. And those are only the countries that actually took the time to make it a law, it’s the reality in many more places. In addition to those 5 countries, there are 77 countries in the world that criminalize consensual sexual acts between two people of the same gender (oddly enough, many only criminalize male-male relations, and choose to ignore that women are sexual beings too all together). That’s 82 countries total around the world that, in some fashion, criminalize being gay. There are 196 countries in the world (depending on which country you report from, and who your politics actually recognize as a country), which means that 42% of the world criminalizes homosexuality.

So once again, why are we giving Russia all the attention here? With all due respect, it can be a lot worse than Russia. I am in no way condoning what they’re doing, but, I guess what I’m saying is this:

If I’m going to be out somewhere, Russia is not the bottom of my choices.

So how about we start recognizing that this is a real world-wide problem. Why are Africa and the Middle East being held to a lower standard? Let’s give some countries that aren't full of only white people some attention. And let’s give them that attention because what they’re doing is wrong. Not because they’re hosting the Olympics so it suddenly matters to us. 

What Country Does Your Money Come From?

I was looking around my apartment the other day and I had the realization that if nothing else, by definition of what I collect, I’m officially a traveler. Let’s be honest here, who else is going to have their only collections be maps (which, I will note, make up the only decorations in my house), postcards, and foreign currency. So what if I don’t have a solid plan for my future? When that future comes, I’ll at least have some damn good stories to tell to the guy sitting next to me as the plane takes off for Brazil or Nepal or Tasmania.

I recently had the chance to get out of Morocco for a little bit and take off on an adventure to Spain and Gibraltar with some friends, marking the first trip I’ve ever planned and taken as a full functioning, competent adult. No parents, no school planners, no job requirements. Just an awesome vacation with some really awesome people, where I was entirely responsible for myself for the first time. This all may sound a little silly, but for someone who has dreamed of traveling the world her entire life, this was a big moment for me. It was the official start to my quest to see the world, taken into my own hands, and charging head first into everything I've ever dreamed of.

The Mediterreanean to the right, the Atlantic to the left,
Spain in the distance, the U.K. under my feet, and Morocco
to my back. 

But, as seems inevitable, my mind came with me on vacation (weird how that happens…), and I of course have new and insightful thoughts that I think the world should know about (what other kinds of thoughts would I have?).

Over the course of our trip, we spent time in 3 countries, spoke 5 different languages, and dealt with 4 different currencies. I often times tell people how much something here in Morocco cost me, only to have them ask me how much that is in dollars. My response is often an attempted quick calculation in my head (I’m not really great at dividing by 8 I’ve learned), followed by “I don’t know, I get paid in Dirham’s, not Dollars.” I just don’t think in U.S. Dollars. I don’t need to.

But for this vacation, I was tapping my American bank account, not using my work account here in Morocco, which, as I quickly learned, wouldn’t have lasted very long anyways. Spain uses the Euro for currency, while Gibraltar, an English territory, uses the Pound. It’s 1.3 Dollars to the Euro. It’s 1.5 Dollars to the Pound. Its 8 Dirham’s to the Dollar. Its 11 Dirham’s to the Euro. Its 12 Dirham’s to the Pound. Is your head spinning yet? We all kept borrowing money from each other during vacation and I was the one each night to sort out who owed who what, and in what currency, and apparently I’m pretty good at it. Who knew?!

But the point is this: Imagine you’re a Moroccan. You’re born and raised in Morocco to a typical family in a small town somewhere; your family doesn’t exactly spew extra money, if you catch my drift. It’s fairly common here in Morocco for people to go to Europe to work and send money back to their families, specifically to either France or Italy (both are on the Euro, try and keep up, it’s an 11:1 exchange rate).

When I hit the ATM when I first got to Spain, I, using my American debit card, pulled out €200. My bank account then promptly showed I was $263 dollars poorer. Kind of a gut wrencher to see that happen. But it was interesting, to say the least, to finally travel somewhere where my American dollar was weaker than the local currency, and realize what it feels like to be Moroccan every day, dreaming of getting out of Morocco to something “better.”

 

Dirhams, Euro's, Dollars, and Pence

But let’s go back to you pretending that you are a Moroccan looking to travel to Europe to find work. With an 11:1 exchange rate, it’s almost impossibility. For every Euro you need, you need to save 11 Dirham’s. Just to afford the plane ticket alone is a far-fetched dream for many people. The fact that I can claim that title of “traveler” is a direct result of the fact that I was lucky enough to be born and raised in America. The fact that the money in my bank account is dollars, and not Dirham’s (or, heaven forbid, Kenyan shillings, at 100 to the American dollar), is the reason I can afford to see the world, especially if I stay out of places like Europe.

In an ever-changing world, there is a rapidly growing difference between the worlds wealthy, and the world’s poor. And unfortunately with exchange rates like these, the people who are born into developing nations, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to be able to ever see more than just the village you are from. And while this may not seem like “your problem” right now, as the world evolves, it will be soon enough. 

