It’s 5:30 in the morning when my alarm goes off. Tajine, my
roommate and feline companion takes this as an opportunity to snuggle closer to
me in an attempt to keep me in my bed, which works for awhile (not that I
really was opposed to the idea). It’s still dark outside, and I’m running
through my schedule for the day in my head. I need to be out the door by 6:30
in order to catch the train I need; I’m heading north to Meknes for 2 weeks to
help with the new trainee’s that have just arrived in country. As I lay there
in the dark, I hear the Fajr call to prayer begin to sing off in the distance. None
of the mosques are timed up to each other, and as one call to prayer ends, I
hear another begin, continuing for all the mosques throughout Kalaa Sragna.
There’s a feeling in the air as an entire country all rises from bed at the
same time in order to face to the east and say their morning prayers. It
doesn’t matter that I don’t follow the Islamic faith, there’s still something
magical about the moment. Lying in bed, it’s the perfect start to my day, and I
can’t help but climb out of bed in a good mood, excited about the prospect of
my upcoming 8 hour train ride across Morocco.
One of the trainee’s has invited me over to have kaskerot (a
meal between lunch and dinner, typically served around 6pm) with her at her
host family’s house. Upon arrival, I was immediately presented with an entire
spread of breads, jams, olives, honey, and tea, among other things. The table
can barely hold everything they set out, and I know this is nothing out of the
ordinary. Any guest in the house would get this same treatment, both in this
house, and in any other house in Morocco. It’s just the way things are done
here. The family is impressed by my Arabic skills, and I feel a sense of having
really accomplished something in the last year. I’m handed the 8 month old son,
and play with him for awhile, while still conversing with Mama and Baba, who,
of course, have adopted me as another daughter in the family. By this point in
time, I must have at least a dozen different families throughout Morocco. I
feel as at ease in this house after a mere 20 minutes as I do in my own house,
and again, that’s just the way things are done here. After all, they’re my
family now, remember?
*****************
My friend and I have cooked an American meal for all the
trainee’s together. Aziza, the landlady of the house we’ve been staying at for
these 2 weeks, is also there, graciously allowing us to use her kitchen, as
well as joining us for the meal. She radiates a loving grandmotherly feel, and
I’ve never seen her with anything other than a smile. It’s a gorgeous, sunny
Moroccan day, and we’re all outside on the roof overlooking the stunningly
green rolling hills that define the north of Morocco. I couldn’t ask for a more
perfect image. I’ve got my ipod on shuffle, and the atmosphere is one of
friendship and relaxation, synonymous with the atmosphere of this country I
call home. As an upbeat song plays from the speaker, I dance a little to the
beat, joined quickly by Aziza. We both are dancing in a ridiculous fashion,
trying to match each other, turning into an awkwardly great mixture of Moroccan
and American styles. Surrounded by so many inspiring fellow volunteers, and
dancing with Aziza, who epitomizes the loving nature of Moroccan grandmothers,
I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be in the world.
I’m done with work for the day, and step out of the trainee
house, headed back to the house I’m living at. As I walk down the alley towards
the street, a group of young boys are playing kora (soccer) in a neighboring
lot. I hear a group of them shout “Fransowia!! Fransowia!!” at me as well as a
few other phrases, all in French, the usual assumption being that all
foreigners must be French. I stop and
approach them, telling them in Arabic that I’m not French. One boy steps
forward, clearly the ringleader of the bunch. I tell them I’m American, and
introduce myself, still in Arabic. A smile crosses the boy’s face, and he
sticks his hand out to me to shake, and tells me in Arabic that it was nice to
meet me. As I walk away they all yell a friendly goodbye to me and go back to
their kora game. It’s moments like these that define my service as a youth
development volunteer.
*****************
Way back a year ago during training, we were all given a
little chart of the ups and downs of emotions through the course of a Peace
Corps service. I instinctively rejected it, as the idea that I’m expected to be
feeling a certain way at a certain time simply didn’t settle well with me. One
of the big down drops on the chart though fell right at the one-year-in-country
mark. There’s also a phrase commonly thrown around within the PCV community
known as the “one-year slump.” Being in country now for a little over 13
months, I can tell you this: The One-Year Slump is a thing. January was a
little gross, slow, and kind of made me question what I’m doing with my life
here in Morocco. But it also ends, and the other side of that slump is where
you find how much you’ve accomplished, how much you care, and how much you’ve
changed as a person in the last year. I couldn’t ask for a better place to be
right now, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.
Morocco is a country of devastatingly indescribable beauty, both in nature and
in the people. Every day brings me a new adventure. Every day gives me a new
reason to smile. Every day gives me a new story to tell. And most importantly,
every day makes me fall in love with l-Maghrib just that much more. One year
down, one year to go. How times does truly fly.
