over yonder mountain

Friday, 3 October

It’s been a long but alright day. Woke up and went on a hike with my site mate on the mountains in our site. Only a few weeks ago she found out that two of our douars are actually located on the other side of the huge mountains, so technically, we had to go visit. So sad and embarrassing I know, that it took me nearly a year to climb the damn thing. First people told me I wasn’t allowed to go alone, and then when my site mate arrived we were still told it wasn’t a good idea. We finally made the trip when a male PCV friend of ours came for a visit.

A steep and rocky climb up, some little dog problems on the other side (luckily I was with people not nearly as terrified as I am), and we were in amazingly beautiful country. We’re hoping to make the trip again before it gets too cold, but for now Natalie and I are happy to just go up and down our side of it once a week or so just to get out of the house and more in shape. So today we did that; hiked up, took some pictures for the new brochure my friend is designing for my Cooperative, and hiked back down. Not surprisingly we got suckered into lunch at the douar closest to the mountain. Fridays are couscous days so I actually wanted to, but it turned out to be a congrats party for someone we didn’t know getting engaged to someone else we didn’t know. Typical, but whatev. So after three rounds of tea and two entrees (sheep and prunes in oil and couscous with some meat and chickpeas) and dessert, we were finally able to head back to the town center around 4:30pm.

Along the way I received the loveliest gift possible, a phone call from my best friend! Ya hoo! It was wonderful to hear that thick Wisconsin accent again and catch up a bit more than facebook comments allow. It was so great to hear about her life and being in the right place (grad school), I’m so dang happy for her I can’t stand it! She’s actually asking me for info on some stuff here that relates to a paper she’s working on. Talking to her reminded me of course of the world away I am. I deal with things like not being able to wash my dishes or bathe because the waters out, or who I have to go have tea with this week so they won’t think I’ve forgotten or hate them, and how many donkeys of wood I need to buy to last me through the winter, and how ridiculous it is that onions are now 4dirham a kilo when last week they were 2.5. These are my worries, and though I appreciate them, I miss higher education sometimes.

Tonight I watched more of the Planet Earth series, I got a few episodes from a friend and am enjoying it immensely. It really depresses me because I love it so much and have so little hope for it all, but I watch it because I love “nature shows” as it’s the only place that makes sense to me. So I’m just moseying through another night here, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with my life (does anyone else have a clue? Because I’m really out of my own loop) and wondering what I will do with tomorrow.

Maybe what I have to accept here is to just be here, impossible and ridiculous as it sounds. Because I love the pace here, and I fight it constantly only because it provides the space to think and that scares me. I have my silky happy cat, my humble little house and a community of people simply living here and fine with my odd volunteer presence. I hate that I don’t know what I want to do. I hate feeling so disconnected to the “real world” and that all my conversations in Berber are short simple and wanting, and all my conversations in English are about Peace Corps and everything we miss or want or are unhappy about and that we’re wasting our youth out here. It’s an odd social life. I stay in site a lot more and am becoming quite the chubby homemaker; making nearly everything from scratch now. Baking my own bread, I made an amazing foccacia loaf, rosemary pasta, apple pie, falafel, etc. etc. and with no kids or hubby to feed but my cat I’m eating far too much. But still I love knowing all that goes into my food and how it all works; I never want to own a microwave again! I’ve also kind of fallen into wine making, which is surprisingly simple, and so hashuma in a Muslim country I know, but I love it!

Speaking of food, did I mention I failed Ramadan? Well, mostly anyhow. It’s a month of fasting and while the first week I fasted because I was sick as a dog, when in Figuig I didn’t fast because it was hot and the people I was staying with were just too dang good at cooking for me to pass up. And once back in site and settling in I just couldn’t get into it. I fasted a few days, but nowhere near experiencing what Ramadan is all about. So maybe next year…? Eid was fun and I actually did a good job visiting many people in my site, and suffered a hard sugar crash by late afternoon. As part of my guilt but mostly for its own reasons, I will be fasting for that other very special holiday coming up…

Fook Figuig!

Saturday, 20 September

Literally this translates as “above Figuig” but it’s a saying here with a much greater meaning. To say fook Figuig is to express “hey, I’m great, I’m in utopia, there is nothing above an oasis like Figuig!” And people all over the country might say it, even if they’ve never actually been there or even like it, again, it’s just a saying. But last week was truly fook Figuig. Literally, I was there, and compared to the way life in site has been for me, it was quite the utopia.

I was invited by the volunteers there to come do a training. As I said in my last post, they were able to purchase a beautiful used Schact Baby Wolf loom through a grant for the women’s weaving cooperative they work with. The volunteers there are unbelievably generous and kind, having me at their house for a few days, feeding me, etc. Because it is Ramadan I only taught for three or so hours each morning, but it was just fine. The women I worked with were amazing-not one had over an 8^th grade education yet all spoke Tamazight (a different dialect than the Tam I speak), Darija, a good amount of French and even a few words of English. Most could read French as well. And they all exhibited such enthusiasm and interest in learning. The curiosity and creativity that came from what seemed at first to be shy and timid women was so refreshing, as was their kindness. Not that people in my site are mean, per se, but I’ve never exactly felt the wonderful warmth and welcoming here as I have most everywhere else I’ve visited. So anyhow, it was wonderful; to work, to feel like I was actually doing something, and to actually see the change. I taught them how to set up the loom, follow a pattern and even draft their own (with much help from A Handweavers Pattern Book of course!). The volunteers there have worked super hard and have an incredible website well representing the city of Figuig and all its artisans. Figuig Artisanat

Not to be a downer, but leaving Figuig was a downer. Working was so great. On the ten hour bus ride home, which by the way is a lot shorter than the ride normally is (one big plus during Ramadan is that there are no lunch breaks) I read Omnivores Dilemma, barely 100 pages in but hooked. The nice thing is that I’m not on the American diet currently. Despite all my complaining about not having some of my favorite foods and the convenience, I am very grateful for the food available to me here. Fresh produce at every souq, and only what is naturally in season, everything is flavored with sugar, not corn syrup, any meat I do eat is all grass fed and while it’s no picnic for them they do live their lives outside in the natural world, and for what it’s worth, are all slaughtered with a prayer. So if I do get sick, it’s from a funny bug from not washing my food correctly or eating something a little later than its time as I have no fridge, I’m not ingesting much of any processed food chemicals whose names I can’t even pronounce that may or may not cause cancer later in life. I really never want to return to American food.

