I’ve always been an overachiever. From the time I was young, I was getting A+s. I was doing extra credit then taking it home to add more. I graduated High School in the top of my class; I received honors and recognition. I was a success.

Then I started following paths where achievements were harder to define and extra credit didn’t necessarily equate to assured success. I became a Major in the Department of Dance at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. There, we rigorously studied various forms of dance, including ballet, modern, jazz, tap, indigenous Zimbabwean dance, and dance history, music theory, and kinesiology. The emphasis was on developing an awareness of our capabilities to then transform these abilities into meaningful movement. And we did a lot of high kicks.

Every person’s physicality, interest and experiences differed. There was a multiplicity of choice and no single answer. Without the clear delineation of a single desired outcome, it was much harder to determine what earned an A+. Overachieving in the way I had known was still great at times, but sometimes it meant that I was simply doing too much.

That’s the time when I started to learn to fall. Quite literally, a large chunk of my college career was dedicated to falling: finding safe routes to the floor, pouring my weight into the ground, striving to leap with risk and recover in the descent. Falling was no longer associated with failure, but rather, when done well, falling became compelling, exciting, brave, honest, satisfying.

So now where are the overachievers? That girl just fell down. I’m still standing here. Is she the winner or am I?

After college, I moved to New York City to dance professionally and an idea that continued to have an influence on me as I navigated this new scene was the idea of “not doing,” as emphasized in many somatic practices. Somatic practices are methods such as the Alexander Technique and Feldenkrais which investigate the correlation between our mind and body, and how that relationship affects our functioning in everyday life. What physical habits have we developed? What asymmetries have assimilated into our regular patterns? For example, Jimmy always paints with the roller in his right hand. As he lifts the roller to the wall, he also unnecessarily and unknowingly lifts his shoulder up close to his ear.

How can we heighten our awareness of these patterns to enable our actions towards efficiency and ease? How can we “do less” to accomplish more? Would it be possible for Jimmy to paint with his left hand sometimes? Or could he briefly think to relax his shoulder first before lifting the roller?

And so it goes. The highest kicker is no longer the overachiever. Now the prize student is even more difficult to decipher. It’s not just the height of your kick – it’s now the highest kick, with the least effort and the greatest likelihood that you can keep kicking for the next thirty years.

But, wait, there’s more, because dance is an art form, after all. Maybe the highest kick isn’t even the appropriate action to illicit the desired response. Great. So it’s: ((Height – Effort) + Longevity) x Artistic Intent. Who’s made the honor roll?!

Now stick that equation into the specific context of the world of downtown Manhattan modern dance and the overachievers are those who can prove themselves to be so – or at least those who send out enough mass emails and Facebook posts to get you to their performances. In this arena, it typically becomes a confusing blend of underrated overachievers, overzealous overachievers, recovering overachievers, boastful underachievers, and somebody in holey tights and a neon-colored wig.

‘Overachiever’ starts to feel like ‘Narcissus.’ I was having a growing sense that the dance community as a whole was self-serving and indulgent. Egos fly high and earn praised when flouted unapologetically. And why not? Where else, but in art, can you put you and your biggest ideas first? What are those big velvet curtains on the proscenium meant to frame if not your every whim, desire, urge, idea, request, dream?

Its sounds like an overachiever’s paradise, but I kept finding myself shirking whenever I experienced this fanfare. Something undefined wasn’t jiving, and I needed a break.

So Peace Corps. My chance to get back on the honor roll. My opportunity to overachieve with selflessness and humility. I would put the needs of others first and reflect on the importance of providing communities with their most basic necessities. I had the expectation that the experience would be a difficult one, but in the end, we’d all end up a bit stronger and wiser. I’d be able to go home and put the humanity back into art.

Then I arrived in Ait Ouffi. Running water, electricity, Tom and Jerry showing daily, and a green valley with fields of vegetables and grains. What did they need of me? While the Peace Corps role of tree-planter and fuel-saving-stove-builder perpetuates, we know that’s not the case. Morocco is doing alright in many ways and the areas that we should hope to wield influence are in the realm of cultivating community leaders, inspiring an etiquette of teamwork, and instilling an aptitude for creativity and innovation that strengthens tradition, accountability and community.

Progress in these areas occurs incrementally. What could I expect to engrain in this community during my two year service? Naturally, I expected to work hand-in-hand with my counterpart and the women of the weaving association to set up a plan for a great project, follow-through with it, satisfy a need, then debrief on it so other communities could follow suit. All the while we’d add embellishments and pieces of flair to give it an extra sheen. As an admitted overachiever, I know that I set high expectations. Why not? But huh? I cannot make deep-seated change. I’m not that in control, no matter how much I plan and research and scheme. We can together, but I can’t alone. It’s part of how the whole intricate scheme works.So now the overachiever isn’t defined by how far she leaps, but how far she can motivate her community to leap. But wait. These leaps can’t be measured in length. Deep habitual change comes after a whole lot of awareness, and begins even before any conscious action is taken. That’s the idea of those somatic practices. Not only will the smallest shifts be our greatest accomplishments, those are the only shifts that will have a bearing on any true change.

Okay, I believe in the small steps. I also believe in taking huge leaping risks. So how do I know? When do I push with my greatest effort and when do I sit back and allow change to take place because of my lack of interference? How often do I remind, insist, and organize action to happen? How often do I make myself available, show interest in contributing, but remain in a state of “not doing” until initiation ignites from my community partners?

Could Peace Corps give a multiple choice exam at COS that would be graded to determine our effectiveness as volunteers? Think about it, Mr. Lillie. I think it would clear up a lot of ambiguity for many of us.

There’s one aspect of Peace Corps in which I have fairly clearly overachieved, and that, my friends, is integration. Having accepted engagement to an HCN (aka Moroccan person) and moved in with his family (It’s true.), I’d say I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. I’m learning quite intimately the complexities of “role” in our household of thirteen people and I’m navigating how I fit into this context. In being myself, I have responsibilities, interests, and skill-sets that differ from the accepted roles defined according to gender and marital status held within our household. That can be both great, and really tough.

Certain topics now carry more weight than they did before, such as my interest in converting to Islam, particularly when being asked by my mother-in-law-to-be, and I’ve started to think of my role in this community beyond my COS date. I’m making a commitment to remain connected to this village for a lifetime, Inchallah, and for the lifetimes of our children, Inchallah. Sarah Young, Blue Ribbon for Integration.

How did that happen? That, I don’t know. It had something to do with trusting despite being vulnerable to the consequences of all the unknowns; and falling confidently because we’re well suited for each other and excited about investing in this together.

The result has been something I hadn’t expected: Rather than steering clear of self indulgence, I’ve renewed my commitment to selfishness with all the gumption an overachiever can muster, but, fingers-crossed, with a new twist.

Selfishness will still mean setting my own happiness as a priority and being absorbed in what interests me. I’m desirous of putting my focus foremost on those relationships that most closely surround me – both spatially and emotionally - and to develop meaningful projects that speak to them. This may scale down my original big intentions, but it allows me to be influential in a more attainable way – and gives potential for my influences to be woven into already existing patterns. This means that as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I am not America’s ambassador to Ait Ouffi in any boasting way. I am a friend, a suggester of new ideas, a picnic companion, a favor doer, a skirt-wearing bicycle rider and a fiancé.

It all feels so dreadfully humbling when I had intended to move mountains. That overachieving spirit relentlessly insists that there’s still time to build that new road (and find those husbands the girls have been requesting). But if I quiet that obnoxious voice, I almost hear another.

[But before I do, there’s one last jab from the overachiever, “Oh, you’re sounding so mature. Guess you’re getting OLD! Say goodbye to popsicles and a wrinkle-free complexion.”]

