Being Content Despite The Circumstances

Not only can you have valuable and insightful self-realizations in humbling and austere circumstances, but, I would contend, you're actually more likely to have such realizations under such conditions. I feel like I had such helpful musings today during a stop on my return trip south from Marrakech, after I went there for the weekend.

Soon before I left Marrakech, I was sweating since it has been hot there. Hence I was happy that I was taking a CTM bus back south to the Sahara. CTM buses are newer, cleaner, brighter, and safer than most other buses here in Morocco. Given that CTM buses are nicer than most other buses here, the air conditioning was on in full force on the bus. I had both of the vents above me completely open, and with the cold air blasting down on me, it felt downright chilly despite the heat outside the bus.

I spent much of the trip south from Marrakech admiring the landscape. While we were riding through the High Atlas mountains, I pointed out a waterfall to a couple of friendly, pleasant French tourists sitting across the aisle from me. Soon after that, we went over the Tichka Pass, at an elevation of 2260 meters, or 7414 feet, above sea level.

When the bus stopped for a lunch break in the small town of Agouim, about one hour north of Ouarzazate, I got off the bus and looked across the street, at the line of shops there. I walked across the street to find some shade. In small Moroccan towns, most shops, including hanoots (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "grocery stores"), close at lunchtime, starting between 12:00 p.m. and 1:00 p.m., and re-open in the latter half of the afternoon. Given that it was nearly 2:00 p.m., I had no trouble finding a closed shop, where I sat on some unused steps.

I pulled out the round bread and the can of tuna in tomato sauce which I'd bought this morning in Marrakech. When I know that I'm going to be traveling during lunchtime, I try to bring a sandwich, or at least what I need to make a sandwich. A lot of the time when buses make these pit stops, they stop in towns where folks sell street food, that is, food that's cooked on the sidewalk. When I eat street food here, I get sick; thus, usually I don't eat it. Consequently, I was glad that I had brought along this food; I was happy to be packing the tuna into the bread and eating it.

After a little while, I became conscious that I was happy to be sitting there eating my lunch amidst discarded tires and scattered garbage. I wondered what had happened to me. Earlier in my Peace Corps service, I had been disgusted and irritated to be constantly surrounded by trash. I wondered if people would think me radically different when I arrive back in the states.

Then I considered how, before I'd started making and eating my sandwich, I'd disinfected my hands with hand sanitizer. I still have some of the same outwardly visible habits I'd had before I came here to Morocco. I figured that people back home wouldn't think I'd become a completely different person. I came to a similar conclusion again after I'd finished eating, when I cleaned my hands with a sanitizing hand wipe.

It's not that I haven't changed in significant ways. I have changed in a variety of ways. Yet I've also retained certain habits. As I noted above, I've changed how I approach the phenomenon of garbage on the ground here. It's not that I no longer care about it; I certainly do still care about it. I just don't let it irritate me. I do what I can about it. I've done environmental lessons about properly disposing of trash and respecting the environment, and I've otherwise tried to instruct youths about properly getting rid of garbage. Knowing that I've been doing something about it, I'm less prone to get angry about it.

Yet it's not just about doing something about it. Yes, if you care, you're going to do something about it. But I'm not less bothered by trash on the ground simply because I've been trying to address it. I'm also increasingly more at peace with my surroundings, because I've been endeavoring to value what's most important in life. Thus I try to focus on what nourishes me, and especially what is most essential, namely treasuring how God feeds my spirit, and I try to ignore what ultimately are more trivial matters.

I've always strived to live as simply as possible. I've always tried to value most highly those gifts of each day which have been most supportive and nourishing of my mind, body and spirit.

Thus, I realized, as I was sitting on that concrete stoop, eating my lunch amidst scraps of garbage, that I was content merely because I had food to eat. I found irrelevant the circumstances in which I was eating it. I try to focus on what's important. I thank God for my daily bread.

A Bus Ride In Morocco

Recently on my way back to the town where I live here in the Sahara, I was trying to catch a bus south from Marrakech. I went to the CTM bus station, but found that both of the CTM buses out of Marrakech which would be headed down here were already full. I walked to the SupraTours bus station, but soon learned that the SupraTours bus south to the Sahara was also full. Accordingly, I went to the main bus station there in Marrakech, where I was able to get on a bus back south. At the main bus station, one catches buses less fancy than CTM buses and SupraTours buses. The buses are older and generally less comfortable. PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) refer to these buses as "souq buses," because the driver will let you off wherever you like; thus you can take these buses to the souq, or the farmer's market, whereas CTM buses and SupraTours buses generally won't make special stops for you such as at the farmer's market. 

