<<Prev Home PDF Next>>
mountains and have even come to love them as though they were my own Southwest.
More
experienced volunteers, many who have trained, mentored, and supported
me over the last year, have completed their service and moved on with
their lives. They are now in graduate school and easing themselves back
into "reality"; but is it any more real than here? Morocco is so raw
and vital; each day holds a wealth of experience. A wave of sights,
sounds, and smells assails me whenever I go anywhere, and my world is a
mixture of 3000 years of tradition and a few decades of modernity. I
have come to love olives and dates, and find myself craving cumin at
strange times. The speed and opulence of American life has lost its
appeal to me and I have fallen in love with the slow, steady pace of
life in the mountains.
I
find myself wanting nothing more from my life than to be still and to
write. To be surrounded by vast silence and warm sun under an endless
sky. This love of simplicity has always been present in me, but it has
been sharpened and refined by the past year spent here.
~
I have spent the past few days with my friends in Casablanca, the same
wonderful people I spent time with over Thanksgiving. Though I found
myself again admiring the opulence of their home and enjoying the
wonderful food they provided; more and more I found myself enjoying
their company and insight rather than simply reveling in the creature
comforts that surrounded me. I would have been just as happy cooking
them dinner in my concrete hut. That said, I certainly cherish my time
spent there, playing with the dogs, talking and laughing about things
familiar to me; things from my past life. In their home, I feel that I
am not just Charlie the Peace Corps Volunteer, which is how most of my
friends here know me, I think they see more of the big picture of my
life, and our conversations inspire, challenge, and convict me. Good
friends and mentors are that way.
Later,
I found myself in the Ancient Medina (old imperial city) of Fes; legend
has it that the city's name comes from the old Arabic word for
"pickaxe," because of a golden pickaxe that was unearthed here by the
first settlers of this valley. How true this may be, I am unsure; but I
am happy with the name because of how easy it is to pronounce, as
opposed to, say, "Ouarzazate".
~
Easing back into my routine over the past couple of days has been a
pleasure, with its early morning wake ups and rooftop coffee drinking.
My mailbox was full of month-late Valentines day cards which I read in
my study next to the heater. The time not spent drinking tea in the
village or shopping for food is spent here in my study, usually
reading. I recently finished "the Sea Wolf by Jack London, the 32nd
book I have read since my arrival. I am hoping to make it to 100.
I can't remember what I expected of this place;
that memory has faded as time has gone by.
I know that I certainly expected much more
hostility toward me as an American
from the people here,
but I quickly learned that expectation was simply born
of fears seeded by a sensationalist media,
theirs and ours.
I
have work now too, the potential to teach Environmental Education at
the local middle school, as well as a trail building project in the
nearby national park, but more on that later. My good friends on the
mountain, volunteers from the previous staging group, finish their
service in April. While I will be sad to see them go, it will be
exciting to train their replacements and introduce the new volunteers
to the wonders of the Eastern High Atlas. Hopefully they will love this
place as much as I do.
Spring
is in full flower here in Fes, everything is green and the hillsides
are covered in shimmering silver olive trees. Birds are everywhere and
house buntings flit in and out of the earthen homes and riyadhs of the
medina. The storks have returned to their towering nests on the mosque
minarets, and clouds of white egrets glide in from the river at
sundown. My hotel is a "no frills" affair, consisting of a bed on a
wire frame covered in sheets so threadbare that the mattress is
visible through them. My bathroom is a Turkish toilet shared with the
entire floor. Somehow, a year in, this doesn't bother me and the view
from the roof more than makes up for it. It overlooks the "great
tannery gate", or the Bab Boujaloud in Arabic, a massive crenellated
archway covered in blue and green tile. People bustle in and out of the
arch and the medina stretches away into the distance, a vista of flat
roofs and minarets all covered in satellite dishes which I have heard
referred to as "the flower that blooms in peacetime".
When
I think of how much the previous volunteers helped me through the
difficult patches of this first year, and there have been many, I
realize just how difficult it will be to suddenly go from the role of
student to teacher. But I feel that I am ready.
In
the next few months, I will watch the bands of snow recede from the
mountains above the village. The apple trees will soon be in flower and
the bone-white poplars will again be green with new leaves. I look
forward to long days of shafting sunlight and the sudden violence of
summer storms that blow in from the north. I will again fast for
Ramadan when it comes in late summer, and will better be able to enjoy
the camaraderie and fellowship that exists from an entire country going
nocturnal. I am excited for another fall and spring, and even a second
winter. I can look forward to all of this because I have experienced it
once before, and therein lies the joy of the second year here in
Morocco.
Navigating
the medina for the first time since my return trip from the states, I
found that my Arabic has improved to the extent that I can carry on a
simple conversation and banter with locals, as well as repel guides,
which are everywhere here and very persistent. Fes is a city of simple
pleasures, cappuccinos on quiet rooftops and music drifting in from
every direction. There are always English speakers to be found here,
in the form of tourists or other volunteers passing through. Speaking
English is a pleasure in itself. It is easy to forget the harshness of
my village here, surrounded by comforts and the greenery of spring. But
I need to go back home, a week is far too long away; although I would
have welcomed it just a few short months ago.
"The
views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the
author and do not refect the views or opinions of the U.S. Government"
CHARLIE KOLB is
almost a native Coloradan,and has worked as a seasonal ranger for the
National Park Service, but will be working with the Peace Corps until
2012.
The Zephyr looks forward to sharing-regular reports from Charlie.
You can also follow him via his blogs:
On
the bus ride south toward my village, I felt the air grow cold again as
the trees disappeared and the horizon became hazy with dust blown in on
a storm from the Sahara. At a stopping point, I sighed realizing that I
had to again put on my long underwear, my second skin, and shrug on my
heavy coat. I caught a transit twenty minutes after arriving in my souq
town of Rich and after another three hours of cramped and smelly travel
I was home.
<<Prev Home PDF Next>>