If I let it emerge, there is another voice: It’s the one that suggests to me that the greatest painting will never hang in a museum; the greatest performance will never even see a stage. The greatest accomplishments may not ever be labeled as Great, and that’s not only okay, it’s refreshing to think that brilliance surrounds us. It can earn quiet recognition, and live within its small circle of influence without a single ribbon or plaque. Or it can rise to great fame, inspiring millions. That’d be really great, too. But regardless of how large it swells, I like the thought that brilliance could be so daily.

If we can see greatness without looking for trophies, we can see shortfalls without seeing failure.

Our shortfalls, our underachievements, seems to help us along as much as our praise-deserving strengths. I recognize that others can relate to my weaknesses as readily as they can to my strengths, perhaps even more so because for many of us, our weaknesses tend to be what we grade most severely. For this reason, I can’t give my abilities a higher value than my disabilities. Our weaknesses give us humility, which in turn can offer us the patience to encourage even the most bashful (or annoying) achievers to make attempts without abandon. If we’ve made a habit of trying to erase the hang-ups or shortfalls in others, then we’ve forgotten how hard it is for us to make incremental changes within ourselves.

All of this hasn’t really helped me to know if I’ve made the grade here in Ait Ouffi. I never got my report card during MSM. GPA doesn’t seem to be a TLA (Three Letter Acronym) in any of the Peace Corps Materials. I still have a lot of questions about whether or not I’ve contributed to the well-being of this community. I also would like to know if I’ve packed away any bit of wisdom over the past two years that will help me to decipher with greater clarity and purpose that downtown Manhattan dance scene that I cannot wait to love and loathe once again. I haven’t completely found resolve in living generously and lavishly in my own selfishness, and I still get urges to do a really, really, really good job.

Fortunately, I’m sure Peace Corps must give us some sort of “Certificate of Completion” at COS. That’ll help. Maybe if they don’t, somebody in VAC could suggest it. Our names could be written kinda big, with a gold border and all sorts of people’s signatures on it. Y’know, overachievers like us, we’d like to have something like that to stick on the fridge.

On our hike a few days ago, we stopped to have tea at a nomad’s camp.  One of the women, Tuda, who tends to the flock, was having eye trouble.  Apparently, her eyes and nostrils have been getting infested with small black bugs that are attracted to the sheep.  She asked Brahim for a cigarette.  I have never seen a Moroccan woman smoke, particularly in the rural areas.  It’s definitely not culturally acceptable.  But she didn’t want to inhale.  Her intention was to take a drag, then exhale out of her nose to “smoke out” the bugs. We talked about the preventative potential of regular handwashing with soap after handling animals and before eating.  And the old motto – Don’t stick your fingers in your eyes.  They were equally as skeptical of my remedy as I was of theirs.  Guess I’ll have to go back to that camp sometime to see if she’s still there and to see if her situation has improved.

Committing to a lifelong relationship has felt less like finding my fairytale prince and more like choosing a skydiving partner.

Brahim Ainabi and I have known each other for just over a year now.  We’ve been discussing plans to marry for about that same amount of time.  Last year, he came into the weaving association, where I was helping the women make price tags for their rugs and blankets.  He was looking for his mother, and he found me.  Lucky guy.

We were in negotiations throughout the Rose Festival that soon followed in the neighboring gorge.  As flowered floats and waving beauties paraded by, Brahim and I laid out our future plans.  “Aren’t you terrified?!” I asked.  “You’re a nice girl.” responded Brahim.  Fair enough.  We’ll get married in Morocco, having a traditional Amazigh wedding in the village.  When we get back to the States, we’ll have a big party in Wisconsin.  We’ll move to New York; live and work there until we tire of it. We’ll go back to Morocco as we can.  Brahim wants to work hard and have a good life.  Sarah wants to dance.  Two point five children, but not yet.  Our kids will speak English and Tashelheit and be beautiful.  They will visit both grandmothers on either side of the Atlantic.  That's settled. Here we are a year later, putting the plan into action.  I spent last week in Rabat on a scavenger hunt for official paperwork.  Running around from Embassy to Consulate to Ministry of Foreign Justice, I gathered one stamp, seal, signature after another.  These papers all need to be notarized and translated into Arabic by a certified translator. Brahim will gather his paperwork from the local officials next.  He’s already gotten security clearance from Homeland Security in Washington.  Guess all those trip wires and booby traps he set with the local boys in the village didn’t make it on his rap sheet. Next comes the fun part: Wedding bells.  Or, in this case, give the bride a ride on a mule and let’s play the tom toms until dawn.  This won’t happen until all of our paperwork is finished and the heat of summer passes.  Then there’s Ramadan, not exactly the best time for the feasting, dancing debauchery of a wedding.  So we’ll see. You’re all invited.

I’m in the mood for writing. If I had an ounce of perspective on life lately or even a strong grasp on the location of the letters on this particular keyboard, I could really move the masses. But if I wait around any longer, I’m liable to miss this moment. So here goes.

The house I’m living in these days functions at a constant buzz. Nine of us live here, though that number swells and ebbs depending on the day’s events. This morning, I woke up to an alarm – something I do twice each week – and had the usual bread, tea and soup for breakfast before meeting with the sixth grade students. We’re working through a Flying Art curriculum which includes letter-writing, art-making and simple geography. Today I introduced a lesson on drawing faces, which we all enjoyed, then the students added layers of flour-water soaked newspaper strips to their papier mache projects. Only four sixth graders attended class today. It was their first day back to school after winter vacation and most of them forgot to wake up for our class this morning. How sixth grade of them.

Following the class, I stopped by a local hotel to see if internet was working. In fact, it was not. Not surprising, but my Inbox has been on my mind without interruption. I’m expecting two friends to arrive into Morocco this Friday from the States and there are still details to sort out. Namely, we have to figure out if one friend will be able to make her flight. Jye-Hwei has been living in the U.S. for the last bunch of years, but she is a citizen of Taiwan. While American citizens aren’t required to have a Visa to enter into Morocco, Taiwanese citizens can’t get in without one. And unlike most Visas, this Visa takes 6-8 weeks for processing. Lame. The only advice I can give is that she continue to show up at the Consulate. Every day. And at varying times, in hopes of reaching “that guy” who’ll get the paperwork on its way. I’ve come to think of this as the “Moroccan Method” of getting things done, but its just as relevant in just about every other place I’ve ever lived.

After this unsuccessful attempt at internet, and a successful bout of text messaging while waiting for the internet to connect, I got myself home in time for lunch. Lentils. Our resident 10-year-old boy was at school, so it was just us girls. All eight of us. I like the way that lentils are cooked here. In a magical world, they would be paired with something other than bread, but they’re tasty and warm and a nice addition to our repertoire of couscous and vegetable stew.

By this time, the morning’s groggy, bulky clouds had melted away into a graciously warm and bright sunny day. Knowing that this un-February weather couldn’t be taken for granted, I hopped on my bike and headed 3km down the road to Anjie’s house. Anjie is also a Small Business Development volunteer, working with a small women’s association in the neighboring village. We’re hoping to offer the women’s associations in her village and mine a three-part workshop in basic business skills. I cannot intend a more direct interpretation of the word ‘basic.’ These women aren’t gonna know what hit them. I just hope they don’t hit me first. They are a ballsy, socially-acceptably-rowdy crowd, but they wander off course easily, and without warning. They absolutely need to get their act together if they expect anything to come their way. I’m not proposing I’m the girl to bring it, but I will show up at their door with logic in my pocket and a willingness to share.