Once I'd gotten my bus ticket, I found my bus and boarded it. When I ride buses here in Morocco, if I can, I always sit in the row furthest back. On the route I travel south from Marrakech back to the town where I live here in the Sahara, the buses go through the High Atlas mountains, and over the Tichka Pass. The buses make many turns on this curvy route. Consequently many people get motion sickness and become nauseous and end up vomiting. Given that I both don't get motion sickness, and given that I also don't want anyone sitting behind me potentially vomiting on me, I always sit in the row furthest back if there's an empty seat there for me. Thus on this particular day, I was sitting all the way in the back of the bus. Admittedly the spot where I was sitting didn't look that comfortable. Thus the Moroccan man sitting across the aisle from me asked me if I was sitting in a good seat. I replied in Darija, that is, in Moroccan Arabic, that it wasn't a good seat, but that I was a little insane. One is always likely to elicit a laugh if one insinuates that one is crazy. Accordingly, the man laughed, and, as people here do when they think that someone has made a good joke, he shook my hand.

Soon after we had this laugh, we were visited by some folks on the bus who did not end up traveling with us. Moroccans who are not traveling walk onto these less fancy buses and peddle different things, most commonly bottles of water, snacks, shoes and jewelry. Moroccans also walk onto the buses asking for alms. After I'd boarded this bus, there was quite a while until we were going to leave. Thus multiple people boarded the bus trying to sell their various items.

At one point the Moroccan man sitting across the aisle from me was surrounded by four kids, seemingly about eight to twelve years old. They were trying to sell him different things, which I believe included water and gum. Noting the little gathering around him, I suggested to him in Darija, "It's a little market here on the bus." Later, after the kids had left, I joked with him that if someone has to go shopping, he or she doesn't have to go to a hanoot, which is Darija for "grocery store." Rather, all someone has to do is board a souq bus and sit there for a little while before it leaves, and someone can do all of his or her shopping there on the bus. Of course, I exaggerate. One can't buy anything and everything from the folks who board trying to peddle their goods. For example, after my comment that being aboard a souq bus just before it leaves is like being at the market, that fellow sitting across the aisle from me noted that no one had come aboard the bus trying to sell vegetables.

And indeed, people are limited in how many different types of things they can sell on the buses partly due to time constraints. After a while, we were off on our way south from Marrakech and on to the High Atlas mountains. When we were passing through some of the highest spots on that road, I was pleased to yet again spot a waterfall, despite it being so long since the winter, thus with presumably less melting snow to feed a waterfall. Thus I was happy that day not only to get in some good laughs, sharing some humor with one of my fellow passengers, but I was also glad to get to enjoy some natural beauty on my way back south to the Sahara.

Buy Local

After summer camp, I came back to the town where I live down here in the Sahara. For part of my return trip, I traveled with some friends, Chadwick, Tirzah and Emily, who are some fellow PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers), on a bus. At one point the bus made a pit stop for about an hour. My friends and I figured that we might as well eat while we were there. After we'd eaten our meal there, I wanted to get something sweet for dessert, so I bought some cold milk at a hanoot (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "small grocery store"), then walked to another hanoot to buy something sweet. Upon arriving at the second hanoot, I saw some large chocolate bars on the counter. I didn't recognize the brand name, so I picked up one of them, and saw on the back of it that it had been made in Morocco.

I'd been wanting to have some of this particular kind of Moroccan chocolate, but hadn't been seeing it while I'd been shopping over the last couple of years here. So I grabbed the bar of Moroccan chocolate so I could buy it. The man sitting at the back of the hanoot saw me pick up the large bar of Moroccan chocolate. He picked up a large bar of the Spanish chocolate which I see so often here in Morocco and brought it to me. It looks very similar to the Moroccan chocolate bar; both are big bars in red packages with white lettering. Consequently I could see how, from the other side of the hanoot, he might think that I wanted to buy a bar of the Spanish chocolate. But once he'd gotten to the counter, it struck me how he didn't comment that I should indeed buy the Moroccan chocolate. Since he's Moroccan, I would've expected him to urge me to buy the Moroccan product.

