Friend or Fowl

Seasonal changes… I’ve already begun sleeping quite regularly in a hat and gloves – not sure that bodes well for the winter to come, although I do concede that my cement house with high ceilings tends to aggravate the situation. Fall here is definitely not what it is at home – as we instead experience a rather sudden shift in temperature (not unlike the loss of Spring that I always lamented when I lived in New York and Boston). Still, I have my occasional reminders of what it ought to feel like. As I passed through Immouzer a few weeks ago to help out with a training, I felt fortunate to be in one of the few places in Morocco (that I’ve seen at least) where I could actually experience a little genuine fall foliage. It was raining rather hard when I arrived, but enjoying the smell of the wet leaves more than made up for the fact that I was slipping all over them! I had actually visited this cute town about the same time last year, but somehow I forgot… and after a year here, I am much more aware of the absence of these little tastes of home in my day-to-day environment.

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Even though I’ve missed my share of family holidays even while living in the States, somehow it’s a little harder here knowing that it is a prologue to an entire holiday season that I simply won’t be experiencing. I try to explain this to some of my Moroccan acquaintances, but Thanksgiving can be a little confusing given that it carries no religious significance. Still, in terms of explaining its cultural and family importance (along with Christmas), I try to draw parallels to Lعid al-Ftir and Lعid al-Kbir. Unfortunately, due to my limited language skills, my explanations are often limited to something like, “We celebrate sharing and blessings, and we eat a big dinner.”

That said, of course most volunteers know how to make the most of things and celebrate however they can. This year, a few folks headed to Assoul the weekend before for a quasi-pot luck meal. My sitemate’s turkey, Pickles, was supposed to be the star attraction. Unfortunately, Pickles didn’t turn out to be such a big eater (or perhaps she was just incredibly clever, although we all know that she is simply delaying the inevitable), so the butcher wouldn’t kill her. We had chicken instead. Now I will be stuck taking care of a turkey throughout the rest of the holiday season while my sitemate is away doing normal person things.

Speaking of chicken, in addition to the occasional cow in the transit, our drivers fairly regularly carry crates full of chickens back from Rich on their roofs. It is actually perversely amusing if you go to one of the areas in Rich where the transits park – you occasionally hear a series of squawks only to realize that each one represents some poor bird being tossed by a guy standing on the ground up to a guy on the roof of one of these vans (I guess it would be too slow – or simply lacking in entertainment value – simply to hand them up). Last week, however, I had cause to wonder if those few airborne moments perhaps give some of the birds ideas. As I was riding back to Assoul, several of us noticed something fall past the window and began yelling at the driver to stop. Sure enough, there was a chicken lying in the road a couple of hundred meters behind us. Apparently, the poor thing had seen its chance at freedom and tried to take it. “Immut" (“It’s dead”), an old man behind me said. Someone ran to grab it, and miraculously, it began flapping its wings and squawking – a real fighter! So back on the roof it went, probably only to have become someone’s lunch (possibly even mine) the next day. How depressing! Somehow, I think the story would have been far more heroic and inspiring had – barring a successful escape attempt – the thing simply died in the road.

Oh, as you may have noticed from my lovely portrait with Pickles, I have finally given up on the idea that simply pulling my hair back for two years would somehow be more practical. In fact, it was getting rather gross. Many thanks to my friend Anne for her help with the chop job (out of sheer frustration, I nearly engaged in a far more brutal one several weeks ago, but instead settled on simply taking a few inches until someone else could do it properly). Surprisingly, very few Moroccans have said anything to me, besides, “You cut your hair.” Thanks for the update. I have to say that, in addition to improved washing and winter hat-wearing conditions, I’ve been happy to feel a little more like myself again. It’s sort of like how I miss my regular wardrobe. It’s not especially diverse, but I never realized how much I felt like my own “sense of style” – and I do use that term loosely in my case! – helps define me. Here, with only one or two exceptions, my wardrobe consists entirely of clothes that I intend to throw/give away (even the stuff I brought from home), so you can imagine that there’s not all that much that I really love wearing here!

Another important aspect of “being oneself” here stems from friendships – more than I expected. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. Of course none of my friendships with Moroccans are exactly “normal,” if such a thing even exists. I have my host father, whose fantastic English and relatively open mind (although I do still push a few boundaries), renders him someone I can talk to about nearly anything. Mina – our cooperative president – is perhaps the most genuinely nice and caring friend I have made here, although our language and educational differences make it difficult to get into any complex conversations. Still, when I tried to tell Mina that I was feeling a little homesick about the holidays, she began tearing up as she assured me that my next year here will pass even more quickly than the first one. I so often feel so judged and on display here that it is nice to be reminded that some people do really look at me just like any other human being. And then there is Najat – who speaks sloppy French and refuses to understand my Tamazight, and yet offers my most relaxed Moroccan friendship. We look at fashion magazines (frighteningly outdated ones, I’m afraid), and talk about movies and men. The other day, she read my fortune, and we played cards all afternoon along with her sisters (I love how admittedly hashuma this house full of women is!), with the loser of each round being forced to sing, dance, or perform various acrobatic feats. When I left, she was going to feed the animals and offered to eat some of their feed if her sister and I each paid her 5 dirhams (a little less than 50 cents). Even though Najat is older than I am, I love that we can play like little girls, and that I am not being judged for not being a proper Moroccan woman (well, not being married, officially here I am still a “girl,” although I am trying to convince people to think about women a little differently on this front!).


One last lesson of the past week: If you drop $12 Sony earbuds into a bucket full of dirty dishwater, they'll still work after they dry. So even though their computer batteries suck, at least the company has redeemed itself in my eyes.