Today is officially, exactly, and precisely 6 months from our official, exact, and precise close-of-service (“COS”) date. Most PCVs will probably end up leaving earlier than that, but the timeline has been laid out nonetheless!
To commemorate this insignificant milestone, it seems appropriate to publish the list of 10 things that I’ve gotten used to in Morocco. It’s been in the works for awhile now, in my notebook, whenever the light bulb appears during a moment of pure “Wow, I didn’t realize how weird this really was.” For example, while standing on the side of the road, waiting for an illegal taxi during a strike at 3am in Marrakech– how is this a normal part of my schedule? Why am I not freaking the fuck out? Actually, first of all, what sequence of events lead to this that I was totally okay with? And why, even in questioning myself, am I still not nervous or shocked or…??? I’ve wllift-ed, as we Daringlish scholars pronounce confidently.
For better or for worse, and in no particular order:
1. Watching TV. Never have I spent so much time in front of the tube, collectively, as I do in one day here. It’s irrelevant that I barely understand any of it. Every Moroccan house that I go to welcomes me, pours me some tea, and directs me in front of the glowing oracle known as the tilfezza. One, two, and three, without fail. Whether it’s background or focal point, it’s always there, on, most of the time at a volume not so conducive to having a conversation (a good excuse for me not understanding the Arabic small-talk). Sometimes I’m thankful for it– I’ve been able to learn a thing or two from the Turkish soap operas dubbed over in Darija (about relationships, not language! Always go for the rich guy!). I also get cultural street cred points for asking students’ preferences between Harem Sultan and Ezel in English classes discussing personal preferences. The skylines of flat Moroccan roofs dotted with a million and one satellite dishes personify this quirky clash between tradition and modernity. When it comes to couch potato-ing, I have become the most “American” version of myself here.
2. Never Knowing What’s Going On/ Where I’m Going. I have an infinite amount of anecdotal evidence for this one. Plans change, cultural indirectness leads me to think we’re talking about one thing when the discussion is planted firmly in a topic days away from where I’m standing….norrrmmmaaallll. The amount of times I’ve gotten into a car with friends and don’t know the destination until I get there is….every single time I get into the car. Even if I think I know where we’re going. Because the destination always has several side trips woven in….side trips that often become the final destination. Very “On the Road.”
3. Extreme Temperatures. Half desert, half tundra: welcome to Morocco. I don’t know how it’s possible, but winter here is so cold and then BAM, summer is soooooo miserably hot. Having no insulation and no central heating/ cooling definitely makes the body one with the weather. I’ve started dressing like a Moroccan this second time around, layering 3-5 odd shirts/ sweaters when it’s cold. When it’s hot…I just wilt. Temperatures get beyond 120 (but I stop looking). Days are spent lounging in my laundry bucket, because that’s really all the energy I have. Never in my life did I think I could survive for more than a few hours in these types of body shakin’/meltin’ extremes. But maybe the crazily inconsistent Georgia weather prepared me more than I thought!
4. Eating on a Regular (albeit strangely-timed) Schedule. I joined the PC fresh outta college. At UGA eating was something you did when and if you had time. There were days I ate at 7am and then again at 7pm, others where an all-day buffet of random free food would miraculously appear. Consistently inconsistent, for sure. Then…Morocco. People are so concerned with food. Every day, I have breakfast, lunch, a snack, and dinner– all at the relative same time. Why? Because if I don’t, I will get yelled at for not taking care of myself. I think my mom paid off the entire town of Tameslouht to help remind me. Fair enough, though, you never have to spend too much time convincing me that I should eat!
All of this. Eaten.
5. Being Called Fat. I’m sure this is related, in some way, to number 4. Like being tall, or having blue eyes, or having two arms, “fat” is just another observation about someone’s physical appearance. It’s not the psychologically-loaded term that Americans need therapy for when they hear it even close to a sentence that has their name in it. Many Moroccans are referred to as “the fat one” as easily and nonchalantly as they are “the old one.” It’s still a little unsettling to get my stomach patted and have someone tell me how fat I am. I’ll never forget Eric’s host family making suuuccchhh a big deal about trying to find pants that could possibly fit me because I’m so fat. It was yet another out of body experience where, logically, I knew I should be traumatized at the family discussion ensuing about my weight. Yet it didn’t. I had been well-prepared by so many prior assessments of my fatness. My tutor had also told me at one point that a lot of women think fatter is more beautiful, but sometimes I’m convinced he just told me that because he knew how sensitive I was to everyone calling me fat. Thanks for trying, Rahhal!