Summer Camp 2012 Part One

For the last couple of weeks, I was in northern Morocco working at a summer camp.  Moroccan kids have been out of school since June, so some of them have been attending camps all over Morocco to learn more English and to engage in various extracurricular activities.  At this particular camp where I was, the youths ranged in age from 11 to 17.  The kids who attended this camp live in, and thus traveled to this camp from, various locations in Morocco.

While it was a camp, it was located in a city.  Taxis run regularly on the street where the camp was held.  Hanoots (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "grocery stores") are within a block of where the camp was held.  So, the camp was held in an urban area.

The camps are run by the Moroccan Ministry of Youth and Sports.  As PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) we help to conduct activities at the camps.  In addition to me, there were three other PCVs working at the camp: Cassandra, Rachel and Josh.  All of them are also Youth Development PCVs.  They're all in their first year of their Peace Corps service.  We all traveled to this summer camp from the different towns where we live in various parts of Morocco. For the duration of the camp, we slept in our own room, in the same building in which the youths were sleeping.

At Camp, the kids wake up between 7am and 8am.  We, the PCVs, the kids and the Moroccan staff, ate breakfast together at the camp a little after 8am.  Typically it's tea and coffee, milk, croissants, some bread, either baguettes and/or the usual round, flat Moroccan bread, perhaps accompanied by butter and apricot jam.

For a couple of hours in the morning, the kids attend English class. At this camp, two PCVs taught beginner level English classes. I taught an intermediate level English class. Another PCV taught a more advanced level English class.

Not only did I know that I would be teaching an intermediate level English class, but since three of us PCVs interviewed the campers on the first day of camp to assess their English speaking abilities, I had a sense of what the students in my class both knew, and also found confusing, in the English language. I was entering the classroom aware that I could help by clarifying when to use the simple present verb tense and when to use the present continuous verb tense. So, I was helping them to determine when to say "I swim" and when to say "I am swimming."

While teaching English during this summer camp, I encountered difficulties in teaching which I usually face while teaching here in Morocco. Often there are students who aren't particularly focused on the lesson and who don't seem motivated to learn. During this summer camp, I decided to move such sluggish students so that they were no longer sitting next to each other, but instead were sitting between bright, motivated students. It seemed to help. The previously lethargic and uninterested students started taking more notes and following along more than they had been.

After English class, in the early afternoon, we PCVs, the kids and the Moroccan staff ate lunch together.  For lunch, we often ate salad, followed by a tajine, which is somewhat like a Moroccan stew.

After lunch, there was free time.  Some of the kids used the time to nap.

In the late afternoon, sometimes we PCVs ran activities for the kids.  One day a couple of the other PCVs taught yoga to the kids. On the 4th of July, a couple of the other PCVs made chocolate chip cookies, which were delicious! The kids seemed to enjoy them too. On the 4th of July, I led a discussion with the kids about the 4th of July, why and how US citizens celebrate it as a holiday, and how the USA declared its independence on July 4. From there I explained that the 13 stripes on the US flag represent the 13 original states, and that the 50 stars represent the current 50 states. The other PCVs and I then explained where we come from in the USA, pointing out our geographical origins on a map of the USA which one of us PCVs had made. He'd also made a map of Morocco. We had each of the campers come to the front of the room and say where he or she is from, and write his or her name and city on the map. We left the maps taped up to help campers get to know each other and us, and to implicitly reinforce the cross-cultural exchange we had been trying to promote.

In the late afternoon, the kids also participated in activities run by some of the Moroccan staff running the camp.  Typically the Moroccan staff ran activities involving song and dance for the kids.

After these late afternoon and early evening activities, we, the PCVs, the kids and the Moroccan staff, ate dinner together.  For dinner, first we always ate harira, which is a type of Moroccan soup which contains chickpeas, and sometimes also lentils, among other things.  Sometimes after the harira, we ate spaghetti covered with powdered sugar and ground nuts, or meatballs in a red pasta sauce with some bread.  On some nights after dinner, we ate yogurt for dessert.  On other nights, we ate fruit, such as muskmelon, for dessert.

On the final night of the camp, some of the youths performed in a talent show. Some of them sang or danced.  Others acted in a skit, which they performed in Darija.

