I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

For a culture of women who commonly cover themselves from head to toe, all bets are off when you enter a hamman.  It’s a large tiled room with high ceilings, with faucets lining one wall, hooks for clothing on the opposite wall, and a whole lot of naked women.  It is not a place for the modest or shy, but if you can set your modesty aside for a couple of hours, it is precisely where you need to be if you want to shed layer after layer of dead, dirty skin.  The traditional head scarves are gone as well as every other article of clothing, except the panties, which a few donned, and we were happy to follow suit.  (We, meaning Dee Dee, Mimi, and I).

We were given a heads-up by one of the women in the house about what to expect. However, it still came as a bit of a surprise when we stepped into what I would consider the “lobby,” and just feet from the door, slatted wooden benches lined the walls, with several women in varying degrees of nakedness simply enjoying a chat with their friends.  OK, so we were in the “changing room”… so… when in Morocco…we all followed suit and started undressing.  Check your modesty at the door,  as there’s no place for it here.

Once down to our panties, we handed our clothing to the woman behind the desk, who promptly put them in a storage bin.  At that point, Mimi and I both realized that we had forgotten to bring a towel, but figured we’d sort that out when we had to.  I asked the woman behind the front desk if there was one I could buy, rent, or borrow, and between her Arabic and my broken French, no information was exchanged, which I took as a “no.”
We were then escorted into the warm, high-ceilinged, tiled room (which by the way was, thankfully, very clean) and given a mat to sit on.  We were each assigned to a woman who happened to be from the group behind the front desk, but now they, too, were naked, except for swimsuit bottoms.  They then began to prep for the “treatment” (due to lack of a better word) by filling several buckets with perfectly temperate water and placing them near where we were seated.  My attendant didn’t seem nearly as cheerful as the attendants Mimi and Dee Dee had and seemed rather annoyed with me when I didn’t naturally know what to do next, which basically was to sit still. At the same time, she doused me with dipper after dipper of warm water, followed by a generous soaping of my body with traditional black Moroccan soap (a soft, black soap that doesn’t suds up but feels very rich, almost oily).

After a few minutes of waiting for the soap to soak in and do its magic (I’m making that up because I had no idea why my attendant left… maybe she just wanted a tea break…), I was rinsed again, and then the fun began.  My attendant used a hand scrubber that looked like a mitt-sized Scotch-Brite pad, similar to one you would use to scrub a dirty pot.  And as if I WAS the dirty pot, Fatima (seriously, I was all but naked around her, I should at least call her by name…), went over every inch of my skin and scrubbed my skin with short, forceful strokes, while flipping,  turning, and stabilizing me with her free limbs.  With no common language between us, I let the bigger and stronger Moroccan woman go about her scrubbing business, moving me as she needed to, rather than try to anticipate where and how she wanted me.   If I were a wrestler, I might know the name of some of the holds she was using, but I’m not, so I will say that although it wasn’t exactly painful, neither the torquing nor the scrubbing,  it was nothing to sleep through either.   I was almost afraid to look at all the sand that must have been piling up next to me after spending the weekend in the desert, but no doubt it was nothing that hadn’t been seen countless times before.

So here I was, nearly naked, lying face down on a tiled floor with a large Moroccan woman scrubbing just about every inch of my body, thinking that this might even beat riding a camel in the desert as far as surreal feelings go… I shared this experience with two women whom I’ve known for less than ten days, one with whom I slept inches away from in a tent after less than a week of our introduction, and both of whom I found myself next to, while nearly naked, in a hammam.  I’m making fast friends here in Morocco!  After all the scrubbing was complete, Fatima washed my hair (I had a heads-up, so I brought my own shampoo).  It was a most delightful experience, and I don’t think my hair has ever felt cleaner.

After the scrubbing, the washing, and the rinsing, we were escorted into the adjoining room, which was quite a bit hotter, and told (via international body language) to stay there for no more than 20 minutes, then re-rinse in the first room and you’re done!  Of course, once back in the lobby, I think all of the women who worked there got a kick out of seeing what Mimi and I were going to do without a towel.  I used my sweatshirt, and Mimi just put her clothes on over her wet body.  There was quite a bit of chuckling from our “scrubbers” who were now back in their clothes and behind the desk.

One of the sweetest things I saw was a little girl, about 5 or 6, scrubbing a bucket full of Barbie dolls.  She had just finished her scrub, and it was now her Barbie doll’s turn.  The hammam is for all ages, a family thing,  although males and females do go to separate rooms, or
possibly even separate buildings, as I saw no hint of a man in the vicinity, thank goodness.
The whole process took a little over an hour and cost less than ten dollars, which included a tip for my attendant.   It’s a very popular ritual here, Mohamed told us, done weekly by those who can afford it.  That could explain the beautiful skin Moroccan women have, though you can see very little of it outside the hamman, that is… I will definitely do it again while I’m here, as my hurried showers with little hot water are hardly getting the first layer of dirt off, let alone several layers, like I was able to do this afternoon.  My students this morning were anxious to hear about my hamman experience and whether I liked it.  Did  I want to do it again?

And most importantly, is there anything like it in America?  I think they were delighted to know that I not only enjoyed it but was planning to do it again.  So far, so good on all things Moroccan that I’ve tried, although I already gave them a heads up that I will not be a part of eating sheep’s head.  I publicly drew the line.