The Holy Month of Ramadan

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Every day I live is nothing short of an adventure. Living in a foreign country only makes that more true. The thing I always love most about traveling is the opportunity to experience an entirely different culture from my own and to integrate into a community means the chance to also experience their religion, family values, and holidays.

For those of you that don’t know, we are currently about a week and a half into the holiest month of the Islamic calendar: Ramadan. One of the five pillars of the Islamic faith requires believers to observe the holy month of Ramadan by fasting from sun-up to sun-down, as well as abstaining from other activities during those hours. So what does all of that jargon mean in basic terms? Essentially for Ramadan, you may not eat or drink anything (yes, that includes water) from sun-up to sun-down. The only exceptions to this are if you are sick, menstruating, pregnant, or pre-pubescent. You also may not smoke, or engage in sexual intercourse, and many devout believers often try to read the whole Koran over the course of the month of Ramadan.

Because the Islamic calendar does not coincide with the Gregorian calendar, but instead is based on the moon’s cycle, Ramadan moves forward about 10 days each year. This year it started on July 10^th, and will continue until August 9^th. As you can imagine, it makes it more difficult to fast during the summer months, when it is 16 hours between sun-up and sun-down, and, in my site at least, it is hovering around 110 degrees outside. And yet, people still do it. Every year.

The flag of Morocco

Morocco is a country made up of a 97% Islamic population, meaning the entire country is fasting through Ramadan, which also makes the experience much more different than it would be in the United States. The country is set up for Ramadan, and everything changes for it. Business hours change, café’s close, grocery stores run out of perishable food because everyone is only cooking traditional foods (no Cornflakes for breaking fast…), and people essentially go nocturnal. If you go outside in the morning you will find people doing their normal shopping and errands, although by midday when the heat is at its worst, my city looks like a ghost town, complete with small dust tornado’s running down the middle of the street. However, starting around an hour or two after the Maghrib call to prayer goes off in the evening, indicating that you can break fast, the world comes alive. Children are outside playing soccer until 2:30 in the morning, restaurants open up, and I suddenly remember there is supposed to be 80,000 people in my town.

A traditional meal to break fast with.

I found myself facing a dilemma though as Ramadan approached. Many Volunteers fast each year for Ramadan as part of gaining another cultural experience during their time here. Many Volunteers do not fast. I went back and forth quite a bit on whether I was going to fast or not. When Ramadan started, I was out on the coast in a city called El Jadida working at a summer camp with 14 other Peace Corps Volunteers, about half of which were planning on fasting. Last year, all three of my site-mates fasted for the entire month, so I felt as if I was being pressured in some degree into fasting because my community was expecting me to. However, I also felt as if I was trivializing a very holy time for the Islamic faith by fasting. I am not Muslim, and I would not be fasting for any religious reason, but rather just for the experience of saying that I had experienced Ramadan fully (as fully as a non-Muslim can). I think fasting just to fast is making a mockery of the religion and the true reasons that millions of Muslim’s are fasting around the world.

When it all came down to it, however, here is what made me decide to at least try fasting. I was talking to some other Volunteers about my inner struggle with the ethics behind if I should fast or not, and all of these Volunteers were older and had experienced it in previous years. Their explanation for why they chose to fast, and continue fasting, last year, was because they found that if nothing else, this was a huge holiday to bring families together. It is illegal in Morocco to be caught breaking fast in public (aka, eating in public when its daytime), punishable by fines and months in jail. Because Islam is the national religion of Morocco, I think it often seems that it is a more devout country than it is. Granted, I think it is a very devout country. However, I think many people tend to follow along with it more because it’s all happening around them, than by their own doing. If it wasn’t for the fact that it’s illegal, I’m sure there would be a not insignificant number who do not follow Ramadan fully. And this made me think of Christmas.

Take a guess of which of us 3 isn't fasting.

I am not Christian. In fact, I am not a fan of any organized religion really. I think they are taken out of context too easily, and exploited for personal use often. I have my beliefs and am a spiritual person in and of myself, but do not feel a need to define my beliefs in the context of a religion. However, I still celebrate Christmas every year. Partly because I was raised in America, and, like it or not, it’s become a part of American culture. Partly because I was raised Christian in various degrees. But mostly, because I really like Christmas. To me Christmas is more about bringing a family together and showing the people that matter the most to you how much you care about them. And, in Morocco, I think this is Ramadan to some degree.

So this made me decide to fast, if only for a little bit. I knew that I was going on vacation two weeks into Ramadan, and obviously wasn’t going to fast while I’m in Gibraltar and Spain (I mean… really?). But I figured trying it until then would be worth it. It would give me the experience to really know what Ramadan felt like, as well as truly being able to tell the people in my community that I was fasting, and diving fully into their culture. The first day is the worst, but after that, it really isn't difficult. Not eating becomes a non-issue, while you really just focus on the fact that you’re thirsty. I went without water while I was still in El Jadida, but as soon as I was back in site I started drinking water again (its 110 degrees with next to zero humidity, I need water). But ultimately, I was blown away by the experience. The first night sitting in the dining hall with 60 campers, most of who were fasting, and all of the camp staff and volunteers, waiting for the call to prayer to go off in order to devour the glass of orange juice in front of me, with the overall sense of being part of something bigger than me, you just can’t get better than that.