When the kids were leaving the camp, some of them were crying. I noticed that one girl, who had seemed to be uninterested in English class and other activities, was crying when the time had come to leave. I noted to one of my fellow PCVs that it seemed counterintuitive that she was crying because camp was over, after it hadn't seemed like she had enjoyed the camp. Then it occurred to me that perhaps she was sad because previously she had been unhappy due to a lack of connections and emotional closeness in her life. Perhaps she found such nourishment at the camp, and was sad because she was leaving what she had been craving and had finally found.

How Low Can You Go?

As I'd mentioned in my last blog entry, yesterday I took the bus north from Ouarzazate up toward Marrakech. I didn't go to Marrakech yesterday, but instead visited a friend who's a fellow PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer) who lives close to Marrakech. Once I'd arrived in my friend's town, we went food shopping. Later, at my friend's house, my friend made a delicious scramble, which included, among other things, various peppers, onions and tomatoes, for dinner. We also enjoyed some fresh apricots and plums.

I was happy to stay overnight at my friend's apartment. This morning, we both went to Marrakech, but parted ways once we got to the city. My friend had some business to do, and I was heading off to visit another friend who's also a PCV.

Before I left the city, I stopped to grab lunch at a hanoot (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "grocery store"), which, in this particular case, was much smaller than a corner store. Like many hanoots here in Morocco, it was the size of a food stand. I saw that the store owner had various small round loaves of bread, and I saw that he had some eggs, so I asked him if I could have an egg sandwich. It turned out that he had some hard-boiled eggs, so he made me an egg sandwich. After I ate the egg sandwich, I decided to have dessert there, since some of the offerings in the glass deli case looked promising. I got a dessert which seemed to have the soft texture of cake, with some light chocolate frosting on the inside, all covered in a kind of soft milk chocolate shell. I enjoyed it with a small carton of cold milk. The sandwich and the dessert were tasty.

However, I found something else more notable than how delicious the food was. Previously I'd paid as low as two and a half dirhams for a small egg sandwich. I'd already thought that that price was very low, and couldn't see how I'd ever pay less than 2.5 dirhams for an egg sandwich. Today I paid 2.10 dirhams for the egg sandwich, which means it cost the equivalent of 26 cents. I paid 6 dirhams for the dessert and the milk, which is equivalent to about 75 cents. So I paid the equivalent of about one dollar for my lunch today.

People often think that they need a certain amount of money to live their lives. Indeed, people often think that they need a lot of money to live their lives. You don't need a lot of money. And once you've realized that you don't have to devote your life to accumulating money, you're faced with the question "Now that you don't have to do anything, what are you going to do with the rest of your life?"

Where Have You Been?

Yesterday I went to the home of a family I often visit here in the town in which I live in the Sahara in Morocco. When I run into them on the street, they invite me over to their home for meals. If I haven't gone over to their home for a meal in a while, usually they'll ask me why I haven't come to their home.

Before I went over to their home, I thought I might be able to get some shopping done before most everyone in town disappeared to have lunch. Between about 1 p.m. and about 4 p.m., most hanoots (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for the rough equivalent of corner stores in the USA) are closed while their proprietors are having lunch (and perhaps napping after lunch).

I headed out from my apartment a little before 1 p.m. and was glad to find the hanoot where I mostly frequently shop for groceries open. I stocked up on food, then returned home to drop it off.

Then I continued on to the family's home. When I arrived, I took off my shoes and joined the father on a mat, on top of which was a table with a teapot and glasses. Moroccans love to drink tea, and they always offer some to their guests.

As the father and I sat enjoying the fine weather, bounded by the beautiful blue sky and puffy cumulus clouds, he inquired about my family in the USA, as Moroccans typically do. He also asked me if I had been traveling. I mentioned that on some recent weekends, I'd been to the city which is about an hour north of this town where we live.

All of their kids were traveling, so I only ate with the father. In some conservative Moroccan homes, the women and girls eat separately from the men and boys. In their home, at times we've all eaten together, so I don't know why the mom didn't eat with us yesterday.

The mom brought out lunch, which included some fried fish, accompanied by some hot sauce in which to dip the fish. I enjoyed all of the food, but I enjoyed the hot sauce in a way I didn't enjoy the other food. I don't get to eat much spicy food here in Morocco, so I enjoyed the hot sauce as something which I don't eat too often here. We also ate a vegetarian tajine, or stew, which included potatoes and carrots, grabbing our morsels out of the communal plate with pieces of bread we broke off from the typically round, flat Moroccan loaves of bread.

