A Trip to the Gendarms (Police)

Some days my life just seems so preposterous that I feel the need to document the insanity. Today is one of those days.

This morning I woke up in a great mood. Yesterday was a smashing success of a day; with the final word that my water tower project is complete, and a visit from our Peace Corps Regional Manager to collect all of the Peace Corps items (i.e. books, medical kit) that I don't want to haul the 13+ hours to Rabat, I count the day as a success.

Since I was in a good mood, I decided to don my best village skirt and venture forth to run some errands. The first stop on my list was the local Gendarmerie (my local Police station).

For weeks now I have been checking back every few days in anticipation of the arrival of my Carte de Sejour, the residency card that proves I have both reason and legality to stay here. Without it, I am forced to carry around a piece of paper, signed periodically by the Chief, that looks like what any Kindergarden kid in America could print out on their home computer. Needless to say, other police do not find this paper particularly useful, and the police at Customs in the airport actually laugh in my face when I hand it to them.

The hold-up on my paper is an enigma.

On April 17th, 2011, I ventured to my local police station, which at the time was about a two and a half hour trip away, to submit all the necessary papers and photos to re-apply for my card. Mind you, that process is absurd as well. The Gendarms want 7-10 copies of each paper we have (five in total), all certified by the local "notary" office and affixed with a 1-2dh stamp. That is 50dh ($6.25) worth of stamps, for copied pieces of paper, that will most likely get thrown away. They also need a 100dh ($12.50) stamp for God only knows what reason and 20 identical photos of me.... just in case they loose the first 19, I guess.

The process of submitting all the papers was complicated and annoying, but at least I finished it in time to head back to the States on vacation. I left the office that day with my official "receipt" that I had applied for a new card (the paper mentioned above).

When I got back from America, things moved pretty quickly in regards to my life. Within two months I was in a new village, a new home, and a new set of Gendarms. These new Gendarms, the ones in the village I currently live in, are leaps and bounds better than my first set. To begin with, none of them has asked me out on a date or invited me to come to their house and shower. That makes them awesome in my book. They also have photos of all of the deceased men and women from the last 40 years hanging on the wall, which I find entertaining and disturbing.

As soon as I got to my new village, in Mid-July, I approached the Gendarms about getting my information transfered to my new village, since the new Gendarms would be responsible for me from then on out. After much discussion and a little arguing between Gendarm stations, it was decided I needed to make the now three and a half hour trek to my old Gendarm station to pick up my "file" and deliver it to the new station.

Aggravated, I went. When I got there I found out that the old Gendarms hadn't even bothered to submit my paperwork for my card to the higher-ups, despite it sitting in a cabinet in their office for over three months. I filled out the papers, again, cursed under my breath and made it blatantly clear that I would not be returning, ever, so that if they needed anything else from me, they better do it then. That statement lead to some more papers being signed.

When I went to leave, I told them I needed my "file" to bring to my new Gendarms. They then told me that the file could only travel "officially" with another Gendarm to my new site, and that it would take 6 6 to 8 months for that file to arrive. Mind you, this was the main purpose of me making the trip in the first place, and 6 to 8 months for a file to travel 90km seems absurd.

Fast forward to my trip to Spain in August. I still have the paper "receipt"and the customs Police man at the airport in Marrakech does NOT want to let me out of Morocco, since I don't have an official card. He keeps accusing me, in Tashlheet, of forging the paper. I then explain to him that there is no chance in hell I would forge a paper simply to stay in Morocco when I have a US Passport and can travel pretty much anywhere I darn well please. After 45 minutes of arguing with the first guy, I demand a fluent English speaking Police man, and the Chief.

When he finally arrives, I have about 5 minutes before my flight is scheduled to take off. Panicking, I start making demands. I tell the Police man that he has two choices, either he stamps my passport and lets me get on this flight to Madrid, or he doesn't stamp it, and I just go anyway and he can deal with the problem when I get back from my vacation.

Needless to say, he stamped the passport, murmured some nasty words at me in Arabic and I ran to the plane, onto the tarmac and screamed at the stewardess to stop closing the door so I could board. We took off about 30 seconds after I got on the plane. I nearly missed my flight.

When I got back from Spain I then started the process to "push" the Gendarms along on getting my card, not wanting a repeat of the last country-leaving experience. My weekly visits have been happening since early September.

Then, three weeks ago, I get a phone call from the Chief Gendarm saying that my card is ready and is at the police station in Sidi Ifni, not in Tiznit, where it is supposed to be. He assures me that it is coming to my town the next day. Like a fool, I believed him and went back. Of course, no card.

This daily "come back tomorrow" statement has been happening for three weeks.

So this morning, I was feeling good, at least good enough to try again, praying that my card would finally be there, so I went. When I got there, of course it was no where to be found. The absurdity of this whole thing is not that despite turning in my paperwork in April, I still don't have my card (which is a laminated piece of pink paper, FYI), it is that in order to communicate with the Chief Gendarm, I have to go through a "translator".