And, for the record, food tastes better when you've waited 16 hours for it. 

Losing Your Mind One Moroccan Summer Day At A Time

Summertime in Morocco is a strange and interesting thing I’m finding. My site is holding steady right around 110 degree’s (although it topped out at 132 last summer), the modira of my Sports Center laughed at me when I said I was going to have class, and it’s inadvisable to be outside between around 12:30 and 6:00pm, not only because of the heat, but because simply nobody is outside, so you’re a little alone and vulnerable, however, as soon as the sun goes down, it seems the entire 80,000-strong population of my town is outside and alive. It’s an opportunity to finally rest after being “on” non-stop for the past 6 months, but it’s also an opportunity to really lose your mind if you let it all get to you.

This morning I left my house around 11am, paid my rent, came back to my apartment, stripped down to the coolest clothes possible (aka, very few clothes), and turned on a movie to watch. I ended up dozing off and on for most of the afternoon. I knew I needed to go see my host family today, but, as I mentioned earlier, it’s pointless to try and do anything before about 6pm, so I had time. At one point in the afternoon I woke up from my stupor, suddenly feeling like I wasn't doing something I was supposed to be doing, thought about it awhile, realized I had nothing to do, and went back to sleep. This is summertime in Morocco. If you can sleep away the heat, it’s the best choice, if not, option B is to just sit in the kitchen and sweat. Classes shut down, people hide in their houses all day during the heat, and emerge only at dusk, essentially becoming nocturnal. And this is all only going to be emphasized when Ramadan starts in about a week, meaning it’s both really hot, and you cannot eat or drink anything between sunrise and sunset.

Now add all of this on top of the stress and emotional instability that defines Peace Corps living. It can break people. Easily. The group of volunteers that came into Morocco the year before me arrived at their site’s right as summer set in, meaning zero work the first 3 months in site, a time when you’re energized and ready to start building community relations and work everywhere. In a case like that, summer really did break them. They lost a decent sized handful of people to the fate of ET’s (Early Termination’s) over the course of the summer, and I often wonder if my staj will suffer the same fate (we are nearly six months in country and ET free thus far!). Already I can see the effects of the summertime lack of activity/Peace Corps madness setting in some days. It is often very difficult to talk myself into putting pants on in order to leave my house, since my calves already sweat without the help of pants warm embrace. I spend most of my nights talking to the gecko’s I find in my house or cussing out the cockroaches while I chase them down and murder them cruelly. And yesterday, I mopped my floors with vinegar and I swear my house smelt like Cinebon for the rest of the day, no joke.

Public service announcement to all future Peace Corps Volunteers: The staff will tell you it is required for you to be flexible in order to be a good volunteer, and will say it until you just want to tie your ears shut, but here is what you really need: resiliency. It’s similar to flexibility, but it goes one step further. It means that when you plan on showing up to your center for class, not because you expect kids to come, but because it’s an excuse to leave your house, and your modira laughs at the idea, you keep coming anyways. It means that on those days when your language sucks, your students are being jackass’s, your host family is fighting, and you burn dinner, you recognize that it’s perfectly fine to sit on your kitchen floor crying. Because sometimes you need to. But the next day, you’ll still wake up, put some pants on, and head back to the center to teach again, then stop back by your local hanut and try out your Darija skills once more. And maybe that day, everything will just fall into place. But no matter what, you keep moving forward. Brush those shoulders off, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation around you, and find ways to entertain yourself at the end of a long day.

So, what do you do to survive? Or, as Peace Corps loves to say, “Try not just to survive this summer, but to thrive!” (This statement came in an email telling us the 2^nd in command here was going back to the States for the summer to escape the heat… Half ironic statement, half a slap in the face, let me see you thrive). But anyways… Back to the point. Peace Corps pushes you…hard. This is the first time I've ever lived alone, and it’s in a foreign land, with another language, for 2 years. I think half of my insanity simply comes from not having a roommate for the first time. I miss human interaction… in English. But you have good days, and you have bad days, and you have to make it through all of them.

April 21-April 25

Every volunteer has different coping methods, and everyone needs more than one, so you always have a backup. I always love hearing about what different people do in order to make it through service. Some have great ideas that I steal for myself, some have ideas that work great for them, but make me fairly depressed just at hearing them, but no matter what, everyone needs something. My own personal things I like to do is use Peace Corps to refine or pick up random skills I wouldn't find time for otherwise. I've gotten really good at hackysack since I came to Peace Corps, I've worked on my juggling skills, and I've read more books since I've been in country than I have in the 4 years before I joined Peace Corps. My personal favorite though, I stole from my best friend here in country. Every night before I go to bed I write down 3 happy things about the day I just had. Big or small, it can be anything from “I hit 50% in wins on Freecell” (April, 10), to “I haven’t ET-ed yet” (April 13, clearly not a great day), to “I had a great conversation in Darija and learned the name of my bakery guy, Mustafa!” (June 18). By doing this, it forces me to think back on each day and try and find something positive, and on a bad day, it’s really entertaining to look back at what made my day each day.