After lunch, the mom brought us some small oranges for dessert. When we had finished eating the oranges, she came over to the mat and sat with us. She too asked me if I had been traveling. I finally realized that they had been asking me if I had been traveling because I was at their home for a meal for the first time in a month. They felt that it had been too long. They figured that since I hadn't come over for a meal, that I must have been traveling.

I must admit that I had been wary about overindulging in their hospitality. I had been concerned about going to their home too often. Now I know that they expect me to come over more than once a month. It strikes me as a bit notable that even after being here in Morocco for nearly a year and a half, that I am still learning the parameters of the customs and cultural norms here.

Watch What You Say

Yesterday I thought it best to make another run to a bakery or two, and hanoots (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "grocery stores"), here in town. Here in Morocco we're on the verge of L'Eid Kbir, a major Islamic holiday (see my November 2010 blog post "Eid Kbir" for an explanation of this holiday, and my December 2010 blog post "Holidays," my August 2011 blog post "Summer Camp 2011," and my October 2011 blog post "Women Drivers" for more about Islam). Some shops and stores are going to be closed for much of next week, so I figured it would be best if I made sure that I have plenty of food at home.

At one of the hanoots where I was buying food, I noticed that the "mul-hanoot," the shopkeeper, had his fly unzipped. Immediately, I decided that I was going to inform him of this fact. Next I realized that I couldn't remember the word in Darija for "zipper." Next I thought, "Well, whatever I do, I have to make sure that I don't say the English word "zipper." Here you find one of those unfortunate linguistic intersections which can, and, at times, does, embarrass many an unsuspecting foreigner in Morocco. The word "zip" sounds perilously close to the Darija word "zib," which is the word for the male reproductive organ.

Added to this linguistic landmine was the awkwardness created in this particular situation not just by the presence of other customers in his shop, but women at that. And he was directly in their line of sight. Once I had his attention, first I partly zipped my jacket up. I hadn't thought of how he was also wearing a jacket. Of course he responded by zipping up his jacket. Once I got his attention again, I again zipped up my jacket, this time all the way up. Of course he responded by zipping his jacket up all the way. I tried to explain this gesture the second time by saying, "Lla; laxur," meaning, "No; the other one," but he just shook his head in confusion. 

At this point, the other workers in the hanoot were beginning to look at me, perhaps wondering what I was trying to tell the mul-hanoot. I decided to busy myself in loading the groceries which I had just bought into my bag. I glanced over at the mul-hanoot again. One of the other workers in the shop told me in English, "Just say it in English." For one thing, I didn't want to announce to the entire shop that a man's fly was unzipped. For another thing, I also knew that if I said it in English, it would probably be misfortunately misinterpreted given the Darija word "zib."

The mul-hanoot came over to me, this time out of view of the women in the store. This time I whispered to him, "Lla; taht," which means, "No; down below." He then looked down at his fly and understood.

Later that night, when I was at home, I chuckled, thinking that when I had finally successfully communicated to him that his fly was down, as he was zipping it up, he was yelling across the street to someone. In retrospect, I laughed at how I had been so concerned about embarrassing him, when it turned out that he wasn't self-conscious at all about it. It reminded me that just because a cultural norm exists in one's own country, it doesn't necessarily mean it exists wherever else you happen to be. You might think that this conclusion is a bit obvious, and shouldn't be that surprising, especially to a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). But I think that to get more specific, I think that what was surprising to me was that the cultural norm here is to cover up. Given the potential risk of exposing oneself, and how poorly that would be viewed here, I would have thought that he would have been more concerned and/or embarrassed by learning that his fly was down. So I suppose that yesterday I was reminded that while I've learned that there are certain cultural norms here, I've yet to learn all of the parameters of those cultural norms, and how those are or are not prominent in a variety of different situations.