At hour six of my bus ride, a little exhausted by the loaded information in the book, I paused and glanced outside as we pulled into a bus station. There sat a man with a young Barbary ape in a tiny shirt and undies, held around the neck by a sharp tight chain. It was one of those moments where I truly felt a great let down from the human race. Monkeys always make me sad because I almost always see them in a poor state and of course they are so like us that it just hits a little too close to home to handle. The man chatted with a friend while the monkey chewed on some trash, then got excited and tried to jump on his shoulder a couple times at which point he was beat down and held without any slack between the man’s legs. I know it can sound lame, but in that moment, especially after reading the book and the day before listening to the American financial crisis goings on on the BBC (the volunteers I stayed with had internet at home), I just felt unable to handle the weight of my own species and all that we have done to our home. The moment came and went but the weight is always there.

This brings me back around yet again to the tiring but ever present question of what I want to do with my life. I want a plain woven life. I know that I am over influenced by my life here and how different it is from where I came, but all I keep coming back to is simplicity. I remember well the first time I wove. Our professor showed us the bare minimum-how to measure a warp, how to tie it on the loom, how to pass the shuttle back and forth, safi. Then we were given a weekend or so to weave, just weave, which gave us no direction whatsoever; all we knew was we had to interlock some threads. When we hung up our finished work she read each of us like a book; knew who made what without asking and pulled our character out of our work before we’d even been properly introduced to her. It was a poignant moment and one of the most important beginnings of my life. And we all matured in our work in very separate ways.

Even from her second weaving I could see my best friend Ashley’s whole being reflected in her work. She chose the most complicated pattern she could do with the limits of her loom and worked with such determination for precision and used the finest materials she could find. This theme continued throughout her work in the weaving room and elsewhere. Growing ever finer, ever more complicated and ever more beautiful. Sorry Ash, for using you in my reflections, but our differences so often help. I grew more towards the weight of a piece, rather than beauty and grace, the way two or more awkward fibers could work together in ways they could never work on their own, and I wanted them to be loved by a body. After a year or so of fighting it I accepted my love of plainweave and focused only on the fibers that interlocked. I wanted what made it up to be the beauty and then the purpose. To be plainly honest, I don’t consider myself a very intelligent person; in that I’m not studious, I’m a terrible and frustrated writer, a horrible communicator and I can’t remember a damn fact to save my life. I can’t live without seeing the product of my efforts close to hand. It’s like cash versus cards. I know cards are sophisticated and modern, but I just can’t wrap my little head around it and cash just seems to make fine sense. These are the ramblings of someone born in the wrong era I guess.

What hurts is that I do feel the whole world. For better or worse, my mom raised me to be aware of the world; of all that’s fucked up and all that’s beautiful. She took us for family trash pick-up walks in the city and when we lived with a place with a yard to know the difference between growing your own food and buying it. The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People teaches about our circle of concern; that it is made of an inner circle of influence and outer circle of general concern. It’s what I used to call getting worked up about my own petty life, and getting worked up about the “real” and big problems of the world, and finding a balance. But what I know and someday hope to accept is that living within our realm of influence is the only way to create the strength to push that circle wider.

I suppose what I mean to say among all this word sputtering is that I love simplicity but fear I can’t live simply and still provide a real hand in the world. Like leading a simple life isn’t leading a big enough life. What it really is is a lack of confidence, that the things I want are not enough, while I believe at the same time that every person living well is the greatest contributor to the greater health of the world. I used to escape to my imaginary utopia, not exactly Figuig but it did have palm trees. My little dream now is to have a small bit of land, to grow just enough food to eat, to raise alpacas and weave pleasantly. Is that a life? I have no desire whatsoever to be back in the maze of school where I only ever felt behind and uneasy. I also don’t think I am strong enough to begin after this experience yet another job in the rat race or I’ll never find peace and I’ll never get out. I can work hard when I’m told what to do. I don’t work when given the space to do something, as seen by my service up to this point…

At the end of a day of anxiety on the bus and feeling a little blue about every aspect of everything, nature rang with a call of beauty. I went to break the fast with my site mate at my host family’s house the night I came back. When we left out in the great expanse of sky above the rolling hills toward Azrou was the most magnificent electrical storm I’d ever seen. The show continued well into the night and I felt some peace after a long week and a distressing day.

my boys first catch, my distress continued, chasing waterfalls, saying goodbye and beginning the holy month with a weak stomach

I know it’s been awhile… I haven’t updated in so long, its been tumultuous times… I’ve actually been trying to remember the last time I felt strong and sound in my place in life and, well, I can’t. I really haven’t wanted to update because I just haven’t had much good to say. Really, all is well. I have everything I need; I have my health, I have my friends, I have unbelievable support from family back home, I have this grand experience, and I am getting used to the funny facts of life here.

The summer has brought interesting new challenges; bugs for instance. A cool mud house is not only a haven for me, but for little creatures as well - ants, cockroaches, dung beetles, termites, flies and my personal favorite, but as of yet only in the singular, mouse. Essentially, there’s a reason we’re taught not to play with our food. While my cat caught him in about 3 and a half seconds, after his little victory dance about my house he decided it would be more fun to play with the fuzzy creature than eat him. Needless to say, he looked the wrong way at one point, and my cat is no match for a mouse hidden in my woodpile. And this whole time mind you, I was perched on a plastic chair in my underwear and Uggs holding a broom. Why this is human instinct or what the heck I thought I was going to do with the broom I don’t know. I’m such a goon. Anyhow, fast-forward through three weeks of hearing him scurry around back there to 4am one morning. I woke up to the sound of my cat running frantically around the house, so I pushed on my push light and there in full glory stood my little knight in shining fur with a mouse in his mouth. I woke up pretty dang fast and managed to catch it in a glass between his paws before he could let him go again. That didn’t make him too happy. And then I did something I’ve never done before-I killed a mammal. I drowned him and it felt terrible but necessary. In the couple hours of sleep I managed that night I dreamt of the gendarmes coming to my house and finding tons of rats and mice. Ugh. Inshallah there won’t be many more to come.