But what works for me wouldn't necessarily work for everyone else. One of my good friends here in country is a numbers guy. He calculates everything out. During CBT (Community Based Training), he could tell us exactly how many days we’d been in country, what percentage of time of service we still had to go, and how many months were left in service. Each day he sits down and calculates the percentage of service we have completed, and, on a scale from 1 to 10, he gives each day a number in terms of happiness and likelihood of staying to complete his full service. He then graphs all of these numbers out to see how his emotions have fluctuated over the course of time in Morocco. For him, this helps him to remain stable and keep a tangible grasp on time while he’s in the Peace Corps. For me, I looked at those numbers and knew it would never work for me to do the same. Giving myself a percentage each day of how likely it is that I’m going to ET and go home early would freak me out. But it’s perfect for him. And what matters most is finding ways to cope that work for each individual.

When it all comes down to it, if you don’t have a way to keep yourself occupied and entertained when you’re alone in site during the hot summer when nothing is going on, you’re gonna lose it. More than you already will in Peace Corps. Sometimes its things you did back in the States that you can keep doing here to keep you sane, and sometimes, you have to get a little creative, and a lot a bit bored, and find new strategies. But I think when I’m done with this adventure, my favorite things I’ll bring away with me will be the random skills I picked up out of solely boredom. But we’ll have to wait and see. Until then, here’s to surviving the heat, and coming out stronger and a little bit more… unique. 

First Today. Next, Tomorrow.

Claiming the identity of a “traveler” to yourself, in my opinion, also in some ways attaches the label of “inconsistent” to your life. Sometimes that’s fun. It’s fun to have life always changing around you, but sometimes it can also be bittersweet. Watching the sun set over a Moroccan skyline tonight, with the background of the call to prayer playing from the local mosque as music to my ears, I was talking to a friend about life. Life here in Morocco. Life back in America. And we were talking about time. How fast time moves, and how slow it moves all at once, like one big contradiction designed to mess up your perception of the world around you.

 

We got off the phone, and I headed out of my apartment onto the busy streets of my town that only seem to come alive after the sun goes down here. I strolled through the streets teaming with motorcycles and carts selling oranges and dates and popcorn, and sat at a table on the sidewalk eating delicious harira and msimn, watching the swarms of people flow around me like a wave. And everything about tonight was exactly what I’ve always dreamed for my life to be.  Getting a chance to travel to a foreign land, experience new sights, sounds, smells. I’m meeting people and sharing my culture with them while learning to love their culture at the same time. I’m struggling through a foreign language and laughing my way through the whole process. It’s a life many people can only dream of.

But that conversation about life and time and people followed me back to my apartment after finishing my dinner. We talked about how today is exactly four months that I’ve been in this country. And how we can’t believe it’s only been four months, it feels like so much more. But damn. Has it really already been four months? The things that have already changed in that time break my heart and blow my mind all at the same time. I find myself floundering around trying to keep a grasp on all my friendships back home, knowing that when I finally stumble back home in two years, nothing will ever be the same. And yet, everything will be the same still. But I’ve also lived with two Moroccan families, been told I will forever only be half American the rest of my life, because the other half will always be here in Morocco (I can’t argue that), and seen myself morph into something of a blend of the old life and new. All in four short months.

And maybe it’s because of this conversation I had tonight. Maybe it’s the idea of celebrating my birthday tomorrow five and half thousand miles from the family and friends that know me best. Maybe it’s the fact that today is the anniversary of another life defining moment of mine. Or maybe it’s just the typical bout of occasional philosophical views combined with clinical insanity that seems to infect every Peace Corps Volunteer. But I started thinking about where I was two years ago. And where I was a year ago. And where I am now. Call me crazy, but I do actually remember with great detail exactly where I was on May 16^th of 2011, 2012, and now 2013.

As I think about each of these May 16^th’s, they’re all different. Very different. But I also can see the relation of all of them. Maybe I’m cheating. I mean, I do actually know the relation of all of them. I know how one led to the other. I know how pushing myself to my limits as an RA in college and having my world turned upside down with a single phone call at 11pm on May 16^th of 2011 pushed me forward in my life until May 16^th of 2012. A night that I spent entirely with friends I had never met as of a year before, pre-funking my way into my 21^st birthday. At 11pm on May 16^th, 2012, my best friend was giving me a pep talk to get my shit together enough to at least be able to walk into Haggen’s and buy beer for the first time at midnight. And here I am, at 11pm on May 16^th, 2013. And I can see exactly how my party filled night one year ago led me to exactly where I sit right now. On another continent, living in my own apartment, typing up a blog post, eating a pack of goldfish that actually ended up costing my family $60 in shipping fees, but, in my opinion, were worth every penny.