Variety is in the Liveliest of Spices

Recently my friend and fellow PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer) Ben visited me here in my town, and we decided to make dinner together. While in the center of my town, we were in a hanoot, which is essentially the Moroccan equivalent of a corner grocery store, where we briefly discussed what we were going to have for dinner that night. He suggested making corn chowder. Never having had it here in Morocco, I quickly supported that idea. We set about buying the various ingredients which I didn't already have in my apartment: corn, potatoes, onions, penne pasta, and a relatively unique spice named "ras-l-hanoot," in Darija, or Moroccan Arabic. Literally this phrase means "the head of the grocery store" in Darija. It's fairly unique because it's actually a blend of various spices, thus containing multiple spices. It's also fairly intriguing because one often can have difficulty knowing what it contains, since its actual composition varies so much depending on who is making it. It's also notable because, at least according to at least one Moroccan, it can contain as many as eighty different substances in it. It often contains pepper (sometimes multiple kinds of pepper), cumin, nutmeg and ginger. It often ends up giving a dish somewhat of a curry-like flavor. Indeed, when Ben and I ate the corn chowder containing the ras-l-hanoot, the chowder seemed to have a flavor reminiscent of curry. It made what most likely would already have been a tasty meal even more delectable!

Gone Food Shoppin'

When I was in the city at the beginning of last week, I took the opportunity to go shopping in one of the supermarkets there. When Moroccans call a store a supermarket, or a "supermarché," as they are called in French, Moroccans are often referring to a store which would be too small to be considered a supermarket in the U.S.

As I've mentioned in previous blog entries, when I'm here in my town, I buy food at hanoots (which is the Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, word for a grocery store of sorts, and which often is a stall carved out of the front of a building with a counter at its front). Typically a hanoot is so small that you just walk up to the counter. You don't walk into the hanoot, because there's no doorway, there's just the counter. In that case, you ask the person (almost invariably a man, at least down here in rural southern Morocco) for what you want, and he brings it to the counter for you. Sometimes a hanoot is large enough that you can walk inside and peruse items on the shelves and bring them to the counter yourself. However, given that I live in a town of less than ten thousand people, not a city, there are items which I can't get when I go shopping at the hanoots here in my town.

So, when I go to the nearest city, which has a population of tens of thousands, I usually visit a supermarché and buy items there which I can't get in my town. A supermarché here in Morocco is often about twice the size of what we would usually call a corner store in the U.S. Sometimes in the supermarché I can buy things which I can't buy in my town; other times in supermarchés, there are more varieties of items than I can buy from hanoots in my town. For example, last week at a supermarché there in the city, I bought some applesauce, which I can't buy in my town. Given how much Moroccans sweeten their food and drink, unsurprisingly I found the applesauce to be too sweet for my liking. However, it was still nice to have it. Much more often, at either of the two supermarchés there in that city, I buy peanut butter, which I also can't get here in my town. There's one brand of peanut butter which has entire peanut halves mixed throughout the peanut butter. There's another brand which manufactures both creamy peanut butter and crunchy peanut butter, both of which are just like peanut butter you can buy in the U.S.

In some cities, such as El Jadida and Rabat, there are slightly larger supermarchés, perhaps four times the size of a corner store in the U.S., which consequently have more variety, and which belong to a chain. When I visited one of them for the first time in El Jadida, I was amazed (coming from the perspective of living in rural Morocco) at the variety of yogurt available in that supermarché. I noted to my friend and fellow PCV Ben that one side of part of one aisle, a part of the aisle which probably ran for 25 to 30 feet, stocked an unbroken stretch of yogurt. I can, and do, buy yogurt in my town, but not from such a wide variety.

Moving beyond supermarchés of these aforementioned sizes here in Morocco, there are stores here in Morocco which citizens of the U.S. indeed would consider supermarkets. In large cities, including Fes and Marrakech (each of which has a population of about 1 million people), one can visit these large supermarkets. Again, sometimes one can buy things at these large supermarkets which one can't buy in a rural town, or, someone has more choices amongst varieties of items than one can buy in a rural town.

Frankly, though, I don't find myself feeling any strong need or desire to visit and shop at these largest supermarkets here in Morocco. Even when I go to the small supermarchés in a city here in southern Morocco, I'm not buying things which I need--I'm buying products which give me a little taste of home, which are nice to have, but which I don't have to have. I'm thankful to have such supermarchés fairly close to my town, but I realize that they're a luxury, not a necessity.

Thus one can try to be conscious of the distinction between necessary sustenance, and food and drink which are simply nice to have. And that in buying certain food, which is not essential, but which is nice to have, one is buying things which one can buy because one has enough money to buy it. Thus one can see certain purchases as reflecting one's wealth.