My favorite creature of the house, besides my Bu of course, is still the gecko that lives in my bathroom. Him and the spiders have no death warrants out. My next great love of summer? My camp shower. I totally overlooked getting one before I came, but one got randomly passed down to me, and oh my! It’s the greatest thing ever. Currently I’m not even heating it up; after cleaning my house or just coming home from suq I’m plenty hot and sweaty enough for a cold shower. And yes I do refer to it as a shower; it is after all water falling from above. Though I still love “real” showers it does feel good to know I use under two gallons every few days to bathe, preserving natural resources!

On a similar note, I continue to be extra thankful for water because I don’t have it all the time. I’m glad to have running water, as many volunteers don’t, but in the summer, its sporadic. So are cell reception and electricity, but waters the main one. Around early June the water started going out for much of the day, but would come back on at night, and all through July it became a sort of system; water came on anywhere between 8pm and 2am and went out again between 5am and 9am. It was odd but I got used to it. A couple times the water went out completely for a few days, which really sucks. The only alternative we have in my site is the water we store ourselves and really dirty well water that makes everyone sick. Luckily, I had enough stored for drinking and cooking, just not enough for luxuries like washing clothes, bathing, or flushing well. The past couple weeks however, the system has changed! Water comes around whenever it dang pleases! An hour here, an hour there, not at all. The past few weeks it’s been a kind of 8am to 1pm sort of deal, but keeps changing. Ugh. But despite its inconvenience I admit I get a real kick out of the kind of satisfaction that comes from being able to deal with something we so take for granted in the states.

So again, really, it’s all good. I can survive here physically just fine. But there’s this other thing here, this thing I have to live with daily, that’s really making me question, dur, my own self. I turned 23 last month. No I don’t feel all different or more grown-up, but I did notice how it happened to coincide with a seeming mid-mid-life crisis or ns-ns-dunnit mushkil, though I doubt it really translates. Clusterfuck is the only way I can think to put it, between my current work and life, and my future. I actually managed to start reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (one of those self help books my mom’s been wanting me to read for years) a couple months ago. It was great and forced me to take a real look at the way I’m living, and not a page into the second habit I was bawling yet again with the pain of healing. The important work is always the difficult work. What I can manage to boil it down to is that I do need to take responsibility for my life, and work. It’s high time. On the 11^th I will have been in this country a year and yet I feel I haven’t really begun to be here. It’s hard to explain my work situation, but mostly, I don’t work. I could blame it on the language barrier, or the stubborn women, or my boss, or anything really. Of course. I don’t know where the line is between this just not being the right fit for my personality and this being the chance I have to be a proactive person, but I know I’m certainly not trying to come closer to that line. I’m wonderful at avoiding, did you know? Avoiding conflict, avoiding failure, avoiding opportunity.

The scary thoughts I avoid but creep back in when I begin working are of what I am going to do with my life. Every day I feel further and further away from having any idea of what I want to do, and lately I feel I don’t even know what I don’t want to do. I know I am young and am told that this time could be spent just living and experiencing, etc. but it’s very difficult to work with no end in mind. Everything before could be dealt with because I had an idea of what would come after it. I worked hard because I knew what I was working for. I am not working towards anything right now. The resume boost means nothing if I don’t have any picture of what I want to be when I “grow up.” I picture myself back in the states, and all I can picture is waitressing, hiking and swimming, and that feeling so great in its smallness. Is it that I don’t think I’m capable of big things, or do I truly not want them? I have no idea. I fought this in college; I searched for ages for all this meaning in my work and a reason for the work, and a purpose for the work, and it wasn’t until the split second I managed to let that go and realize how much I loved simplicity - plain weave, a scarf, a gift, that all the meaning came about and became more than I could have ever forced into it. Well I can’t do that now. I can’t wait for some muse to strike, that was my senior thesis, this is my life.

I loved this place so much more before I got here. Maybe it was just the romantic idea of the Peace Corps. Lately I just don’t seem to care. And I’ve never not cared! I suppose it’s finally being somewhere I’m not needed so desperately by anyone. The obvious example being the women I work with; it’s been all but nailed to my forehead recently that they don’t want to learn anything I can teach them; they want someone to help them with marketing and logos and all this stuff that’s over my head. I’ve got little project ideas going and an export option, but I have so little faith in any of it; of its sustainability, of the real need for it here, of how I can actually help, etc. not to mention the fact that I have absolutely no interest in the business world, heck that’s part of the reason I left art, when money gets involved it just gets all messed up. I’m so tired of blaming outside circumstance on my despair because I know it’s not true. And yet I haven’t managed to pull any kind of pro-active nature out of my own being. This is not a passing feeling, it’s a real issue to be dealt with, and I am.

Aside from my mental roller coaster, recent weeks have been ok. For a long holiday weekend some friends and I went down to the Azilal area, where I finally got to move my stir crazy body! At one site we hiked up to a sweet Berber fort, then the next day did an all day hike to some fresh and not often visited waterfalls, ending in a crazy thunderstorm. The next night we all got ridiculously trashed together and had a glorious time, but paid for it in the morning as we had a long hike at the famous Cascades d’Ouzoud. We found an awesome spot for ourselves, but it was so far downriver the thought of the combined filth of all the people above wasn’t too pleasant. But no mater, I actually got to swim! And we slept in the dirt under the stars, which was awesome until about 2am when the four dummies of the group (me being one of them) who underestimated the cold and didn’t bring sleeping bags had to huddle up and sleep horridly til sunrise. All in all a great trip.

After that I was home not even a day and a half and with company before setting out to Rabat to bid Linsey goodbye. Linsey of course is the lovely lady who got stuck rooming with crazy Bri back in Philly, and we’ve been attached at the hip ever since. But Morocco has not turned out to be the place for her and she decided to terminate her service early. This is a touchy subject for all us volunteers and I think we understand it best. ETing is a hard decision and I only mbruk (congratulate) anyone who has the courage to do it when they know it’s just not right for them here. In many ways, making the decision to leave is harder than just staying. I could go into it more and more but I’d rather not, too many thoughts of me ETing creep in… ha but no worries for the moment. So after a quick visit and a sad goodbye, I returned to my site.