But again, maybe I’m cheating. After all, I know what fell between each of these May 16^th’s. But whether I cheat or not, I still know that one thing leads to another. And to be perfectly honest, if none of these things ever happened, life could have still led me to exactly where I’m sitting right now. But if it had, I wouldn’t have been the person who is sitting here right now. I wouldn’t have truly known what it means to love your friends. And I wouldn’t have truly known that my life had hit a spiral and that Peace Corps was what I needed to save myself. And on May 16^th next year, we’ll see where life has me. But I can guarantee something. I guarantee that where I sit right now will in some way affect where I sit exactly one year from now. And that year is going to go by faster than I realize right now. And is also going to take longer than I ever knew time could take. Next year will be very different from today I’m sure. But as I said when I started, life is inconsistent. And you can’t live tomorrow until you’ve lived today first. 

You Know You're In Peace Corps Morocco When....

1. Bathing more than once a week just sounds like a lot of work.
2. It seems bizarre to have less than 7 people in a car at one time.
3. Your clothes aren’t dirty until you’ve worn them for at least 5 days straight.
4. You eat French fries using a piece of bread. (Courtesy of Cait.)
5. You follow other white people around Marjane because you can’t figure out where they came from.
6. You don’t remember the last time you felt healthy.
7. You don’t remember the last time you felt clean. (Courtesy of Libby.)
8. You know you aren’t eating Couscous right until you sweat when you eat it. (Courtesy of Libby.)
9. You can be 20 minutes into a conversation, and only THEN realize it hasn’t been in English.
10. You’re either REALLY hot, or REALLY cold, but are pretty sure you’ve never actually felt a comfortable in-between.
11. You’re an illegal alien while working for the U.S. Federal Government, and nobody really seems to be concerned by that fact.
12. Trying to define "bacteria" and what it does is a lost cause. (Courtesy of Johanna L.)
13. Bathing can be a 3 hour long affair and involve 100 other naked women all together.
14. You steal anything you can get your hands on (i.e. ketchup packets, napkins, bread from a table, etc). (Courtesy of Libby.)
15. All of your clothes are faded from hanging in the sun.
16. You’ve already eaten parts of your care package before you’ve even seen everything in the box.
17. You can say with all seriousness “Sure, I’ll walk to Marjane, it’s only 100 degrees outside currently.” (Courtesy of Cait.) 
18. You debate if you’re willing to spend 6DH for the taxi across town, but it’s totally worth it to spend 250DH on a day trip to the city just for a beer off tap.
19. Late trains and no available seating doesn't make a dent on your upset-o-meter. (Courtesy of Johanna L.)
20. You have a few bags of trash in your room, because you can’t figure out where they’re supposed to go, and you know it’s hshuma to ask about garbage.
21. Baby wipes are a perfectly acceptable form of bathing.
22. Bowel movements are a normal subject of dinner time conversation. (Courtesy of Johanna L.)
23. You’re washing your clothes and you know they’re still dirty, but you just don’t care anymore. (Courtesy of Cait.)
24. You tell someone in Darija what you’d like to buy and that you don’t understand French, and they still respond in French and refuse to believe you know how to speak Darija.
25. You’re favorite game to play in big cities is “Guess which nationality you think these tourists walking towards us are.”
26. You try to figure out which Darija words will most likely come back to America with you (I’m going with hshuma, shims, brrd, and maarfsh).
27. You’ve read more books in the last 3 months than you did in the 2 years before coming to Peace Corps.
28. I can say the words “C’est la vie” and you’ll immediately start dancing at least a little bit.
29. You’re given your own plate of food and you feel like you’re in trouble for something.
30. You discover that both lizards and mosquitoes have been cohabitating in your room. (Courtesy of Johanna L.)
31. You have to stop and ask what you're eating before you eat it. (Courtesy of Johanna L.)

Got any other good ones? Let me know and I'll add them to the list!

Peace Corps: "What the fuck am I doing here?"

I’ve come to realize that “The toughest job you’ll ever love” should, in fact, not be the motto of Peace Corps. Alright, maybe not that extreme of a statement. This is a very tough job, and I do love it. Whether my 21 year old self will declare here and now, not quite in country for 4 months, that of all the jobs I’ll ever have, it’s the toughest I’ll ever love is another story entirely. So if that’s the official motto, the unofficial motto should be this: “What the fuck am I doing here?” I’ve probably thought this line at least a hundred times in the last week and a half I’ve been in site. In some form or another, I’ve been thinking it for the last 4 months. And my 21 year old self will declare here and now this fact: if you spend a whole 27 months in the Peace Corps during your life, and don’t at some point think “What the fuck am I doing here?” you’re doing it wrong. Alright, maybe not wrong, but I at least think you’re a little abnormal in the head.