Anjie copied the handsome amount of Post-It notes (Thanks for the supply, mom.) that I had added to our business workshop guide, while I took advantage of her newly acquired wireless modem. I scheduled a Skype date with my incoming visitors for next Thursday. Differences in time zones and unreliable internet connection has relegated Skyping to a somewhat cryptic affair, both highly-scheduled and necessarily serendipitous. As we worked, we caught each other up on the latest Peace Corps news.

The biggest bit of news is that we’ve been approved for a small development grant of about 9000 Moroccan Dirhams, or $1000 USD, from Peace Corps. Called a “SPA Grant,” it will allow us to organize a two-part workshop for three women associations in the area and will focus on developing the artisan and business skills that we’ve deemed most relevant to the women whom with we work. Most important thing about this workshop is that it’ll be held close to home. When leading a horse to water, it helps if the water isn’t only in the country’s largest cities (each over six hours away).

The extra bonus to this workshop is that it will be offered in Tashelheit, the Berber dialect spoke in this region. Moroccan Arabic typically dominates these types of workshops, preventing Tashelheit speakers from truly grasping the concepts and excelling. Here’s their fair chance. If the best speaker on the topic only speaks Arabic or English, we will have a local translator on hand. That’s if all goes according to plan. Things never go according the plan. Expects bumps en route.

When I leave Anjie’s, it’s the heart of the afternoon, and I have more roaming to do. Riding my bike gives me the free-willing opportunity to tour around, sharing pleasantries, and stopping to indulge in conversation only when it suits me. Gone are the days of agonizing over demands for my time or my cell phone. I simply smile and nod, and continue on my way. Biking is great exercise for body and sanity.

I end my roaming at the women’s association. I want to finish to the alterations that I’ve started making on one of their woven handbags. We’ve been talking about experimenting with new product designs, and experimenting is one of my favorite hobbies.

Five of the six women are busy as bees, sitting at the looms, weaving sacks and pillow cases. One of the girls, Tuda, has gone to a nearby town for the day, maybe to visit family. I decide to hold off on telling them about the SPA grant until the funds are actually in the bank.

Its hard to believe that these women have been the source of frustration for me during my time here. They are all strong, diligent, good-humored, likeable women. Unfortunately, on many days, it seems that we have very little in common, and my language barrier never feels more blaringly apparent as when I sit down to chat among them.

This is the group with whom I had been assigned by Peace Corps to work, and this is where I am at a loss for words. The bridge is out. After having spent over a year in this village, I still cannot say what these ladies are aiming for, and I sure can’t tell you what they are capable of. But is it really possible that they are capable of nothing? I find that hard to believe. And so we’ve started to build, I think. At a casual pace, and only by sacrificing equal parts of me with equal parts of them. It can’t work otherwise. On the days that I’ve given too much, I only end up disappointed and they’re none the wiser. It’s a painful process for an over-achiever, believe me.

Moving on.

I returned to the house, drank coffee, black with sugar, and I’m now taking haven in my bedroom. I like my bedroom. It’s been decorated with bouquets of plastic flowers and family photos, including photos from my parents’ wedding, over 30-years ago. The mix of whimsy and nostalgia makes me grin. The floor is covered with busy Moroccan rugs, all handmade by girls and women in this village or other villages that I’ve visited during my time here. A few of the rugs are stacked along the far wall, creating a soft cushion for me to sleep on.

The rest of the family is in the “chambre” watching the wildly popular soap-opera, “Margarita,” about a Mariachi singing Mexican woman and a beautiful, albeit dastardly, cast of friends and lovers. Dubbed into Moroccan Arabic, its an experience everyone can nearly comprehend. That’s everyone but me, of course, but I relish the space Margarita has created for me. I hibernate in my room, reading, relaxing, or over-planning what I’m expecting to happen during my remaining time here. That time is shrinking, by the way. So it goes with a finite timeline. First I anxiously await its passing, then I try to slow it down as it speeds by. To combat this Slingshot Effect, I’m trying to live present tense. At least that’s what my Guru/Author suggested to me in Chapter One of the Meditation for Beginners guide that I borrowed from the Peace Corps library.

Thanks. I’ve exhausted this mood for writing. There’s still much left to say, but I find it better to let it simmer until the next urge hits. What I like about exhausting this urge for writing is that it also exhausts my urge to figure things out. Life is too big, and I’m not that confident. (Think that came somewhere between Chapter Two of Meditation for Dummies and noticing that my To-Do list does not actually have any bearing on what I will actually accomplish on any given day.)

I accept that I don’t fit the typical gender roles constructed in this village.  I travel alone. I go to the weekly market when I wish.  I have financial independence. I wear jeans.  I may as well be a man.  But then again, I also know how to weave. I sometimes wear skirts.  I can apply mascara.  Perhaps I am a woman.  I have a feminine name.  I do laundry.  Or at least I try to.  Many of the daily chores in the village are clearly assigned by gender.  Men lay brick, women knead bread.  Men buy vegetables, women care for the children. Men do the shopping, women gather the firewood.  I waiver between these roles nearly as much as I waiver about their relevance to my work here.  In my experience, the confusion is never more clear than when it comes to doing laundry.  For sixth months at the beginning of my service, I was living in an apartment on my own.  I would occasionally take my laundry down to the river to wash, partly because of its novelty and partly because I wanted to see what it entailed.  How hard was the work?  How clean were my clothes in the end?  I enjoyed it, despite the guilt of sending more Tide downstream, and the result was clean clothes.  It also became evident that the main factors in washing clothes by the river were A) having to haul the heavy, wet clothes back home and B) the social scene.  For a lot of women, washing laundry in the river is hard work but pleasantly social.  At first, I longed to be a part of that social scene, to be “one of the women” and share in the local news.  But then I quickly rescinded that desire.  Instead of joining in on the gossip, I became the gossip.  Women would whisper and stare in amazement. Sarah washes her clothes?!  Self conscious and paranoid, I would overanalyze how much soap I was using, how thoroughly I rinsed and how many pairs of underwear I had to wash compared to the other women. Often times, I’d simply wash my clothes in my apartment.  I could wash a while, let some things soak, cook lunch, and finish up.  I had only to haul wet clothes from my washin’ spot near the bathroom faucet into the spare room I used for hanging wet clothes as I had no rooftop access.  Clothes were clean and no one had to know. Well, all of that’s changed now, and I’m facing The Great Laundry Debate head-on.  Somewhere around Ramadan last year, I moved in with a family.  I decide that I hadn’t integrated quite enough yet, and I needed to get a fully authentic Moroccan experience.  I love living with this family.  My relationships in the community feel better connected, and a somewhat organic flow has started to develop between my work life and home life.  But now my ambiguous gender identity is even more apparent.  I’m continually faced with choices in which my decision to act or not act has an effect on others in the household and either deepens or refutes all sorts of conflicting stereotypes about being female or American or educated or “wealthy.”  We’ve awkwardly made some headway.  I’m not expected to cook meals or knead bread, but I do read books to the kids and I did make spaghetti for lunch the other day.  I help when what’s needed is painfully obvious and I stay out of the way the rest of the time.  Because it seems that there’s this other role for me.  It’s a unique place that includes brushing my teeth with the kids, explaining the wonders of internet, teaching the six graders in the community about art and geography, and setting up workshops for the women in the weaving association to learn new crafts and skills.  Ok.  That I can handle.  Feels less gendered and more me.  But I really don’t like someone else to have to wash my laundry.  Shortly after I moved in, I asked Zahara when she planned to go down to the river to wash.  I told her that I didn’t mind washing my clothes, but it can be lonely to wash by myself all the time.  Really, I was hoping to pick up some tips from her and to see where this family typically did their washing.  She assured me that she’d be going down to the river after awhile and that I could go along.  But, as the matriarch of the house directed me sit down for tea and a snack, Zahara took my clothes along with the huge pile gathered from the household and went to the river to wash.  On that particular occasion, I marched down to the river after my tea and snack with my own bucket, fuming.  I took back what were rightfully my soiled digs, and muttering to myself, washed my own clothes all by my own self.  It still pains me to say that after I finished washing my clothes, Zahara washed them all again.  The only saving grace on that day was that the women got into a discussion about pads and tampons.  They don’t use tampons.  Don’t know what they are.  Well, well.  I know what they are, and wasn’t shy to explain it to them.  Scooped up my ego and I was on my way. Months have passed now and I continue to struggle to do my own laundry.  I’ve been duped every attempt along the way.  One time, I tried to sneak up to the roof to wash before anyone knew.  No luck, Zeyneb showed up toting a new bucket of water and proceeded to wash, rinse and wring at lightning speed.  Only things I got to wash were the few pieces that I had been sitting on. What’s absolutely exhausting in all this is not beating the detergent into the clothes or hauling buckets, it’s trying to figure out the why in it all.  I drive myself crazy trying to figure out why they are so head strong to not let me wash my own clothes.  Or why am I so stubborn not to let them?  Do they think I do an awful job?  They think I’m to fragile for this kind of work?  Do they think that I’m somehow better than them and that I shouldn’t be sacrificing some virtue?  Is my role elsewhere?  Do they continue to see me as a guest?  Do I get in the way?  Is it rude that I don’t offer to help wash all of the household’s clothes the way other women in the house do?  Because admittedly, I really want to wash my own clothes, but washing the whole household’s clothes is crossing some personal boundaries for me.  A cultural flag does get thrown at the juncture for me, I’ll accept that. Despite the many unanswered questions, there was a shift last week. I managed to dodge the decoy of sitting down for tea, and accompanied Adjo down to the river bed with a small load of clothes.  With my own buckets and soap, I didn’t have to rely on anything from anyone else.  I positioned myself behind Adjo so that I could survey her techniques without her analyzing mine.  Hamdullah!  (Thanks be to God!) I managed to wash all of my own clothes.  I even managed to wash a jacket of one of Adjo’s daughters, and helped Adjo with her rinse cycle.  Naturally, she washed twice as many clothes as I did in the same amount of time, and I broke one of my buckets, but that just helps me to keep my ego in check. We took our wet clothes back to the house, Adjo’s kids helping with the load, and we hung them on the line on the wide open rooftop.  Most were dry when the stars came out.  I gathered my clothes, in fear that someone else would gather them and fold them for me before morning.  Then, I stealthily brought Adjo’s clothes inside, so that no one would realize that I was helping and try to interfere. I can’t say if I’ll ever figure out a lot of the whys that I’m asking while being here.  I can’t expect to understand or alter the deeply engrained status that is assigned here. But for my effectiveness and well-being, it’s necessary for me to carve my own place.  To create some semblance of a life that feels familiar, fulfilling and balanced.  And so, my clothes will get washed, and the debate will continue.  