A couple days later I had more guests passing through and some awesome packages from home, which we gorged ourselves on, got quite sick, and now, for the first time in weeks it seems I’m actually alone. Today is the first of the holy month of Ramadan, a month of fasting. I had decided I would fast, at least the first week, but oddly enough im sick as a dog so I have no desire to eat now anyway, I’m sure that won’t last long though! Aside from the upside down flip this country takes for Ramadan, this will be a busy month. Soon I’m taking my Bu to a free clinic to make him a better and non-reproductive man, then head off for some work related leave near Algeria. I’m actually really excited about it; I’ve been invited to this site by two volunteers who’s cooperative just got a Schacht Baby Wolf, which is so awesome, and even more awesome that it happens to be my specialty, and even more awesome than awesome that they’re actually motivated and want to learn how to use it!

Soon enough the new staj of volunteers will be arriving and near the end of Ramadan a little group of them will be doing CBT in my site. (check my posts from last year around this time when I was a little baby Peace Corps trainee down south doing the same thing) At first I was very upset about the disruption a group of happy new Americans can bring to my service, but now I’m quite alright with it. Since I’m on pretty rocky ground with my women right now I figure it can’t get any worse and maybe it’ll be a little breakthrough and subliminal intervention. There I go, waiting for outside circumstance to change rather than changing myself, oh well. I hope that’s enough of an update for now. I’ll try and be more positive, ha, and write again without a month lapse!

June part 2: Mamma

And then . . . my momma came to morocco! I had barely two days back in my site before departing once again. First I had to go to Sefrou to accompany two of my artisans at the craft fair at the annual Cherry Festival. Being the usual klutz, I dropped my phone in my laundry bucket before I left, and had an interesting experience finally getting a new one some 12 hours later. I had a sweet American phone, and it is dearly missed. Oh well, the Craft Fair went fine, and we actually slept in our booth at night. A big problem for artisans in getting their stuff out there is that they don’t have the money for travel and lodging. Since we are selling carpets and fabric anyhow, why not take it all down at night and sleep on it? Ha, it was interesting.

Then I took off for Casablanca to pick up my dear mother. She would arrive late at night so I had plenty of time to get myself lost and irritated with another tourist loving and not tam-speaking big city. But the hotel was nice, I braved a meal alone (which is never done here, but I was perfectly fine dating myself in the states, so in Casa I had a fine pizza while watching a soccer game and evaded yet another proposal from a waiter). With crazy excitement I arrived at the airport for my mom. I had been anticipating her trip here for months, since my dog attack to be exact, since that was the day she decided she was going to come out. But in the weeks before her arrival, with my new site mate settling in, IST, and otherness, I’d forgotten how big a deal it was till I was standing there waiting for her in the airport, practically dancing like the other little girls. For so long I’ve just been needing to have someone there, just for a hug even, who’s known me longer than 8 months, and who I know truly loves me. Yes I have friends here, but there is nothing like feeling the heartbeat of someone who’s known you longer than you’ve known yourself. And that’s my mom.

I spotted her through the sensored doors as she waited for her bags and we both jumped up and down, one of the few times in Morocco I think I really lost composure in public. She came through the crowd and we hugged like it had been years, but it always seems to be like that with us. Like any relationship, ours is tangled and nuts, but no matter what has happened and how many times she’s driven me mad, she is closer to me than anyone. And so our journey began, having to race towards the train for the last one available back into the city, then had to pay a damn petite taxi over three times the normal amount because rules just often don’t matter here, and made it to the kind little hotel. Finally able to talk for free, we rambled for a couple hours and I swooned as I peaked at all the treats she brought from the states (thanks again grandma!) before forcing sleep so that we wouldn’t sleep the next day away. We managed to get a fair deal from a slightly sleazy guy on a rental car, checked out of the hotel and made our way to the famous Hassan mosque on the coast, the only one non-Muslims are permitted to enter in Morocco, but tired and not wanting to foot the high entrance fee, we just marveled at the outside, which was quite spectacular, had a fine lunch and headed out of the city.

Because of all my stress and usual indecisiveness before her arrival I only had a weak skeleton of an itinerary planned out. So rather than stopping and sightseeing along the way, we just headed straight to my place, some six hours away. It was a beautiful drive and amazingly comfortable to have our own seats. We picked up just enough along the way for me to make her my yummy alfredo concoction, and we got to my site with enough time for her to relax a bit, eat, marvel at my living space, attempt the turk, and fall asleep. One of my favorite parts of her whole trip was that she was sleeping. Despite all the craziness we went through here, it was more relaxing than the stress she puts herself through in the states. I never woke up before her in the states, and here, I nearly had to pull her out of bed. It was comforting to know that she felt some peace here.

So then, after greeting no one but my close neighbors we had to depart for Azrou, to meet up with some people and go for a hike. The place we went was amazing. It used to be a PCV site, but transport is nearly impossible so it is no longer used. If I didn’t need to ever see anyone, or ever go online, or have any contact with the outside world, I would have loved to have it as my site. But I can admit now that those things actually hold me together, and am thankful I have them from time to time. We then taught her the fine art of piffle, which I completely suck at of course and another PCV made her best pizza. The next day we took her to Abdou’s, our absolute favorite Moroccan man, and keeper of the best carpet shop I’ve ever been to. Honestly it’s like a second home to us. Anyhow, my mom came in and stinkin squealed with delight over a crazy horse saddle thing, and then another, and then another. In a shop with literally hundreds of glittering and ancient carpets, my mom walked out with two muzun ridden saddles. Haha, it was hilarious. Oh, and it was also her 44^th birthday! Whoo hoo! So we put candles in leftover pizza and had magnum bars, and then I raced her through azrou’s huge suq. I hope it was an alright, if not totally random, birthday.