When this thought runs through your head on a fairly regular basis, you can’t help but try to answer it a little bit while you sit bored and tuning out a conversation you can’t understand that’s happening around you. I joined Peace Corps and came to Morocco to challenge myself. I came to experience a new culture. To meet new people. To learn something about myself. To maybe help a person or two. I came because it’s been my dream since I was 14. And when it all comes down to it, I know this is going to be one of the greatest experiences of my life. I can already tell. I worry a little bit that I may have taken on an adventure that will be the peak of my life experiences at too young of an age. But seriously, when that’s my worry, I’ve got it made right? Exactly.

But let’s not forget what the actual motto of the Peace Corps is: “The toughest job you’ll ever love.” This shit is tough. It’s not like a study abroad trip where you have a group of 15 other American’s with you all day long to lean on. When you hit final site, it’s sink or swim. I’ve got it better than most with three site-mates who have been here for a year and a half already. But come November, it’s going to be just me here. And it’s not like I’m all alone. I’m in a city of 70,000 people. I’ll have friends. I’ll have coworkers. I’ll have counterparts. And this may sound weird and a bit of stating the obvious, but they’ll all be Moroccan. And don’t get me wrong, I came here to meet and experience a new culture of people, but sometimes, it’s just exhausting. Every time you step out your door, you have to think in a new language, try to follow all the various new customs, and try to ignore the endless catcalls thrown at you when you walk down the street.

When you have “Bonjour!!” yelled after you by the same group of boys you pass every day, who know you’re the English teacher in town, for the 100^th time, that’s where the “What the fuck am I doing here” moment comes in. A friend of mine and fellow PCV made a great point when we were talking about what it would take to quit and go home. “You need to have both a push to leave here, and you need to have a pull back home to make you go.” So, most days, I really do love everything about being here. I mean, let’s be real, it’s not the States. I get a new adventure every day. I get to blow people’s minds with the next best “guess what I saw that crazy blond American do today…” moment. But I’m willing to bet every volunteer at some point gets that push to go home. You know, that place where in the winter, the houses are actually heated, and in the summer it doesn’t hit 130 degrees. That place where people speak the same language that you think in. That place where you can wear shorts and a T-shirt and not be a prostitute. Yeah, that place.

But you gotta remember the other half of that statement. There needs to be something from home to pull you just as much as there is a reason pushing you out of here. And, in all honesty, 130 degree weather isn’t a valid reason to pick up and leave. I didn’t join Peace Corps to be a pansy. So what would pull you back? Traveling is a deep and true love of mine. It’s something I don’t plan on giving up at any point of my life, and is worth giving up the life I knew back home in order to know what it’s like to be a little bit uncomfortable once in awhile. Its new friends, exotic cities, ancient history, weird foods, bodily dysfunctions, and personal exploration. I love it. But it comes with sacrifices. And these sacrifices can sometimes feel like a pull back home. I can’t buy Reese’s in Morocco for one thing. Alright, that’s minor, but still, I do miss Hershey’s products. It’s the bigger things. It’s the relationships.

 Sitting alone 5500 miles away working on an English lesson plan and seeing a Facebook status about ten of your closest friends all playing pool at your favorite bar is tough. Friendships are hard to keep up when you live next door to someone. They’re even tougher when you aren’t on the same continent. When you love to travel like I do, you also give up something else that’s a pretty big deal. Any chance at any sort of steady, semi-healthy romantic relationship. Even getting ready to leave for Peace Corps was hard. I know I’m getting ready to leave for two years. I know there’s zero chance I want to go into Peace Corps in any kind of a relationship. But you also don’t want to write the whole world off. What if that girl you met at a party is down to go travel the world with you? What if another year back home would have made something out of nothing? What if that girl that beat you at pool that one time is also a die-hard snowboarder? I guess nobody will ever know. But it’s a choice I make when I choose to travel. Not that I think travel is incompatible with relationships. But it’s a very specific type of relationship and a very specific type of person you need to find. And it’s not exactly Peace Corps ready. Yeah, PCV’s have hooked up, are hooking up, and will continue to hook up. Yeah, PCV’s have married locals, are marrying locals, and will continue marrying locals. I don’t really see marrying a local woman here as culturally acceptable, so that’s out. Dating another PCV? Very possible. Time will tell on that one.

All and all, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from traveling about relationships (both friendly and romantic) left behind back home, it’s this: The people who matter the most will stick with you through thick and thin. I do everything I can to stay in touch with as many people as possible back home, but if people don’t stay in touch back, there’s only so much I can do about it. Sometimes it feels like going home would suddenly fix that problem of lost relationships, but I think being apart is one of the best things I can do for them. It shows me my truest friends. It shows me who cares enough to stay in touch. It shows me who the deadbeats that I should forget about are. And it shows me which relationships would actually have lasted had I stayed back home, and who is worth calling up when I hit stateside again.