However, one can also choose to notice a disparity in wealth as reflected in changes in location within a country. One can choose to be conscious of a disparity in wealth while shopping in urban Morocco as opposed to when shopping in rural Morocco. One can see this disparity in multiple ways.

Partly this disparity is reflected in how one gets to one of these large supermarkets in urban Morocco as compared with how one gets to a hanoot in rural Morocco. Most people shopping at the large supermarkets in urban Morocco drive there, though one can also take a bus or a taxi to some of these large supermarkets. I think that relatively few people walk to these large supermarkets in urban Morocco. By contrast, virtually all rural Moroccans will walk to a hanoot to shop. Indeed, the vast majority of people living here in my town don't own cars.

One also can witness a disparity in shopping between urban Morocco and rural Morocco in the denominations of bills customers use. It's far less likely to be problematic for a customer to pay a grocery bill with a 200 dirham note in a large supermarket in urban Morocco than it is to be difficult at a hanoot in rural Morocco. Although a 200 dirham note is equivalent to about 25 dollars in the U.S., if you want to buy a week's worth of groceries with a 200 dirham note at a hanoot in rural Morocco, as another PCV put it, it's like trying to use a 100 dollar bill in the U.S. Since smaller amounts of currency are flowing in and out of stores in rural Morocco, it's consequently harder to get change for a large bill.

Thus even when doing something as mundane and simple as grocery shopping, we have the opportunity to practice being conscious. To notice what is going on around us, and how we fit into it, and what our part in it is.

Drag

On my way back down south last week, I took the train to Marrakech. On the train, some of the conductors were female. However, they were all wearing the same things as the male conductors: navy blue pants, navy blue suit jackets, and navy blue ties, over baby blue colored button-down shirts.

I was surprised to see these women wearing these particular items of clothing. Not so much because I had never seen Moroccan women wearing these particular items of clothing, but because in my town, I usually only see women wearing long keftans, or Moroccan women's robes.

I must say, I was very intrigued that they were wearing such clothes. It made me think about how few sartorial options women in my town have, at least without risking disapprobation by much of the rest of their community. Now, I realize that these female train conductors were not in my town when I saw them, and that most likely they do not live in my town. However, continuously seeing the limited clothing choices which women in my town have, I was glad that these train conductors had the option of wearing what they were wearing. This despite the fact that they were essentially wearing uniforms. And despite the fact that they were essentially wearing what is typically called men's clothing. Because despite how some would claim that these aspects of their clothing reflect a lack of true individuality and independent expression, I was nevertheless relieved to see these women as having at least an option of some substantive kind about what to wear, in comparison with the women in my town.

On the train, I was also struck by how a few people went to the space between the train cars to smoke. I've both observed, as well as read, that in the way many Moroccans act, they may seem to people who live in the USA that they, Moroccans, don't seem to care about being polite to strangers. Indeed, as an instance of this phenomenon, when walking up to a hanoot (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "grocery store") in Morocco, if you don't walk all the way up to the counter, someone else will probably walk right past you and start getting what he or she wants from the shopkeeper rather than forming a line behind you. It doesn't matter if you were there first. Thus, to people who live in the USA, Moroccans may sometimes seem rude due to apparently not taking the considerations of strangers into account. So, I was pleasantly surprised when these Moroccans went to the space between the train cars to smoke.

On The Way Back

On the way back from Spring Camp to my town down here in southern Morocco, I took the train from northern Morocco to Marrakech. On the train, I once again enjoyed seeing lines of what looked like prickly pear cacti, arranged much as fences would be in the U.S.

I also noted satellite dishes on top of modest dwellings with concrete block walls and corrugated tin roofs. Usually when I am in Moroccan homes, which are typically those of poor people, there is a TV. But seeing from the outside so many satellite dishes on top of these simple dwellings, I was reminded of how frequently one finds televisions in Moroccan homes, despite poverty.

I also definitely enjoyed seeing some camels while riding the train. This time I saw only a few of them. Last month, east of the High Atlas mountains, I also saw camels, but more of them than I saw this month.

Once I arrived in Marrakech, I stopped at a cafe to quench my thirst. As I entered the cafe, it felt a bit surreal to note that a flat screen TV was playing a music video, "Learning To Fly," by Tom Petty, in its original English. I had grown a bit more accustomed to this perk by the time the next song, "Satellite," by the Dave Matthews Band, had started playing on the TV.