I accept that I don’t fit the typical gender roles constructed in this village.  I travel alone. I go to the weekly market when I wish.  I have financial independence. I wear jeans.  I may as well be a man.  But then again, I also know how to weave. I sometimes wear skirts.  I can apply mascara.  Perhaps I am a woman.  I have a feminine name.  I do laundry.  Or at least I try to.  Many of the daily chores in the village are clearly assigned by gender.  Men lay brick, women knead bread.  Men buy vegetables, women care for the children. Men do the shopping, women gather the firewood.  I waiver between these roles nearly as much as I waiver about their relevance to my work here.  In my experience, the confusion is never more clear than when it comes to doing laundry.  For sixth months at the beginning of my service, I was living in an apartment on my own.  I would occasionally take my laundry down to the river to wash, partly because of its novelty and partly because I wanted to see what it entailed.  How hard was the work?  How clean were my clothes in the end?  I enjoyed it, despite the guilt of sending more Tide downstream, and the result was clean clothes.  It also became evident that the main factors in washing clothes by the river were A) having to haul the heavy, wet clothes back home and B) the social scene.  For a lot of women, washing laundry in the river is hard work but pleasantly social.  At first, I longed to be a part of that social scene, to be “one of the women” and share in the local news.  But then I quickly rescinded that desire.  Instead of joining in on the gossip, I became the gossip.  Women would whisper and stare in amazement. Sarah washes her clothes?!  Self conscious and paranoid, I would overanalyze how much soap I was using, how thoroughly I rinsed and how many pairs of underwear I had to wash compared to the other women. Often times, I’d simply wash my clothes in my apartment.  I could wash a while, let some things soak, cook lunch, and finish up.  I had only to haul wet clothes from my washin’ spot near the bathroom faucet into the spare room I used for hanging wet clothes as I had no rooftop access.  Clothes were clean and no one had to know. Well, all of that’s changed now, and I’m facing The Great Laundry Debate head-on.  Somewhere around Ramadan last year, I moved in with a family.  I decide that I hadn’t integrated quite enough yet, and I needed to get a fully authentic Moroccan experience.  I love living with this family.  My relationships in the community feel better connected, and a somewhat organic flow has started to develop between my work life and home life.  But now my ambiguous gender identity is even more apparent.  I’m continually faced with choices in which my decision to act or not act has an effect on others in the household and either deepens or refutes all sorts of conflicting stereotypes about being female or American or educated or “wealthy.”  We’ve awkwardly made some headway.  I’m not expected to cook meals or knead bread, but I do read books to the kids and I did make spaghetti for lunch the other day.  I help when what’s needed is painfully obvious and I stay out of the way the rest of the time.  Because it seems that there’s this other role for me.  It’s a unique place that includes brushing my teeth with the kids, explaining the wonders of internet, teaching the six graders in the community about art and geography, and setting up workshops for the women in the weaving association to learn new crafts and skills.  Ok.  That I can handle.  Feels less gendered and more me.  But I really don’t like someone else to have to wash my laundry.  Shortly after I moved in, I asked Zahara when she planned to go down to the river to wash.  I told her that I didn’t mind washing my clothes, but it can be lonely to wash by myself all the time.  Really, I was hoping to pick up some tips from her and to see where this family typically did their washing.  She assured me that she’d be going down to the river after awhile and that I could go along.  But, as the matriarch of the house directed me sit down for tea and a snack, Zahara took my clothes along with the huge pile gathered from the household and went to the river to wash.  On that particular occasion, I marched down to the river after my tea and snack with my own bucket, fuming.  I took back what were rightfully my soiled digs, and muttering to myself, washed my own clothes all by my own self.  It still pains me to say that after I finished washing my clothes, Zahara washed them all again.  The only saving grace on that day was that the women got into a discussion about pads and tampons.  They don’t use tampons.  Don’t know what they are.  Well, well.  I know what they are, and wasn’t shy to explain it to them.  Scooped up my ego and I was on my way. Months have passed now and I continue to struggle to do my own laundry.  I’ve been duped every attempt along the way.  One time, I tried to sneak up to the roof to wash before anyone knew.  No luck, Zeyneb showed up toting a new bucket of water and proceeded to wash, rinse and wring at lightning speed.  Only things I got to wash were the few pieces that I had been sitting on. What’s absolutely exhausting in all this is not beating the detergent into the clothes or hauling buckets, it’s trying to figure out the why in it all.  I drive myself crazy trying to figure out why they are so head strong to not let me wash my own clothes.  Or why am I so stubborn not to let them?  Do they think I do an awful job?  They think I’m to fragile for this kind of work?  Do they think that I’m somehow better than them and that I shouldn’t be sacrificing some virtue?  Is my role elsewhere?  Do they continue to see me as a guest?  Do I get in the way?  Is it rude that I don’t offer to help wash all of the household’s clothes the way other women in the house do?  Because admittedly, I really want to wash my own clothes, but washing the whole household’s clothes is crossing some personal boundaries for me.  A cultural flag does get thrown at the juncture for me, I’ll accept that. Despite the many unanswered questions, there was a shift last week. I managed to dodge the decoy of sitting down for tea, and accompanied Adjo down to the river bed with a small load of clothes.  With my own buckets and soap, I didn’t have to rely on anything from anyone else.  I positioned myself behind Adjo so that I could survey her techniques without her analyzing mine.  Hamdullah!  (Thanks be to God!) I managed to wash all of my own clothes.  I even managed to wash a jacket of one of Adjo’s daughters, and helped Adjo with her rinse cycle.  Naturally, she washed twice as many clothes as I did in the same amount of time, and I broke one of my buckets, but that just helps me to keep my ego in check. We took our wet clothes back to the house, Adjo’s kids helping with the load, and we hung them on the line on the wide open rooftop.  Most were dry when the stars came out.  I gathered my clothes, in fear that someone else would gather them and fold them for me before morning.  Then, I stealthily brought Adjo’s clothes inside, so that no one would realize that I was helping and try to interfere. I can’t say if I’ll ever figure out a lot of the whys that I’m asking while being here.  I can’t expect to understand or alter the deeply engrained stati that are assigned here. But for my effectiveness and well-being, it’s necessary for me to carve my own place.  To create some semblance of a life that feels familiar, fulfilling and balanced.  And so, I will trust that my clothes will get washed by somehow in some way, and let the good debate continue.  