Two years is a long time. At least that’s what my 21 year old self feels right now. Give me another 40 years, and it’s only going to feel like a drop in the bucket. Peace Corps is nothing more than a warm up for the adventures the rest of my life is going to bring, and is going to teach me more than I could have ever realized I needed to learn. I live the coolest life I could ever imagine. Sometimes, that comes with consequences, but sometimes, there are perks I don’t even realize until they happen. And when it all comes down to it, my friends and my family are going to be standing right there waiting for me when I get back. Who will make up that group of friends is up to them by this point, not me. As Peter Pan once said: “To live would be an awfully big adventure.” 

Bucket Lists. If you don't have one, get one.

If you carry a conversation with me for longer than twenty minutes, you will probably very quickly learn two things about me. First, I’m a deeply passionate person. When I truly love something or care about something, I dive head first, 100% into it. When I say I have a passion for traveling and culture, I mean the perfect life to me is to be a nomad and never have a permanent home. When I say I love maps, I mean the past 3 years of my life you haven’t been able to see my bedroom walls because there were too many maps on them. And when I tell you I love to snowboard, I mean I actually cried when I sprained my ankle during the biggest snowstorm of the year and realized I wouldn’t be able to ride at all before leaving for Morocco. My mother has always told me I don’t do anything halfway. If I decide I want to do something, it’s all or nothing. This is what I mean when I say I’m a passionate person.

The second thing you will likely realize about me is that I’m about as stubborn as a mule. If I want to do something, nothing will stop me, and in return, if I don’t want to do something, you really better let it go, because I’m not going to do it. This hard-headedness also translates often into a complete lack of understanding when other people aren’t as stubborn as I am. When people tell me how much they’d love to do something, climb a mountain for example, and are at a loss for words when my response is “alright, let’s do it”, I am also just as much confused when I do not receive an affirmative response. In my eyes, if you truly want something, nothing, ever, can or will stop you. Yes, that does include money. The number of time’s I’ve told someone my dreams of travel and have been told how much Person X would love to travel also, but tell me they can’t afford it, or have too many responsibilities back home, or whatever the case may be, are beyond counting. There are ways to do it for nothing. I swear.

So why do people have these dreams, but always find excuses not to chase them? In the most basic response: Hell if I know. Honestly, I really don’t think I will ever understand how you can talk yourself out of doing what will make you happy in life, instead continuing doing the same thing unhappily and complaining about it the whole time. The most common reason for not doing things often comes down to money. While I do very much understand how money is a large factor in your ability to do something, I still stand by my statement that there is ALWAYS a way to accomplish what you want to do. But you need to be creative. I read an article awhile back about a woman who is hitchhiking rides at private airports, traveling the entire United States by air, without paying for any of it. While this may be an extreme situation for many, the purpose is to provide a simple example of just how far a little bit of creativity will take you. The point is to dream. Just a little bit. Or a lot. Whatever fits your style. Don’t be afraid to admit what makes you happy, and admit what you’re passionate about. And even more importantly, never let anything, ever, stop you from accomplishing those things.

But back to the question, how to do it? In my experience, you need something to keep you honest. Something to remind yourself why you’re doing what you’re doing, or remind you why you need to stop doing what you’re doing. And better yet, you need to know what you actually want. Somewhere in the range of 7 years ago, I first decided to write a list of 100 things I wanted to do before I died, a bucket list you might call it. Since then, I have been continually adding to it, and have somewhere just over 140 things on it right now. These things range from the seemingly simple (solve a rubics cube), the obviously absurd (do a backflip off a pogo stick), the sometimes indefinable (make a difference), to the big life moments (lose at candyland to my kid). But the ultimate point is to keep me honest.

Often time’s people read my bucket list and ask me how I plan to accomplish everything on it. The answer is this: I don’t. But I also don’t have any intention of deciding which things will and won’t happen. The point of a bucket list is to know what you’re passionate about, and have it be an ever present reminder. Personally, my list has hung on the back of my bedroom door since I made it. I always make sure it is hanging somewhere that I will see every day: an ever present reminder of what I choose to live for. Anyone who’s ever gotten to know me can generally vouch for the fact that I highly encourage everyone to make their own lists. If you’re drawing a blank, a quick Google search can give you some fun ideas to help you brainstorm.

But a bucket list is also a commitment. It’s a promise to yourself. A promise that you will not forget what you are passionate about, and what will make you so stubborn that you will not let anything stop you from accomplishing those things. I have had many days where I have sat around bored, and decided it was a good time to check something off my list. Those days I simply choose something at random, and I go accomplish it. Before I left for the Peace Corps, a friend of mine said something to me. She said: “Monika, please promise me something. Promise me you will never stop making questionable decisions that turn into really great stories.” And I haven’t. I may seem a little bit crazy sometimes, but at the end of the day, I have some crazy stories. And I have those stories because I choose to live everyday to the fullest. So if I mess up and do something weird, I at least have a great experience from it. And that’s why I think it’s so important to have a bucket list. Could I live my whole life never accomplishing solving a Rubics Cube? Of course I could. What a silly question. But the fact is, I want to solve one, so why not do it? I think if you always just say to yourself “you know, someday, I want to do XXXX” then it all becomes too much to handle. You just can’t keep track of everything in your head, and you never end up accomplishing them then. If you write it all down, you hold yourself accountable to it, and hey, it’s fun to cross things off when you do them.