I was very happy that I got to attend Mass at a church that evening in Marrakech. It was all in French.

I was pleased to run into other PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) in Marrakech. As I was arriving at a hotel there, by chance I happened to rendezvous with other PCVs.

I went with one of my pals, Dipesh, to a big square there in Marrakech, where we had some fresh-squeezed orange juice, for only 4 dirhams (which is equivalent to about 50 U.S. cents) per glass. Then he and I went to a nearby rooftop cafe, where we had a great view of the square. We caught up on how we both have been doing, facing difficulties, adjusting to life in Morocco, coping with family and friends back home being so far away, and dealing with challenges in our work as PCVs.

He told me how my training site mates, Liz, Tory, Katy and Margo, with whom I trained for over two months when I first arrived in Morocco, were staying in a nearby hotel. I enjoyed showing up at that hotel and surprising them. I was especially entertained when one of my training site mates, Tory, upon seeing me, was so surprised to see me, that I felt that he seemed to be reacting as if someone had snapped his or her fingers, causing me to instantaneously appear in front of him. We caught up on each others' experiences at Spring Camp of the previous week, since we did not all serve at the same Spring Camp.

As usual, I took a bus south from Marrakech back through the High Atlas mountains. I was pleased to again see waterfalls flowing in those mountains on my return trip back down south.

When I arrived back in my town, I was rather fatigued from traveling, as well as hungry. Stopping by the hanoot (Darija for "grocery store" or "corner store") which I most frequently patronize, one of the proprietors handed me a glass of tea. He also gave me some peanuts to eat. He continued to attend to his shop as I refreshed myself. When he came back to the counter, seeing that I had stopped eating, he again encouraged me to eat. In his behavior that day, he provided a good example of typical Moroccan hospitality and generosity. Being as tired, thirsty, and hungry as I was, I was happy to receive his warm gestures. Experiencing such generosity, having established a connection with him, I was reminded why I am here, and felt further integrated into the community here. It helps that people have been as welcoming as they are. I appreciate their warmth, generosity and friendliness. And, it feels great when I relate it to you, as it reminds me that I am a Peace Corps Volunteer, which I have wanted to be for many years. I'm glad that I'm a PCV.

Time Out

Just as a coda to my last post: I spoke with a friend in the U.S. after I had posted my last blog entry, and told her that I feel the best that I have felt since arriving here in Morocco. She sounded surprised.

After getting off the phone with her, I thought that my difficult process last week, of emerging from the depths of despair, was perhaps a spiritual equivalent of going to the hammam, what is essentially a Moroccan bathhouse. In the hammam, people use an exfoliating glove, or kis, to scrub themselves. So with a kis, someone is essentially scraping the dirt off himself or herself, unlike when someone just rubs a bar of soap on themselves. Consequently, people wind up getting very clean. I and other Americans I know who have gone to hammams here in Morocco are astonished by how much dirt comes off of us. Analogously, it was surprising, in retrospect, to see how far up I had climbed emotionally last week. Having thrown off the shackles of despair, I have been feeling great.

Experiencing pleasure of people and things more with joy. I was walking through town yesterday and came upon a soccer match. As I drew nearer to the field, I saw a young Moroccan friend of mine. He waved, getting my attention. I was happy to get to spend some time with him. The young lad, probably in his late teens, is always so welcoming and friendly. When he shakes my hand in greeting, he often takes my shoulder with his other hand, as if to offer additional support and warmth to me. After watching the match for a little while, when we parted ways, I told him I was going to go to a hanoot (basically the Moroccan equivalent of a corner store). As always, he immediately took me by the arm and started to lead me there. I love how he automatically takes it upon himself to show where I can find what I need. It's so wonderful to experience such warmth, generosity and caring.

And, again, I am enjoying just simple things. During the soccer match, I was amused when the referee had to halt the game temporarily, in a sort of "time out" when a man drove his donkey-drawn cart through the middle of the dirt field. (I guessed that the man drove through the field because the adjacent road on which he normally would have driven was, at that moment, being paved).

This morning, as I was walking through town, I was reveling in the blue sky and sunshine of a gorgeous day, as I appreciated some warm bread I had just bought from the boulangerie, the bakery, in the middle of town. Life is good.