My mom, dad and brother came to visit Morocco during July, and they were champs. My brother has done some traveling internationally and could only stay for one week because of work commitments. My mom traveled about 30 years ago, ironically to Tangier, and my father applied for his very first passport to come on this trip. They were staying for three full weeks. This was bound to be an adventure.

Naturally, they were the last ones to deboard the plane in Marrakesh, having gotten hung up by customs forms. I was there to greet them, along with Ismail and Brahim, from both the village, who were helping out as driver and host.

Now let's take a moment with Ismail and Brahim because that's a potentially confusing situation: Ismail makes a living with his 4 x 4 (henceforth called a "cat cat" from the French translation). He keeps it remarkably well maintained and works constantly. He's a reliable friend, and someone who I asked to take care for my parents, who agreed to pay him a fee for his services. Brahim, on the other hand, also a hardworking guy and reliable friend, was not being paid, but joined us on the trip to offer help and guide us to places that he knew and trusted. Also, quite frankly, he's the guy I plan to share the rest of my life with from now until we kick our respective buckets. The father of my children. That sort of thing. (He's great. You've got to meet him.) He came along to get to know the In-laws. (Did they like him?! Keep reading.)

So we left the airport and took them directly to a special place outside of the city where they were welcomed by nearly all of Brahim's brothers and plates of couscous, piled high and steaming. It was nearly midnight. So hungry from their travels and curious about this new dish, they dove into the communal plate. Even my brother Dan tried everything, who typically won't eat anything that was once growing!

Exhausted as my mom was, she asked questions of the kids – quickly realizing that the language barrier was no joke. Together we translated her questions as Brahim's teenaged niece dissolved into embarrassment and his 9-year-old nephew snickered and giggled. That sounds about normal.

The first week was a whirlwind as we whisked my family around southern Morocco, giving Dan a real tour before heading back home. We took a camel ride into the sunset in the deserts of Merzouga – a romantic place, but harsh. Splashed in the river nestled in the spectacular Tohdra Gorge. Filled up our water bottles at the springs of Goulmima. In my village, we had lunch with Brahim's family, where there was a lot of staring at one another in confusion and amazement. Dan and I set out one night to attend a real Berber wedding…which ended up being a bunch of folks hanging out in a dry riverbed. (That one I can't explain.) And we did a lot of laughing and chatting together.

[Doh! In my draft, I gave up this post for a more Bohemian-poet-and the sands of time attempt. Thats annoying. Guess you'll have to read the next post, and call my mom to get the full Young Family Power Point Presention!]

The dunes outside of Merzouga, at Erg Chebbi, are stunning, really. They appear surprisingly after a long trek through tarmac-like terrain. Turn the A/C onto full power, still the car windows are hot to the touch. We come to Auberge du Sud, this fortress in the sand. The afternoon is beginning to turn in as the tourists arrive with their guides. The desert boys welcome us home.

For me, it feels like home. I love the friendly crowd. The Moroccan guys serve hot mint tea and carrying baggage for travelers from all over the world. We wander into the dunes to share the sunset together, and this is the best time for dancing, exploring; sliding, drawing. Every mark and stroke soon wiped way by the winds.

Or we take a camel trek as the sun begins to dip. I'm surprised how clumsy these giants are, supposedly intended for this terrain. I marvel at their long eyelashes and hold on tight, for the dismount comes quickly and I'm far from the ground!

If only we could collect that sunset like we collect the sand in our shoes and our pockets. I know some days the wind blows harshly here, erasing the sky and scratching our faces; but today is calm and the sunset paints the sky. We've taken off our shoes and are relaxed; laughing and writing our names in Arabic script in the sand.

Later, we return back for a delicious dinner of eggplant pepper salad, beef with soaked figs, and baked chicken with rice, followed by a heaping plate of ripe watermelon. On this visit, we are exhausted, but smartly situated exactly where my family had come so far to see. We were here together, in this strange and wonderful place.

There have been other times I have visited this same place. Once I chatted with a young woman from Barcelona, and a couple from Sweden, as the sounds of the tom toms resonated into the night. The first time, I came only to meet this man I had become curious about. I pretended to have a different name and to have come from a different place. I dodged the travelers and intended to remain elusive in this courtship. Instead betwixt rondevous with this lovely guy, I sat with the cleaning ladies as they washed the sheets and prepared the limismn, the buttery flat Moroccan bread. So much for any hint of mysterious allure…

The uniqueness of the landscape in its remoteness and harsh tranquility lures and creates this space where people are open to share. We swap languages and stories while drinking bottles and bottles of water and Coke, watching out for scorpions, slowing down to keep pace with the winds.

For the overly integrated Peace Corps Volunteer, here are some friendly bits of wisdom for hosting visitors from the Home of the Brave.:

* No one likes flies. They are pesky and gross and will be noticed in spite of delicious food and incredible landscapes.

* Having a driver is remarkable, despite the comments from your male guests who would drive faster and better. There's so much we didn't have to worry about because we had someone to maintain the vehicle and who knew where to stop to buy gas, milk, etc.

* We all have our comforts that we cling to in foreign environments. Examples of this include Orange Fanta and swimming pools.

* My guests were somehow conned into saying "Bonjour" and "Merci." Don't let this happen to you. Perhaps educate them on the fact that this is a country of Arabic and Amazigh people. Remind your guests that they are English-speaking Americans. Choose one of the languages in this range to converse in.

* Public toilets are disgusting. Often stopping by the side of the road is a more pleasant alternative.

* It's possible to vacation here and ride on a "Western" surface. It's up to your visitor how far below the surface they want to go. As PCVs, we've gotten ourselves in pretty deep, but its important to remember that there are many things different about this place and America, even if you are still eating with forks and using Western toilets. Each can submerge themselves at their own pace.

* Tipping and saying "Thank you" is important. (And prices do vary with manners.)

* Be prepared for a million questions. And you know more than you realize.

* Camels are cool. And dangerous. Hang out tight for the dismount.

* Its wise not to rush into it, but by and large, the tap water here is fine. Perhaps better than consuming so much bottled water, only to leave the empty bottles behind. Recommend to your guests that they bring some of those Britta water bottle filters.