Here’s my bucket list (minus a few things that really just shouldn’t be on the internet) for you all to see, and maybe use as some inspiration. Even if your list is only 20 items, I highly, HIGHLY advocate for everyone to at least try sitting down sometime to write one.

1.       Come out to the world

2.       Witness a miracle

3.       Make a difference

4.       Teach someone acceptance

5.       Dance on another planet

6.       Put footprints on the moon

7.       Change someone's view on gays

8.       Have foster children

9.       Dance in the rain with a special someone

10.   Fall asleep in the arms of someone I love

11.   Kiss in the moonlight

12.   Go to college

13.   Get married

14.   Have a purple Mohawk

15.   Save a life

16.   Befriend an enemy

17.   Never judge

18.   Hug someone randomly

19.   Get a Ph.D.

20.   Lose at Candyland to my kid

21.   Show someone my beliefs

22.   Be proud of who I am

23.   Spend Seafair on the log boom with my dad

24.   Learn to play the guitar

25.   Own a sports car

26.   Take a snowboard trip to the Swiss Alps

27.   Take a snowboard trip to Chili

28.   Snowboard on every continent

29.   Buy dad flight school classes

30.   Take mom on a cruise

31.   Buy dad a boat

32.   Travel the world

33.   Get a piercing

34.   Get a tattoo

35.   Join the peace corps

36.   Learn to fly

37.   Drive a racecar

38.   Appear in a movie

39.   Learn to dance

40.   Fire a gun

41.   Go on an African safari

42.   Learn to SCUBA dive

43.   Own my own store

44.   Invent something

45.   Steal something

46.   Party like a rockstar

47.   Have a pet turtle named Fredrick

48.   Have a pet shark named Antonio

49.   See the southern cross

50.   See the aurora borealis

51.   Learn to play the drums

52.   Go backpacking

53.   Get a joint citizenship

54.   Learn to ski

55.   Lose Weight

56.   Ride in a submarine

57.   Ride in a hot air balloon

58.   Do something inappropriate

59.   Own over 200 movies

60.   Take up photography

61.   Watch an Olympic table tennis match

62.   Push every button in an elevator

63.   Get kicked out of somewhere

64.   See the dark side of the moon

65.   Walk down the street dressed like Superman

66.   Get arrested

67.   See over 30 concerts

68.   Tour a Nazi death camp

69.   Take a cross country road trip

70.   Overcome my fears

71.   Write a song

72.   Defy gravity

73.   Be fluent in another language

74.   Visit Vatican City

75.  Visit the CERN lab

76.  Ride a Snowmobile

77.  Punch someone

78.  Drive a sports car down the autobahn

79.  Wish on a star

80.  Build my own telescope

81.  Change the world.

82.  Pay it forward

83.   Go 4-Wheeling

84.   Live a life unrequiring of a car

85.  Unicycle everywhere for a week.

86.  Step foot on every continent, including Antarctica

87.  Climb Mt. Rainer

88.  Go parasailing.

89.  Tell someone exactly what I think of them.

90.  Watch a concert from the very front row.

91.  Create a makeshift bat-mobile and roll down a hill in it dressed like batman.

92.  T.P. a house.

93.  Fork a yard.

94.  Complete the 1 gallon challenge

95.  Have a one night stand

96.  Snowboard a halfpipe

97.  Learn to wakeboard

98.  Restore an old car

99.  Witness a solar eclipse

100.         Witness a lunar eclipse

101.         Climb the Eiffel Tower

102.         Golf a game under 100

103.         Ride a gondola in Venice

104.         Louge

105.         Visit all 50 states

106.         Ride a camel

107.         Solve a Rubics Cube

108.         Do Indoor Sky Diving

109.         Build a Pizza Oven

110.         Be Vegetarian

111.         Go jet skiing

112.         Go geocaching

113.         Watch a rocket launch live

114.         Break a Guinness World Record

115.         See the Grand Canyon

116.         Dive in the Galapagos

119.         Do a back flip off a pogo stick

120.         Brew my own beer

121.         Knit a hat

122.         See every Best Picture Winner

123.         Make up a new identity in Vegas

124.         Own an Aston Martin

125.         Stay at an ice hotel

126.         Watch turtles hatch and run to the ocean

127.         Study religion

128.         Play bigger or better on Craigslist

129.         Be a spectator at the Olympics

130.         Be in Times Square on New Year’s Eve

131.         Learn to meditate

132.         March in a protest

133.         Work for a non-profit organization

134.         Jump into a pool with all my clothes on

135.         Have a stranger tattoo my name onto them.

136.         Hop a train

137.         Crash a wedding

138.         Have sex in a church

139.         Fire a bow and arrow

140.         Climb Kilimanjaro

If you have a bucket list, I would love to see it! Post it in the comments or email it to anderson.monika87@gmail.com