After a nice night at my place, and her beginning to understand the turk, playing with my cat and understanding the hours I don’t have running water, we went to the cooperative, my own, “take your mother to work day.” Only one woman was working, who quickly informed me that they were all down at the river washing wool. Yippee! A real cross cultural experience! So we headed down and had a grand time! The pictures tell it better, but there was much beating, laughing, and bad smells to be had. And here exists the great divide between my mother and me. Though I have been here 9 months, have a reasonable grasp on language, and written documents detailing my job here, my mother could surpass my cultural integration in seconds. It’s with a great amount of envy that I watch her fly right into situations and be friendly and fun with a group of completely unknown people. Of course that is the reason she works in the public; as a teacher, speaker, etc. There is a naturalness to it that I wish I had and its hard in those many moments here that I realize I just don’t have the right personality for this job. But such is a struggle I’ll talk about in the next blog, for I don’t want to cloud our trip. So after my mom literally jumped into the dirty wool to help, despite my protests, and the other women’s first grimacing, I soon joined in too. After hours of bent over poop-plucking and wool-washing, we were all invited to my counterpart’s house for lunch. Everyone was so exhausted even the badgering to make my mom eat! eat! eat! wasn’t so bad.

The next day Linsey came out; we hung out at the co-op and wandered around town a bit. The women who had been beating wool had swollen hands, but still wove; my legs were so sore I could hardly walk, weak! We had Friday couscous at my counterpart’s house and only kascrew at my host family’s house. I made the mistake of not having tea at many important people’s houses, but we were always too busy or too tired, and her trip was too short to spend it all at home. Oh well. We departed before dawn the next morning for a beautiful beach on the Mediterranean coast, six or so hours away. I’d read about the area we would be going through and knew Peace Corps didn’t place volunteers far north because of the drug issue, but nothing could have truly prepared us. Wow. The mountains began turning green and as I looked over the mountainside I could see odd plants being dried on the rooftops. I didn’t think much of it as people use their roofs for drying and doing most anything, but my mom joked, “hey maybe its marijuana!” I laughed. And then, there we were. I had never seen kif growing in real life, let alone thousands of fields of it. Right up to the road, so close I could stick my arm out and grab it if I dared. It was beautiful and so odd to be surrounded by something so illegal. After some pictures and laughs however, it got a little creepy. The very windy road would reveal hash sellers at unexpected bends, lots of shouters, and then, followers in cars trying to direct us off the road to buy. When we’d pass through small towns and had to slow down men ran right up to the car trying to sell, yelling crude things in all languages. I felt like I was in a zombie movie at some points, for everyone was so high or so eager, or both. Once we passed the worst in Ketama, life became real again, the view could be admired and we neared the coast, hoping it was worth the scary trip. In hindsight, I would recommend never again driving that road as female tourists in a little rental car. Eek. More crazy roads and my being ever grateful for my mom’s driving skills and we arrived in Cala Iris, an amazing and relatively unknown beach. Though I had touched the water from a Mediterranean bordering country once before, I hadn’t been able to go in, so this was quite a treat, and ever so beautiful. The water was warm and I could have easily swam out to the little isalands, but there were bouys. Totally worth the drive though.

The next real stop was a long ways west to the fabled mountain town of Chefchaouen, also known as the blue city. I’ve heard its painted blue because of the high Jewish population there long ago, but also that it keeps mosquitoes away. I have no idea why, but the blue gives the city an odd energy. Built on the side of a mountain, traversing it was like a smaller and steeper version of San Francisco. Though it was a wondrous little city, it wasn’t someplace I’d fall away into, as many people describe it. The best part was the short hike to a ruined mosque above and with a grand view of the whole city. Another great part was the over abundance of goat cheese, mmm. Having spent plenty of money and ready for another adventure we headed to Rabat. I hadn’t planned on taking her there, but it just worked out and Linsey and a couple others, including one from my staj, who was ETing (early termination) and leaving for America the next day, crazy. We roamed the medina and other places, my legs hadn’t recovered from the wool washing, and now were doubly sore from the vertical city of Chef. Then we all enjoyed the incredible German Institute for dinner and bid our fellow PCV goodbye.

Before heading down, my mom and I had quite possibly the most frustrating two hours of her trip trying to find the zoo. Only to finally be told that it had been moved to another city. Then when trying to find our way back out of the maze, we found the abandoned zoo, oh my. I had my last dip in the ocean on some beach before Casablanca and we tried to relax from the frustrating search and enjoy our last day. After some last minute shopping we splurged on Chinese food, my first since leaving the states. It was good, but honestly the portions were so small, we went against all normal habit and became embarrassingly good Americans by sharing a meal at McDonalds. Ha, what a great last meal in Morocco for my mom. The funny thing is, she hadn’t eaten at McDonalds in ten years or so except when she was in India. Ha, guess she only eats it outside its home country. Oh and I also henna’d our hands Berber style the night before her departure, so her nails will be reminding her of morocco whether she likes it or not for the next four or five months.

The trip overall was horribly planned and much too short but wonderful. It was just what I needed, not the vacationing so much, but just being with my mom, and remembering how different I am with her. I’ve gotten so odd and lost and wrapped up in feeling unraveled here; she centers me in ways I can’t explain. I want to send big props to her for dealing with my complete lack of any sense of direction, all my frustration during the trip, and all the driving through unknown country, particularly the kif in the Rif. We couldn’t decide if it was in fact the best idea to rent a car. Public and private transportation I think now come at their own cost and equal levels of different kinds of frustration. Having travelled that way now, I’ll warn anyone listening that Morocco is horribly lacking signage and if you don’t know exactly how to get there, don’t expect the road to tell you or to get there anytime soon. But it was a great learning experience and I am so thankful that she came out here! I love you so dang much mom! And if anyone else dares, mrHbanun g lmagrib! (I welcome you all in morocco!)