* There are all of these projects that we should be doing, and you'll talk about them with your guests. There are all of these efforts that we could be making…and if we just Google a little, or talk to these people, surely you can get these projects off the ground. Then your guests leave, and you are reminded that the nearest Cyber Cafe is 25 km away and that you don't actually have the technical language to explain to that person that idea you had. But you're still doing okay. In fact, you're doing great.

* They are impressed by what you're doing. I guarantee. Whether your guests are family or friends, world travelers or first timers, they're going to think that what you're doing as a Peace Corps Volunteer is really neat, and that you should just keep doing what you're doing.

* I'll tell you, it's tough after they leave. Even if they do bring Doritos and the good shampoo, but it sure is great that they came!

*Enjoy!

The Delete and Spacebar keys no longer work on my laptop’s keypad, nor does the Tab key or Down Arrow. Stop. My mailbox was full of letters from family and friends, my absolute favorite. Stop.

My host brothers devoured the gift I brought them back from Ouarzazate – a kids’ magazine written in Arabic. The four boys crowded around the colorful stories and pictures, often relaying the articles to me in Tashelheit. One story was about a giraffe who wanted to buy spots to improve his coat. They really enjoyed it. Stop.

There have been all of these ups and downs along the way.

One day I said hello to a woman from my village. I was surprised to see her in our nearby “souk town”, and I thought it unusual to see her at a café, where Moroccan women don’t often frequent. She told my girlfriend and I that she was on the way to the hospital. She had been pregnant, but the baby had died. It had taken her a few days to get the necessary paperwork – the baby still inside of her – and she was now on her way to the hospital to have the fetus removed. She was frank and nonchalant about it. Stop.

After teaching English one afternoon, one of my students, who is roughly my age, showed me her notebook. In awkward, yet accurate script, she had written “My Family” using the English alphabet. This is an accomplishment worth posting, and I commend her. She has never studied in school before. Her younger brother is currently earning his degree in Rabat, but she hadn’t been offered the same opportunity. He's studying physics and mathematics. She cooks meals, gathers crops from the fields and weaves rugs.

Many women share her same position: My neighbor moved 600 km from her family at the age 13 to be married; she had her first child at age 14. Another – a bright, sharp young woman – was allowed to continue her studies through High School, but soon she will turn 19. Her family has arranged for her to marry before this summer ends. They have engaged her to a soldier living on the coast, an 8-hour drive from her family. She has met him once. They’ve never kissed. She’s refusing to go through with this marriage, but I’m not confident that she has much say in the matter.

Stop.

A married woman is an incredible cook, a graceful hostess, a resourceful mother, and a defender of the sanctity of the home. She is a real asset to her family, filling many important roles. Stop.

Sometimes I find it difficult to clearly distinguish between an “up” and a “down.”

We gathered dandelion greens from the fields, which are brimming with green these days. Spring water runs down to the valley, providing for trees with almonds, walnuts, peaches, quinces, and apples. Corn, wheat, beans, carrots, turnips, and tomatoes are planted. Truffles and herbs are brought in from the mountains where the deer and the antelope play. Stop. Back up. Where the sheep and goats graze. Stop.

The dandelion greens were for soup. Delicious but bitter. Stop.

I saw a woman throw a mug at her daughter. The girl dodged it, but it lead to a fight in the other room. Everyone overheard. The daughter returned to the salon sobbing, nursing her arm that was red and swollen. Her mother, clearly panicked, was massaging and checking the injury, a result of their argument and the woman’s temper.

That night I worried. I slept near the girl and heard her cry through the night. Her arm was going to be fine. The swelling had gone down. There wasn’t even sign of a bruise. But what worried me most was what caused her mother to get so upset. The woman had asked her daughter to do something – tend to her younger siblings, clear the table, I don’t know – and the girl responded with “ur righ.” “Ur righ” in Tashelheit means “I don’t want to.” “Ur righ?!” the woman responded to her daughter with distaste, “Ur righ?!” and the mug went flying.

Stop. Now go on...

Most days, the women here gossip, dream, laugh, and are smart here as they are where I grew up. I have been relieved to find that they resemble the women who I respect and admire from home. I don’t want to neglect that point. But that deeply-seated reaction to “ur righ” will not soon leave me.

My own power of choice is dear to me and I acknowledge that my goal here –admittedly and purposefully – is to enact change of a positive kind. That has a lot to do with creating opportunities for Choice. But how do we go about that when choice could forever alter a trusted and tried family and cultural dynamic? How do we insist on choice when there are people who will be hurt in the process? Or a woman who may finally be able to recognize opportunity, but who will never be able to take it for its advantages? How do we offer the bait of choice to someone who has so much to lose from our safe seat on the other side? Don't stop. Keep going.

The day before yesterday, I had the most incredible day. I went out into the mountains with Zahara. She’s 13-years-old, and promises to be not only my new best friend, but my safe haven in many ways. First off, she seems to like me unconditionally, and secondly, she can skip and scale these mountains with more grace and ease than Trisha Brown at BAM. Thirdly, a whole afternoon will have gone by before I remember that we don’t speak the same language - because we do. It’s just that we have different words for things. So anyway, we went out on a great trek the other day. We made it out to the quiet part of the mountains where you can’t see anything but other mountains and each other. We came upon a nomad there, named Khadija. She prepared us tea over the fire, and we ate her bread, cooked over heated rocks. She taught us how to tie up the goat hide – the one with the goat’s milk wrapped up inside – and as she processed the milk, Zahara and I visited with the baby goats. There were nine of them. Even though my hands smelled weird afterward, it was fun holding them.

We drank the goat’s milk with Lalla Loohoo, who had come over from the next little cave over. Lalla had skin like leather, and wasn’t able to see out of one eye. The milk was super sour, but I’d drink it again any day. Khadija said it was difficult living out there, but she only did it for about 15 days at a time, then she went back to living in the house with her family. This is how she lived out every season but winter.

I can’t wait until Zahara and I have our next adventure. I like the rocky terrain of the mountainside. Full stop.

This month has been happening to me. Dumped, spilled, ran away with me - I’ve officially given up control! My goal since February 1, has been simply to survive the month. Starting out the month with weather so unbearably cold, and me unsure of my living situation post-host family, this goal felt reasonable enough. But now things have progressed. Now feels full of opportunity. I only hope that I can keep my optimism and my word on the plans I’ve made with my community and the big ideas I have for myself.

I've experience a series of changes, with change being what I can rely upon. I now have a place of my own. Four bedrooms, a kitchen, and a Turkish toilet all to myself. I’m enjoying the freedom of redefining each “scantily clad” room at will. Yesterday, I put the livingroom in the entryway…because I can. And after six weeks of teaching English to a group of girls, many of them have returned to their former chores, while a tenacious few keep showing up. We know that I could be a better teacher if I had more resources and could better speak their language, but we amble along. I figure we’re all learning something…not sure exactly what.

Also, my relationship with the boys working at the local hotels seems to be blossoming. That’s just great, she says with sarcasm. First she starts living alone, now she’s hanging around with boys. Those loose American women! Not true, though I’ll let you in on a little secret: The young men and the young women don’t talk much to each other around here. So, enter Sarah, the American. I’m happy to open the lines of communication – especially when the tour bus shows up, full of American tourists who came to see the Gorges. It just so happens that they want to buy a rug made by the locals, and I know a few women across the river who can weave a mean rug. Don’t know how I got here, but I sure am glad I’ve arrived.

First is my littlest host brother, then my other host brothers. One of the boys is actually a cousin, but lives with us because there's no school where his family lives. I also have three beautiful host sisters.

I'm the one in the shiny caftan and Berger headscarf. (NOTE: Not my daily attire.) There's a chance that I will be inheriting this kitchen. Midwestern girl meets tagine...should make for interesting cuisine!