Eating froyo in Casablanca…sometimes being called “fat” can be deserved.
6. Having Nothing To Do. I remember in the PC interview, I was asked a lot about how I spent my free time. How did I feel about being confronted with large amounts of unstructured schedule? I remember scoffing at the notion, informing my interviewer that I’m an art major. Filling time creatively is what I learned how to do. I literally have a degree in it. Fastfoward 1.5 years….oh my lord. Yes, drawing in a book and writing in a journal and re-arranging furniture can be creative uses of my time. But only for a few hours…or maybe a day project every once in awhile. The amount of unstructured time blew me out of the water. Coming from a college schedule where I needed to schedule time to sleep once a week, I can understand why my former self didn’t really quite get it. My mom commented the other day about how hard my adjustment is going to be when I come back to America. I’m sure it will be, but in the meantime, I’m going to spend a few more hours experimenting with mixes of chicken foods to see which ones help my chicks grow even faster. Afterwards, I’ll probably sit at the cafe for a few hours and drink one whole soda, slowly consumed over that entire time period. Life is just slower here…and this is during the part of year that isn’t Ramadaan.
7. Being Stared At. I’m not too exotic-looking by American standards. No purple hair, no face tattoo (….yet!), no real reason for people to gawk. Even when I was an art student carrying around massive canvases and wearing paint-drenched clothes, I think I still paled in comparison to the other varieties of human in existence. Here in Morocco? I’m a dancing monkey. Kids, women, men, teenagers, old people, babies…everyone seems to not only notice me, but stare at me like I’m Santa Claus. I never knew I was so interesting! If I open up my mouth, the staring only becomes more intense (and slightly confused). I’ve had kids walk up to my table at a cafe and just stand there, gaping. Sure, they eventually break down giggling and run away, but there is always the staring component that introduces us. So much for operating “under the radar.”
8. Inchallah Time. Americans undoubtedly value time. We like when people are punctual, we praise people who are early, and we punish people who are late with guilt trips and public shamming and tardy slips. In Morocco, all meeting times are followed by “inchallah.” What time is class tomorrow? “We’ll be there at 5:00, inchallah!” English translation? We’ll get there at 5:28 and then stand around outside of the class until 5:45 when you start yelling at us for the 6th time to come inside. What time is the meeting tomorrow? “6pm inchallah.” English translation? 8pm. Because no one will arrive for at least one hour– there has been a time change, and so 6pm really means 7pm– and then everyone should stand around for a bit and wait for the people who aren’t coming until 8 anyways. What can you do? God apparently doesn’t will me to have an American schedule here in Morocco.
9. Feeling Like A Complete Idiot. Sometimes I literally have to remind myself that I have two college degrees. Learning a new language kicks your confidence to the curb. Even when you get competent at it, it’s a Pandora’s Box of the unknown– the more you know, the less you realize you know. A million times in one day, I walk away from conversations feeling like I’m coming up for air after holding my breath. And it’s not just with language. There are so many itty bitty little things that I just don’t know! I still don’t know how much a kilo feels like. So, when I hand the mul hanut (store owner) one tomato and tell him I want a kilo, he finds it hilarious. Describing things that I don’t have the vocab for is a fun game as well– my life is a constant charades game. My life involves a lot of dancing, making a fool out of myself, and never feeling superior to ANYONE (even the crazy homeless man speaks better French than I ever will!). What can ya do?
10. Drinking Really Sweet Tea. I realized this one today while having lunch with an RPCV from Niger (more on my cool visit from author Vivian later!). We were drinking the same fruit juice, and while I commented on how tangy it was (strawberry + orange, nom), she said at the same time how incredibly sweet it was. What? Sweet? I literally had to think about it, taste it again, and realize how much sugar was wafting over my taste buds. I blame Moroccan tea for this inability to decipher shades of sweetness. Moroccan tea is like 1/8 water, 1/8 tea leaves, and 932018392018329109023193219032893201890238/329013829108439107583741308923018392018493108493184930819408190382198231 sugar. Approximately. Shannon, don’t compute that. So when I have a glass, say, twice a day, sure, it’s small. But I’m sure my taste buds have become immune to anything below the toxic shock level of sweet. Again, this is coming from someone who grew up in the land of sweet iced tea. I never liked it…I guess it wasn’t sweet enough!
I drank ALL of ‘em!