June part 1: Agadir

Wow there is a lot to catch you all up on! I’m so behind. So exactly a month ago I left for IST in Agadir. IST (In Service Training) takes place 6 months into your actual service (9 months after arriving in country). It’s kind of a little update for you and staff, a mark that the “real work” is supposed to begin, and, possibly most important of all, it’s the first time you meet back up with your whole staj and see how crazy you’ve become in comparison. A nearby PCV and I began the trip in our horribly ragged attire and dirty bodies and already felt far away as we reached the closest large city to board the long train ride to Marrakech. I’ll admit I experienced a fair amount of culture shock as we arrived in Kech, all the skin to be seen, all the harassment, and all the being taken advantage of! I’m sure there is much to love about the famous city, but I quickly hated it. We met up with another friend and a couple very frustrating hours later finally found a little promised land- Pizza Hut. Yes, a guilty pleasure. We were also shocked to see our first ice cubes since arriving in country in our waters, very exciting. Very full and still in our grunge wear we made it to the huge square met up with the last of our little group and went to the hotel. It was a good time; some of us went to a casino (very odd), we made mimosas, explored the square a bit, tried to turn back into real people again, etc. etc. And when the time came we headed off in a hot taxi to the beloved beach town for a week of sun and inshallah, refreshing our many disheveled feelings about our work and life here.

Peace Corps has set us up in decent places before, and since coming to my site and travelling on my own tiny dime, my expectations for where I rest my head at night are, well, I don’t really have any. Nothing could have prepared me for how incredible our hotel was. WOW. Each room had its own bathroom-including a bathtub, hot water and western toilet, two huge beds, even a TV! Not that we had any time to watch it. Best of all, we were only two streets up from the beach and our room faced it with an astonishing view. Oh and there was also three pools, but I hardly cared with the ocean so close! My roommate, Linsey of course, hadn’t yet arrived, and most of the other early people were resting. I however, had one mission, to be back with my beloved, the ocean. I nearly ran to the beach like I hadn’t seen it in years. Oh the sand beneath my feet! I briskly walked down the shoreline before spotting two other PCVs, I ran up to them, hardly said hello, uttered an apology, and, shaking, ran directly into the water. Oy vey! I cannot begin to explain the joy I felt the moment my entire body was back there-home. For those few moments all of my worry washed away and I felt strong again. Ya I had stepped foot in the water at the dirty beach in Rabat a couple months before, but that hadn’t been nearly enough. Oh it was wonderful. I swam around a bit, then got out, knowing I’d be returning very soon and explained myself to the two PCVs I’d so rudely threw my stuff down at. Ha, but they didn’t seem to mind.

The rest of IST was a blur of confusing but alright presentations and discussions, far too much drinking, then soon being burned out of drinking, never tiring of daily showers, and lots of good food. All I really remember or cared about was going into the ocean and seeing the people I began with and how far we’ve come. I ran on the beach every morning I could, and swam every other chance I got. It was interesting to see the changes in our little groups, those I was closest to in the beginning, and who I’m closest to now that I’m at my site. It was over all too quickly, but a couple friends and I headed to Essaouira for a night before the long trek home. It was lovely. I wouldn’t call myself a mallrat by any means, but I am still a girl, and after months of digging through used clothes ssuq for big, ugly, wool sweaters and long, butt-covering t-shirts, Essa was a shopping paradise. I don’t know why it’s different there than other places, it just is. Or maybe we all just needed to go and act like real girls shopping for once. And despite all the weight I’ve gained and general feeling that I’ve been falling apart all over, I managed to find some clothes I felt good in, lhamdullah! We also had some amazing French food, even ham! Then headed off to Kech for another night so that I could make the rest of the trip home in one day, hopefully. And I did, exhausted. Refreshed in some ways, but felt beaten with a stick in just as many other ways. After the trip I made some new agreements with myself and don’t plan on drinking much anytime soon, I can’t afford it anyhow. I returned home, to my humble little home, to my kitty who I missed dearly and slept as if dead a little while before beginning yet another trek away. . .

Working it

Yup that’s me on the sweet counterbalance loom, next time I hope to have a picture of one of THEM working it!

The little lady in the background there is my new site mate, and, how cute, both our host moms working on the same piece. About an hour later the rra’isa (president) came in and they (five women) went into another room for the rra’isa to teach them Arabic script. Oh my I was so damn proud! I have no idea when this started or whose idea it was, and though it would be nice to feel like I’ve done something for them, it’s even better to see them doing such good for themselves. Only two of the adult women of the co-op are literate (the president and the treasurer) though almost all speak Tamazight and Darija. It was so sweet to see how excited and proud they were of their little practice pages. Sniff sniff.

And I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, so I’ll say it now- I love this weather! While many other PCV’s are already roasting in their sites, I survived the winter and am now enjoying my reward-beautiful spring weather. It gets greener by the day and in every direction you can see a different kind of sky, never knowing which will pass over. Some light thunder, crazy but short bouts of rain, delicious sun and winds of every sort. I fear next winter as much as I now fear dogs, but I intend to survive both.

Moroccan metaphor-this is proof my minds more here than America- my cat, my baby, my love, well he licks a lot and the first thought that came into my head was not, oh that feels like sand paper, but rather, wow, that feels like a hammam scrubby. This reminded me (as if I needed a reminder) that I could really use a good scrubbing, oh what I would give for a shower right now! My last one was almost a month ago. Yes I bucket bathe, but really. Anyhow, cat tongues feel like hammam scrubbys.

Regaining My Title

“Let the beauty we love be what we do.” Rumi

I wove! I wove I wove I wove! Have I mentioned how much I love weaving? Oh my Allah do I love weaving. And I’ve been feeling pretty silly for having a blog titled “Bri Weaves” when I’m not. I never again want to go so close to a year without! Oh I am so beyond screwed up mentally, physically, emotionally, and any other –ally’s there are. But I have one thing again. Kind of amazingly obvious now, that I’ve felt so sorely unfulfilled and frustrated lately because I have been doing none of the usual tasks that bring be joy. As Mrs. Post would say, I’ve stopped dancing. Stopped dancing while working in a dance studio that is! Ha! I’ve spun and knit, even drawn a bit here but there is nothing like weaving.