It’s an incredible trip, really, but tonight I am frustrated. We had an amazing day today, but I’m starved for a way to share it. I was unable to charge my camera’s battery because we had no electricity yesterday (due to high winds) and I simply do not have the language skills to share what I saw…in any language, honestly. The gorges, that narrow winding corridor, is beyond my capacity to express! I was overwhelmed by the beauty much of the day. As I set out on this hike with my sister, Khadisa, and father, Mbarek, I had no clue what lay ahead. I only smirked as I reflected on previous hikes – never before had I packed a bag with bread we had baked, meat we had slaughtered, vegetables we had grown, a pan to cook it all in, and, of course, plenty of tea, sugar, and a teapot for a day’s hike.

We began ascending one of the red mountains protecting our village, braving the blustering wind and I assumed that the aerial outlook of our village and its neighboring “duwars” was the pinnacle of view, but it was only the start. I wished my friends were there with me, and my family, as we wound around to the backside of the mountain. My father pointed out caves, “ifri”, where the nomads stay during the summer, grazing their sheep and goats for a few weeks at a time, traveling from place to place. And eventually we began to gather brush, little by little, for what I assumed to be our lunch’s fire.

Last night on TV, we had watched a segment on rock climbing in Morocco. Shear cliffs were scaled by tourists with harnesses and rope. A Moroccan man was making a good living as a guide and we watched as he hammered a web of supports into the mountainside. This was another instance where I was kept quiet by my lack of words, and so I was quite relived by this mountain that we had to climb. No words were needed. Our task was apparent. Together we navigated the steep walls of the gorge, one arm reaching out for the next rock to hold while the other held onto the scraps of wood we had gathered.

Eventually we came upon this “ifri”, a wide cave-like overhang, huge and protective from the wind. Set deep towards the back, a few old water jugs sat in a nook. My sister grabbed one to take a drink. The jugs were collecting water as it dripped steadily from the rock. I watched as my sister put her mouth right up to the rock and let the water drip in. A perfect photo-op. Camera-less, I engrained the image in my brain. A drink of the clearest, purest of water. We used it to wash the vegetables and prepare our tea. My sister set to work right away, peeling the tomatoes as my father gathered more wood. I sat and watched, dumbfounded, as usual.

To interject, I’m exhausted by these days and it’s not due to over activity. Honestly, for all we hiked today, it’s probably still less clicks on my pedometer than an average day dancing and navigating the streets of New York City. Still, what’s exhausting is the constant inability to talk coherently, to understand what’s being said, and what’s happening in the present tense. It’s frustrating to want to contribute – and have the skills to do so, such as peeling a tomato or starting a fire – but not have the means to know when or how to offer help. It puts me to bed early and I sleep late!

As our lunch simmered in the fire, Khadisa and I explored an ifri above us, where a nomad had stayed, evident by the overhang, blackened by his fire. And we continued to page through the English to Moroccan Arabic Phrasebook that my father referenced often throughout the day. It’s Arabic, not Tashelheit, and he knows much more French than English, so many words like “cloudy” or “windy” go through this equation of langages before we arrive at a familiar word on each end. It occurs to me that he wants to talk to me, too. He wants to learn English, and has things about our hike and about his village that he wants to tell me, but can’t.

Khadisa grabs some leaves from a familiar plant and we add it to our tea. Mbarek calls it our “nomad tea” and we all say it’s “delicious”, Khadisa’s new and favorite English word. We keep the fire going as we eat our “dwas”. I sit on a rock that’s been warmed by the fire and Khadisa cooks the jaw of the ram we had killed for Leid. It’s like some extra snack that –thankfully – they didn’t insist that I eat. We left the most insistent family members at home. Today we were free!

The hike back was a different route and while it seemed familiar to Mbarek and Khadisa, it occurs to me know that it may’ve been a route they hadn’t taken before, or had, but was one of many. There were incredible photo opportunities – archways created by fallen rocks, perched like keystones between the walls of the gorge, inlets and ifris, rocks leveled off like tables and chairs.

Khadisa and I wandered and explored while Mbarek stopped to pray. I’d say that one day I’d take pictures of this place, and their culturally appropriate response, “Inshalleh” (If God wills), was as expected. But as we continued to wind along the path of the riverbed, then up and around and over, I laughed at my naivety. To think that I could expect to retrace our path and find this hidden treasure again another day…Inshalleh!

We found a white rock along the way and Khadisa was using it to write her name with the English alphabet on the rocks as we ascended up the backside of the mountain that faced our village. I helped her spell out her name and mine. I showed her that her numbers were the same as mine, hiding my surprise that she didn’t know. But why would she? She’s 15-years-old and I’m showing her how to write her name…in English, duh. Yesterday, she had written my name and hers in Arabic script on my hand. That maze of arcs and dots were foreign to me. Even score.

From above, we saw the hotels belonging to the families I had had dinner with over the course of Leid and also the source of our tap water. My father explained why no electricity meant no water and I asked myself again why they’re not using more wind and solar energy here…

Naturally, we were greeted at home with hot coffee, bread and warm soup. Everyone there tasted the clear spring water we had brought back in our water bottles. Then my mother, father and I went to another home for another holiday meal of cookies, kebabs, and dwas. Here I was stranded with the ladies to chat. Mbarek was with the men in another room and Khadisa had stayed home with the boys.

Y’know, it’s fine. They’re impressed by every word that I utter in Tashelheit, and the attention soon drifts away from me and onto other gossip of the day, but it’s tough. I feel more akin to Hamza, my baby brother who’s finding his first sounds and pushing around, eager to crawl. There was a girl, partially blind, at dinner too. She was perfectly capable of conversing and all the rest, but they were careful to hand her her tea or to help her grab a cookie…There’s a great start to some off-color joke…A blind girl, a baby and a foreigner are in a bar in South Milwaukee...

There are dogs here that get loose from time to time. Usually about five or six of them are on the prowl and I don’t know where they live. They rule the top of the hill.

Other times an unruly group of boys takes their place – none of which are my brothers. The other day I saw them all throwing rocks at a target up on the hill. They were trying to kill a snake. The dogs are dealt with by sticks; the boys with stern shouts.

There is a woman here who is the mother of eight, and she chops wood like it stole something. One rubber-loafered-foot holds that log down, while the other is solidly planted on the ground as she whacks away with the axe. She pulls and splices the log apart piece-by-piece, stopping now and then to greet a neighbor and insist the neighbor stay for tea.

And there is this holiday here that I had never heard of before. It’s happening now, and I’ve somehow found myself in the very middle of it. Holidays, exhausting as they are, now compounded for me by a family that’s five times the size of my own, all excitedly chatting in a language I barely understand about things that I have never known, like painting hands, and new pretty caftans, and killing sheep in the street.

Yesterday we slaughtered a goat, and tomorrow we’ll slaughter a sheep. A short prayer was said before my father slit the goat’s throat. Our mother held the animal’s legs to keep it steady. Blood ran down into the dirt, and we all agreed, “ishqal”. It’s difficult. My father skinned and cleaned the animal. Carefully cleaning and separating each piece as the boys watched or chased one another. One daughter cleaned out the stomach in a bucket.

The goat hangs from a beam in the kitchen of the house now. All the different parts neatly cut, cleaned, and separated and spread out on the table. Last night, as I helped my sister bake cookies, we ate kababs of liver, kidneys, and so on wrapped in fat that my mother had prepared. I was so relieved by how good they tasted, dreading having to swallow down something unbearable during the festivities! The boys were so excited, fighting and counting out the kebabs among themselves, promising me much more “tifiyi” to eat as the holiday continues. With visions of cookies, caftans, and the busy holiday season three-weeks earlier than I’m accustomed to, I fell asleep last night very curious for what’s to come.