Since my Chief only speaks Arabic and French, and I only speak English and Tashlheet, we communicate solely through another person. Sometimes it's a boy walking by on his way to school, sometimes it's another Gendarm that speaks about 10 words of English or today, for instance, it was a man they had recently arrested and was sitting in the little jail cell. The Gendarm speaks Arabic to the man in the cell, the man in the cell speaks Tashlheet to me, I speak English to myself, then I speak Tashlheet back to the man in the cell, and he speaks Arabic to my Chief. Today's "the card will be here tomorrow afternoon" conversation took nearly 15 minutes.

I find these absurdities amusing. It is just one more reality check of the insane reality I currently occupy. Language barriers, cultural barriers and mass confusion have become a part of my daily expectations of life, and frankly, I enjoy the challenge.

Like a fool, I am going to head back to the Gendarm station tomorrow, crossing my fingers and asking Allah to grant me good graces so I can finally get my little pink laminated piece of paper before Rome. Otherwise, we might have a repeat of the Spanish-fiasco only this time, with Claire and Danielle around I will make good on my threat and leave with the stamp or without, possibly never to return!

The Best Bath I Have Ever Taken

The best Christmas gift I got this year was from my friend Hannah, and I doubt she even realized it was a gift in the first place. 

Since her parents were headed into Essaouira for vacation, and I was going up there to celebrate Christmas at Adams, she graciously invited me to travel up there with her. Since her parents were not arriving from Casablanca until later in the evening, Hannah and I checked in early to the hotel. 

This hotel was unbelievable. 

Maybe it was a combination of being a poor volunteer and not really experiencing "luxury" too often, but words cannot describe how clean and sophisticated I felt in this hotel. Immediately upon arrival we were shown to some nice couches to lounge in while the check-in process happened. While we were lounging, out came plates full of food and glasses full of fresh squeezed orange juice. The cookies were divine, and the dates were pre-pitted (a big deal in my opinion) and without the inevitable worms that inhabit most of the dates I have eaten in country. After taking the rest of the snacks in a little goodie-bag, we headed up to the room. 

The room was amazing. The bed was soft, the floors were clean and the bathroom was inspiring. 

After some time just relaxing in the room, we headed out to meet a friend of mine who is a PCV in the Ukraine, and her friends who were also on vacation in Morocco. We drank coffee, talked about Morocco and took a little tour of the sites. It was great to see them, compare stories and catch-up. It seems that life in the developing world is eerily similarly and starkly different. Each volunteer has an interesting story to tell. 

Tired from our long day of travel, we left my friends, and Hannah and I headed back to the nice hotel. This is when life turned amazing. 

I got to take a bath, a real bubble bath, in the warmest tub I can ever remember being in. 

One of the problems with not having central heating is that even when it's not too cold outside, it feels cold, and when you feel warm, it's never your entire body. Parts of your body (i.e. your bones) are always cold, no matter how many blankets you wear. 

That tub made my entire body warm for the first time in months. I spent the better part of an hour just relaxing, thinking and floating, allowing the deep-imbedded dirt to seep out of my pores. It was amazing, life-changing really.

A few hours later, Hannah's parents arrived and after some snacks in the welcome area, we headed to an amazing Italian dinner at this great restaurant in Essaouira.

The next few days were spent with a few of my friends and fellow volunteers: Bjai, Anna, Diana, and Adam, enjoying cookies, frosting and delicious made-from-scratch meals. We went shopping, walked around, played games and mostly just enjoyed each other's company. 

I got to Skype my family on Christmas day, which was a highlight. They invited me to the "breakfast" table, virtually that is, and I felt like I was a part of the family, not a lost and forgotten relative in a far-away land.

These photos are the best documentation of the joy that was the holiday season, although I didn't get any photos of the tub, a huge mistake on my part. My apologies. Enjoy.

Merry Christmas, complete with Christmas lights and blow-up Santa.

Bjai, myself, Diana and Anna eating soup and frosting in Adam's house.

I pretty much took all the money in our first round of Monopoly Deal.

This great 10dh ($1.25) inflatable Santa I found at Souk in Essaouira with our white elephant presents.

 

Bjai with Santa.

Anna with Santa, cooking away in the kitchen.

Hannah and the formerly big pile of pitted dates at the fancy hotel.

The cookies were divine. I think they were imported.

PCV Ukraine and me in Essaouira!

My friend Stephanie and I, on the ramparts overlooking the Atlantic.

Beautiful Essaouira, inside the Medina walls.

Christmas Eve morning, on my way to get breakfast!

I hope your holidays were filled with joy as well. Thanks for all the Christmas cards!

Do They Know It's Christmas in Africa?

My fellow PCV friend Diana recently posted a blog post that expresses some points I have been thinking about in recent weeks. 

"I’ve collected the following observations during my two weeks in Madrid:

• Vacations are important. This one allowed me to step away from the small immediate pieces and get a grasp on the bigger picture. As I told someone, Madrid reminded me of life in Los Angeles – but better. Growing up in Los Angeles, living outside of LA, living in Morocco…collectively, my life experiences allowed me to appreciate everything this city had to offer.

• Living in Morocco for (what will be) 2 years is incredible. I get caught up in the frustrations and forget this sometimes (e.g., last week) but I know that this opportunity has allowed me to grow into a more conscientious person. Priceless are the people, places and experiences I’ve been able to meet, see and partake in.