Weaving is this small act of just putting things in order, over and over again a bazillion times, almost like a subliminal act to get myself back in order. I love that I am such a part of each thread so many times. Each thread passes through my hands at least 4 times before I even begin weaving- first while winding the skein off into a ball, second by warping out, third when threading the reed, fourth when threading the heddles, then tying them off on the back beam, brushing them and winding them on, tying them onto the front beam, adjusting tension and naughty rebellious little threads, and, bismillah, commence weaving. Oh I can’t express the satisfaction that comes from just interlocking silly little threads. It’s something I can hold onto. And ever since I’ve been feeling far more at ease, suppose my hysterias been at least partially cured by weaving again.

I always have and always will love plain weave the most, I mean it’s the perfect metaphor-taking every individual and putting them together to form the strongest external bond. In patterns, some threads are weaker, some never even show much; it’s just a different kind of balance. By covering some, others shine a little brighter. Of course I prefer the most solid strength and rather leave it up to the fiber and material combinations to bring it beauty, hmm, think it has anything to do with my life? Ha. But because I am here and want to show the women all that these looms can do, I am rediscovering my love of pattern weaving.

I set up a small counter balance loom half with a simple straight draw and half threaded with mirrored straight draw. I didn’t think there’d be too much I could do with it, but enough to get them started, but wow! I forgot how many options there are in just the simplest tie up! I was soon drafting all kinds of patterns, I couldn’t draft by hand as quick as my head was forming them. Ah, it was like the excitement of sophomore year when I fell into and in love with weaving. Anyhow, the women have been working primarily on command orders on the big metal looms, and the younger members haven’t been coming, so I’ve really only taught one young woman so far. But she was super excited and is going to do pattern weaving on her loom once she weaves off what she has. And my relationship with the Co-op as a whole is getting slowly better, now that they see I am capable of doing something besides sitting there looking confused. Mm, and I’m smiling again.

So now with my little bit o worry as always. I struggle a lot in general, but particularly here in my site with the very obvious clash between old and new ways. The hardest part of my work- the balance between preserving old traditions and bringing the people into the modern world. When I dwell on this it’s just too big handle as it all seems so helpless with the state and pace of our world. But, I’m here and I’m small and I’m trying to work with it. The fact is they do have these amazing European looms so they may as well use them to their capacity. And all except the youngest weave on both the European looms and the wooden floor looms. The youngest are most interested in pattern weaving, and so long as they don’t start making more money, the elders are fine with that. The past two days I’ve been sitting in the foyer of the new building where five of the women are working on two metal looms, just enjoying watching as they work the loom like a harp. So that’s where I stand today, when my mood is calm and cool. Call me tomorrow and I could be in the pits again.

Whorling

For those that don’t know, I interned with Susan Lordi Marker my senior year of college, who is just about the sweetest and most generous woman I’ve ever met, an incredible textile fine artist as well as the designer of the Willow Tree line for Demdaco. I worked with her on her textiles, some roughs for her new Willow Tree line, did indigo dye and held my senior thesis show in her space. She is amazing and I still can’t thank her enough! Anyhow, she loved my dreads and her new figure, Blessings, is modeled off me. So that’s my moment of stardom! I worked some on others, and thank my Auntie Lillian and Uncle Ernie for modeling for the Anniversary piece. The whole line is great, thank you so much Susan! (thats the Willow Tree mini me on the right)

Speaking of last year, whoa! It’s so crazy to think that this time last year Ashley’s senior show, Chromatic Movements in Structure, had just passed, we were setting up my senior show, Whorl, For Those Dear, and getting ready to graduate! It’s so crazy and doesn’t feel like it’s been that long at all. I remember going to all my fellow fiber gal’s and other’s shows, the fireworks in the crossroads district, how Ashley and I got all dolled up, Kay’s painting of that night, all the last minute craziness that graduating entails, and then nearly my whole crazy family flying out to the middle of America for me! Oh it was so awesome. (below are four of my favorite ladies; Susan, Michele, Pauline and Ashley at her show-notice the chromatic movements goin on in the background)

But right now I’m here, and okay with it. I reminiscing and missing but in that remember why I came and that the difficulty is where it needs to be. Despite all my frustrations with the Cooperative, and Morocco in general, if I can read my thesis and still feel it has truth then I know I’m not all jaded and that there is work and a reason for me here.

(above is me setting up my show)

Thesis Statement-

To realize the interconnectedness of Nature, a task too great to fully comprehend, one must develop her own method for working toward the holistic vision. I conclude my time at this institution, and begin my life beyond, with weaving as the greatest metaphor for this interconnectedness. All life is composed of interactions, essentially, the relationship between one element and another. This interaction of elements is process, a seeming chaos without direction, sustained by faith in a foreseen outcome. From chaos to order and back again, the infinite dance. A mess of fibers, combed and drawn together to form one strand, then into a snarl of many strands. These threads are then brought to order in the case of a warp, and further, relate to a weft to form a complete whole, a woven piece.

The metaphor continues as these objects are brought to a new context, for a new purpose. I find that the elements of importance in my life are far simpler and more obvious than ever before, and bring my work to this place. These scarves are given as gifts to certain members of my web of relations. Worn around the neck, an unconscious reminder of connections, disguised as a practical item of body wear for warmth and comfort. I am left with the satisfaction of bringing to the physical world a metaphorical representation of my mind’s sauntering about the workings of the natural world. As naivety grows toward wisdom, so do seemingly unconnected elements grow toward a working unit. A lesson for the future, that every knot may someday become a part of a smooth cloth. That every strand, no matter how small, plays an active role in creating a whole. No element anywhere, no matter how lonely, is by itself. This is my whorl.

And the letter attached to each piece-

May 18, 2007

For those dear,

One day this past September, frustrated and exhausted by my major, and art in general, I sat down at a little loom I had borrowed but never used. I tied on six yards and began to weave. After the first yard or so I stopped caring about what it would be, or what it would mean, or what purpose it would serve. For three hours I just wove. As I wove I was allowed time to relax and reflect. I was at the beginning of my last year of college, had decided to apply for the Peace Corps, and had lost all passion and interest in art.