The experience of being surrounded by a new language is one that is completely new to me. Language fills the room, and so much I can't decipher. I can no longer filter the sounds directly into my head for processing. There’s a cadence that I recognize but with words, I can barely distinguish one from another. I notice moreso the rhythm and pace of the silences and momentum within the conversations. I push myself to stay engaged. I could just as well be listening to a storm brewing outside, while those around me are privy to the code. They recognize the odd mix of sounds and breaks. Maybe they’re saying common everyday things, maybe sordid, juicy gossip, but unintelligent or wise, it reaches me all the same.

Yet it’s not as if I understand nothing. The world of abstract is quite apparent. The words only a fraction of what there is to understand. I’m relieved that I’ve arrived in Morocco without more knowledge of words. Those in my community can speak freely without any worry of my views or having to include me in the conversation (though they often do). They have this language to give to me before I can return the favor. It’s inseparable from the life, the culture, the people, the day. Like a child, I learn the language from the people I will speak to, doing the things I will need to talk about, in the context of the actions, so that words are not isolated, but carry meaning. That effort or nonchalance that gives meaning beyond a combination of letters is all inclusive. I see that language is strong and intertwined intricately with culture. That becomes a tool of power and a sign of respect. To embody another language is no easy task. Words are potent, but at the end of the day, only a fraction of what gives meaning to what’s being said.

During Community Based Training II, we continued to collaborate with the women of the ATMA weaving cooperative in Ait Hamza.

Taking into consideration my observations and the results of the PACA tools implemented during CBT I, I chose to focus my project on the health of the women, and the physical exhaustion and stress caused by working 40+ hours/week at the vertical Moroccan looms. This issue was one of the top priorities during the Needs Assessment of CBT I, and my suggestion to offer assistance in this area was met with great enthusiasm.

I designed a program to offer the ladies methods and exercises to do with one another, or on their own. These exercises can be done either at home or at the cooperative, wearing everyday clothes, and can be integrated into their daily routine. We began the workshops right away, and I offered six workshops throughout the two week session. The intention was to offer ways to warm and prepare the body at the start of the day, then to relieve stress and stretch muscles in the afternoon. With only slight variance, most of the same 8 women attended all sessions. Even a few of the female PCTs joined the afternoon sessions!

To encourage sustainability, I met with one of the weavers who showed particular interest in my sessions. On a Sunday morning, I met with Ytto, and her daughter, Moona, who studies English at their home. After sitting down to tea, we spent 30-minutes reviewing a series of stretches and strengthening exercises that I felt was appropriate to the weaver's needs and capabilities. With the help of Moona, I was able to explain to Ytto proper ways to approach the exercises, with possible alternatives for varying abilities. Ideally, I will create a pictorial "cheat sheet" of the exercises for Ytto to use as reference.

Because of the enthusiasm and interest of the women who participated in the "tamarin y harakut" (movement exercises) or "rryad'a" (sport), this project far exceeded my expectations. I perceive this as an important project, applicable to many sites in which the artisans are routinely physically active. Preparing the body for work, then relieving exhaustion at the end of the day has the potential to nurture productive workers. This could decrease delays due to injury and sickness, thereby increasing product output. In addition, this method offers an opportunity for socializing and participating in "sport," particularly for women. This can contribute to a sense of empowerment in regards to strength and capability, and an increase in individual awareness, which then could translate to a more positive and communicative work environment.

Ten reasons that I know I'm a PCT in Morocco and not a dancer in NYC:

* I sit through "sessions" nowadays. ("Sit" also encompasses wiggling, stretching, doodling, whispering & twiddling).

* I've transitioned from 250 sq feet and one roommate, to 5 square meters and three roommates.

* I eat a lot of dates.

* I actually get in trouble for sticking my legs up in the air during class. (That's weird)

* I have exponentially expanded my library of acronyms, including TLA (Three Letter Acronym)

* I can tell you that Henna smells like spinach

* The people that I spend the entire day with never see my elbows. (I adhere to "culturally sensitive dress".)

* "Culturally sensitive dress" does not include the gold fringed dress that I wore to the laundromat the last time I did laundry on the Lower East Side.

* I made it through two weeks in rural Morocco and used only 1/2 of a roll of toilet paper, and accrued less than 1/2 a bag of inorganic trash.

* The taxi driver who drove us the 60k back from the countryside never had to stop at a traffic signal, in fact, there aren't any traffic signals, and he barely even slowed down to allow the flock of sheep to cross the street.

We've completed our first week of "CBT" (Community Based Training) and with so many adjustments - but so much to learn - it's hard to determine how much we've progressed.

We are managing the Turkish Toilets (Read: Hole in the floor.), the bucket baths and the random hours of operation of the hanut. Language will continue to be our biggest challenge for awhile. After 4-8 hours of language lessons each day, I still return to my host family and can't say much beyond my name and the names of the food items on the table.

Because it's currently Ramadan, the eating schedule has taken some getting used to as well. A After the day's lessons, we're sure to arrive home for l-aftur, the breakfast at sundown. Dates, sweet chebekiya, crushed zmita, bread and more bread, and, of course, tea (with LOTS of sugar) are delicious. After a few hours of studying, I go to be early. I have to, because I have to be up in a few hours to eat again. At 3:30AM, my "mma" calls my name. Sarah! It's time for sHur. Meat, okra or carrots, sopping up the juices with bits of bread from a communal dish. The meal is followed by a flan-like finish. Again, delicious. Finished eating? Back to sleep. But I'm not fasting. I each lunch with the other trainees. I basically equate this eating schedule with college life - except instead of sHur, it's 3:30AM Pokey Sticks and Gumby's pizza.

The reason we are placed in this community is because of a co-operative of women weavers that live here. They're handiwork is incredible. Their current initiative is to begin to spin and die their own local wool rather than bringing in yarn from Fez, nearly two hours away. The PCV currently working with this co-op is helping them to update their brochure to distribute at festivals and conferences. We're here to learn about the community and to practice our technical methods for assessing their knowledge, skills, and attitudes. We'll then design individual short term projects to try to help them continue to improve their situation.

The walk home at sunset is my favorite time of day. One of the other PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees), Maggie and I have the longest walk home. Imagine a small rural village with only one hanut and one butcher in town. We live in that villages suburb. We walk past the cornfields and towards the mountains on a rocky dirt road. The clouds and the sky are incomparable. The clouds are a heavy white, and the the sky this lovely deep cornflower blue.

From Azrou, Morocco; I’m sitting on the rooftop dressed in white. Seems appropriate with the breeze of the evening, the quiet streets, the bold, worn tiles and cushioned banquettes. Can’t claim to be clean, necessarily, but I hesitate to wash the day away, for fear that I may forget new Tamazight words from the day’s lessons. Today we’ve begun to prepare for our visit to the rural villages of the Middle Atlas Mountains to continue our training. For two weeks, starting on Sunday, I’ll be with five other trainees in rural Morocco, learning an obscure Berber dialect called Tamazight. The l’auberge is all a flutter with speculations of what life will be in these new sites and who our host families will be. Language training is going alright, but we have so far to go, and no real method to our learning at this point. We have only to stay positive and allow the future to come. This is not a first choice for many of us who much more often take matters into our own hands. Good for us. Maybe we’ll learn something.

My roommates are brushing their teeth, and the dogs are barking outside; it must be time to get to bed. We’ll start with language first thing in the morning, so I need to get my sleep. So far things are going well. Everything is too new to have time to miss everyone back home yet, and I figure there will be plenty of time for that later on. For now, I’m loving this chance to practice just being here, learning, and sharing this experience with these new people. I feel the threads beginning to connect us together, and trust that we are going to rely on one another in the years to come.