• Describing my life in Morocco sounds absurd to anyone who 1) is not a Peace Corps Volunteer serving in Morocco, 2) has not travelled to Morocco, and 3) is a guy who does not fall into categories 1 and 2 above. I don’t mean to offend anyone but the context to understand just isn’t there."

(Check her blog out at Diana's Blog).

Also, vacations aren't just important, they are imperative to our mental sanity. I would loose my mind if I couldn't escape the pressure once in a while. 

My holiday cheer is in full effect with these decorations filling my room. I even got some Christmas lights from a volunteer who left, so my room feels "in the spirit" even if the outside world doesn't. 

The tree I bought at the superstore last year! Complete with ornaments from my mom!

Merry Christmas to all. I am headed to a village outside of Essaouira to celebrate with some fellow PCVs. It should be a blast. And to all a good night.

The Truth About Santa

As I was browsing Pinterest, which, by the way, I am hooked on, I came across this letter a mother wrote to her daughter who demanded to know if her mother was Santa Clause. I found the letter quite touching and a reminder of the magic of the season.

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?”

I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.

I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though.

Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to have belief in something they can’t see or touch.

It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.

Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: he has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.

So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.

I love you and I always will.

Mama

Shower Time.

I have been asking for my landlord to install the shower which was kindly donated to me by a leaving volunteer, Martin, since July. 

Today he finally did it! 

I could not be more excited. I can now take a DAILY hot shower. 

I don't have to watch people "showering" during TV shows and get jealous anymore. Woop!

My bathroom with the newly installed shower!

My hot water heater!

Water Tower Construction Update

In early October, Sarah-Kate and I started the process of building two water towers in neighboring villages just a few kilometers outside of the town's center. These two villages have to hike up and down this huge mountain everyday to fetch water from the well. Thanks to a lot of hard work from a lot of people in the villages and at the commune, the projects are only about three weeks away from completion.

The construction is going well and I am really excited about seeing the final product. In just three short weeks the people of IKroma and IGanouin will have running water for the first time ever!

Here are some photo updates!

All of the men working on building the water tower in Ikroma village. 

A view of part of the village with the beautiful mountains in the background.

Myself, Lahcen our counterpart and Sarah-Kate at the construction site.

Proof that the water works! The first step in providing running water to the town.

The village of IKroma. 

The construction materials, piping and part of the village of IGanouin. 

The men working on constructing the second water tower in the village of IGanouin.

The hand dug trenches to lay the water piping from the well, nearly 1km away.

Anxiety, Wearing My Nerves Thin.

This past month has been an emotional roller coaster; from so homesick I couldn't even look at a family photo without bursting into tears, to so happy and joyful I wanted to dance and sing in the streets, it seems as though each day will bring a new heightened and over-dramatized emotion.

I think the biggest thing driving this emotional ride has been the finally real and tangible thought of "going home". For years my fellow volunteers and I have been talking about what life will be like at "home", when we are finally back to America, the place we love. Some volunteers have been counting down since we got here.

Now, four months out, I can't understand why the thought of resuming life in America makes me want to throw up.

Will I be able to function? Will I be able to work a job? Will I be able to get back to the work needed for graduate/ law school? Will I be able to interact in social situations? Will I be the "weird" one? Will my life be as amazing and fulfilling as I remember? Will I be able to support myself financially? Will the stupid economy every recover? Will I remember how to find/ buy things? Can I contain myself with the plethora of outstanding food around? Will I have any people around? Will I be able to make new friends?

I don't know why the thought of going home seems so scary. After all, what could be scarier than moving to Morocco. knowing no one?

It seems ironic that I am twenty months into the hardest and scariest thing I have ever done. and yet the thought of returning home, the safest place I know of, seems frightening. I think for now it's just jitters and nerves. I know my fears will be unfounded.

I hear a lot of volunteers and read a lot of articles talking about how "coming home" is even more difficult than leaving. That finding fulfillment and joy in coming home is difficult. That scares me. Could it really be that hard? Will my adjustment be bad?

In my quest to see if there was more information out there to calm my frayed nerves I found the Peace Corps book they send to families of volunteers titled, "Peace Corps,  A Few Minor Adjustments," which by the way, seems like the most ironic title possible. In there was a quote I particularly liked and one that might explain my anxiety better.

Most of us agree that although we knew the Peace Corps was go- 

ing to be hard, it is often hard in a different way than we expected. 

We all worried about adjusting to the bugs and the heat, but that’s 

the easy part. It’s more of a challenge to get used to dealing with a 

perplexing bureaucracy … or cultural barriers.

Maybe this is it, that the anxiety is rooted in the idea of American culture being somewhat different than I remember and that I will be less able to adapt.

I know this is just ranting for now but my with projects wrapping up, my sister and friend's visit. and the thought of looking for work next summer, my nerves are being tested. Thanks for bearing with me. Your support is KEY and appreciated. 

Also, my hot shower should get installed tomorrow, God Willing (InShalla) after nearly five months of begging. Better late than never I guess, and just in time for the coldest season!

I love you all. Thanks for hanging in there.