I began to imagine what life in the Peace Corps would be like, of walking into a completely foreign community, and becoming a part of a new family. This led me to think about my own family, and how close they are to me, though we remain miles apart. The funny thing about goodbyes is, as we all know, they make us thankful for what we have. It is easy to put on hold those we claim to love and care about the most because they always seem to be there. Knowing I am leaving for 27 months has caused me to realize how much I will miss what has always been around me. I had just as easily forgotten the essentials of art, the making. In the frustrating search for meaning in what I made, I had forgotten the making. The product, the purpose, the image, none of it mattered anymore. As I wove I allowed myself to simply enjoy the way fibers and colors come together.

While sitting at the loom, I began to explore the connections between passions, and realized I could have the best of both worlds. I have tried to keep things and I have tried to sell things, but the only satisfaction comes from giving things away. I could work on color and material combinations in the process of weaving, with the end result being a gift for someone else. For those dear to me.

I am not joining the Peace Corps to serve others; I am joining to engage in the global community through the exchange of gifts. Gifts of culture and knowledge and tolerance; peace and happiness cannot exist in the world without smiles and small gifts being continuously shared and passed along. One frown, one lost life, is a broken thread in the woven fabric of life. You all make up the whorl nearest me, and as I step into the next network I will be prepared by carrying the lessons from my life here with all of you.

Giving is never a one sided act. I could say giving is what brings the greatest satisfaction, but it is in the receiving, of smiles and love, that I am truly interested and thankful. Like people, these scarves will grow softer the more they are worn.

I love you all so much, and please enjoy,

Briana Godfrey

(if you want to see pictures I guess you have to be on Facebook, the links I put on here keep expiring and I don’t know of an easier site to post on, sorry!)

A need to know basis

My last writing and pictures were sent in an email, so if you didn’t get it email me, and if you don’t have my email then you probably shouldn’t get it anyhow! Teehee. . . I’ll write again soon.

here's a link to some other random pics though, I'll add more to it periodically

Keeper of the Night

21 April 2008

I am doing ok. Been going through some insanely low lows and equally high highs, much like this weather of winds we’ve been having, and all I want is to level out. But such is what we strive our whole lives for, right? Some kind of balance. I was away at Spring Camp for so long, and though it was great I was so happy to come home. More than that, I was so happy to notice myself lovingly referring to my humble adobe house in a far off Berber town as my home. It was a rough return, but I am enjoying so much time in my site and beginning to actually work; as a volunteer within this community, and on the deep stuff within myself.

One great healing step: my new boyfriend. He’s short, dark and handsome, Moroccan, Berber Moroccan to be exact, and all he wants is to hang out and cuddle every moment. Hahaha, relax, he’s a kitten. Sitting on my lap as I type. I got him by random chain of events in Azrou just two days after I returned from Spring Camp. And I managed to turk train him in less than a week, next he’ll be bringing me breakfast in bed! His name is Buggid Leopold Godfrey. Buggid, pronounced boo-geed, means keeper of the night, because he’s all black, and I think of him as my little protector, if only mentally. And Leopold in honor of Ashley’s cat, the best cat I’ve ever known, and who was the man of our little apartment for three years. He was killed not long after I arrived in Morocco and it makes me so sad to know I’ll never see him again, and worse that he’s gone for Ashley.

So having my new little buddy, really he’s better than any boyfriend I’ve ever had, gives me more of an anchor here. But aside from using him as the keeper of my sanity and object of affection, there has been a lot of shifting within me and the relationship I have with myself. There’s been some shit from the past creeping back up, which comes as no surprise. The whole believing you deserve happiness kind of thing, you know the story. With such real alone time and no school or truly structured job to give me a format to follow, I can no longer force myself to do things as I did before. Everything I do or don’t do is accompanied my constantly asking why and who will it matter to if I don’t? It’s a shift in the head of fully realizing that being healthy and happy is something you have to believe you deserve before you can muster the will to achieve it. Or at least that’s the way it is for me. Geez it’s so much easier to work for someone else! The change I am focusing on is so wholly within myself but so nessesary that I can’t believe in selfishness as a bad thing. I wrote in my journal one of my first days in Morocco that I thought the Peace Corps would be the next stage of getting over myself. What I think now is that it is the next stage of getting closer to myself, and with that comes more being and less thinking about being. So in the tangible, semi-more understandable world, I’m getting better by writing, beginning to dance again, and learning to cook for one person.

Ah yes, and what you really all want to hear about, the work I was sent here for. Really I’m not doing much more, but rather happen to be here at just the right time; when all their (the Co-op’s) dreams that I had no part in planning or helping to become real, well they’re here. The beautiful new building was finally finished a few days ago, and through wind and rain and sun and on our own backs as well as donkeys we carried everything but the looms over. The next day we had a transi guy help move the looms, and the day after that was spent setting up the three huge looms they’ve never been able to use due to lack of space. I helped but they really didn’t need me, when they get to setting up the harnesses and treadles and tension I’ll be more useful. And today was a huge couscous party to celebrate the opening of the new building. Mbruk! Mostly I feel inadequate right now due to my lack of language and courage to speak, but I’ve been ignoring that a bit and basking in their glory and the incredible facility they now have and the room to breathe and finally use all their supplies. I’ll have pictures up as soon as I get a new adapter so I can be online for more than half an hour at a time!

So that’s all the news I have energy to write about for now. I’ve got a couple friends coming over for some good unleavened food and I hope we can pass-over winter completely and bloom with spring. Wink wink. Big thanks to ait uxaminu (my family) for the 4am call the other night! It was delightful and I wish I could have been there.

Little side note for the day, aimed at my Aunt Laura: She gave me a little ring a few years back, I can’t even remember if it was for my birthday or Christmas, and though I didn’t wear it all that often, for some reason I brought it here with me. I decided to stop wearing my favorite ring, a big turquoise one from an Indian reservation in Arizona from my mom and Bill because it’s a little flashy around here. I put it away and found the ring from Laura. I put it on and it happens to fit perfectly on my ring finger. This is great because I’ve been telling everyone (mainly men) I’m engaged or married to get them off my back a bit and avoid the ridiculous will you marry me/will you get a visa for me/you should come to my bed, just us/ and so on conversations. It’s just easier this way. The ring has “wishes do come true” engraved on it, and while it’s a little silly, and I have no wish to get married, it feels nice to be wearing some kind of affirmation. Now I just have to figure out what my wishes are. . .