Last Friday, I spent my morning working at the children’s orphanage because the women’s center where I’m teaching English is closed on Fridays.  The orphanage was challenging, but I’m grateful for the placement I received, as working there this morning was very difficult for me. The room I worked in was large, bright, and immaculate, and had probably 10 or so cribs and a large playpen in the center of the room, where two of the bigger boys were situated. Initially, I assumed that the children were toddlers, maybe the oldest 5 or 6, but once I started feeding them, I saw that they all had their permanent teeth (they were all fed some formula, but the bigger two in the playpen, who were spoon-fed milk-soaked bread.   I later learned that most were in the pre-teen to young teenager age group, although there were a few that even the workers knew exactly how old they were.  I must admit to being a bit surprised when I saw pubic hair on one of the girls whose diaper was being changed next to me.  That told me a great deal about their age.  Their tiny bodies were contorted, and their limbs were bone-thin. When I picked a few of them up to move them, they were hard to carry, as their bodies didn’t conform to mine as I was used to, but rather were stiff and unyielding.  I was also terribly afraid I would hurt them, so I was being overly cautious.

Illegitimate children in Morocco are considered outcasts, non-people or bastards, and given that unmarried sex is illegal in Muslim countries, the stakes are very high for a woman who finds herself pregnant without a father who is willing to marry her and accept the responsibilities.  There doesn’t seem to be any repercussion towards the man who gets the woman pregnant, but rather, it is entirely the burden for the woman to carry.  Although recent legal reform says that an unmarried woman may register her child to make them available for social programs, with the father’s consent or not, this is not a law that seems to be followed, and women still seem to be paying the price.  This is why so many children end up in orphanages, as they are literally the babies who are “thrown away” by the mother to protect herself. The children at this orphanage are totally dependent upon others for their care, and from what I saw, couldn’t do anything on their own short of crying to indicate distress.  During my time there, I was able to go up to the 3rd floor, where the youngest babies reside.  They were absolutely adorable, and most of them looked healthy and would be considered “adoptable.”  The adoption standards are rigid, though, as only a Muslim can adopt a baby in Morocco, and even though they may bring them up as they choose (in a Muslim family), they must promise to keep the baby’s given Arabic name.  The whole process can take years, and there’s a reluctance to adapt to families living outside of Morocco, even if they are Moroccan.  The children with physical limitations, like the ones I was working with, aren’t considered adoptable, and even if there was someone who wanted to adopt them, the orphanage is reluctant, fearing that the families would not be able to handle the burden and would leave the child once again.

Initially, I wasn’t sure what my role was going to be once all of the kids had been fed (they were
bathed and in clean clothes before we arrived), but it didn’t take long to realize that once their bellies were full, all these kids wanted was some attention and physical touch.  A simple caress of a cheek with gentle words or singing was enough to calm them down, and more than once, I was able to get a few smiles or a hand that would reach through the crib bars to touch me.  I had to keep reminding myself that they weren’t toddlers, but children, because they fit in a normal-sized crib.  There was one girl who tugged at my heart and with whom I spent most of my time. She had beautiful brown curls and huge brown eyes and was so contorted that her little body barely took up half of the space in the crib.  She was wearing a child-sized, red “ROCK THE BAND” tee shirt that made mention of a music festival in Buffalo, NY.   My reaction vacillated between sad, as it seemed to make her appear even more vulnerable than she already was, and happiness, simply because of the irony of it.  That being said, I did tell her several times that she rocked the shirt, and for some reason, that became a connecting thread for us, even though she, of course, had no idea what I was saying.  My tone, however, I’m sure she understood.
As much as I’ve enjoyed learning about the history of Morocco and the traditions of its people (Muslim lessons will begin later this week), I’m finding that I know a great deal about a culture through observing how its most vulnerable are treated.  I saw this at Mother Theresa’s in Perú and again at the orphanage in Rabat.  Because of medical issues, which I’m sure are a result of poor prenatal care coupled with difficult births, most likely without medical assistance, most of these children will have a significantly shortened life span.  It was genuinely touching to see the women at the orphanage work tirelessly and with such love to ensure that these children have the best life possible.  All of their cribs were made up with colorful bedding and had at least one stuffed animal propped up where it was visible to the child.  The clothes they wore were clean and gender-specific (which was a good thing, as I was having a hard time determining the gender of a few of them).  I was deeply touched by the love I saw in that room.  When I went upstairs to peek in the baby’s room, I had to wonder about the ones that may not ever get adopted and will end up spending their entire life in the orphanage, and what they could become if raised in the protective embrace of a loving family.  The staff does the best it can, but there are not enough employees or volunteers to give these children the attention and the touch that they are so hungry for. Given the time I’ve had to process this initial visit, I’m sure my time at the orphanage this Friday will be a bit easier, but that’s not to say it won’t come with a tear or two.  Gratitude.  For so much.  I can’t begin to express….

There are no photos allowed inside the orphanage to protect the children, but I did manage to take a picture of myself outside the building, complete with the jacket they like us to wear to protect our clothing.

How many Moroccans does it take to get someone out of a locked bathroom? Sadly, I know that answer… it was four.  One to shout directions to me in Arabic from the other side of the door, one to start tearing the jam down with a crowbar, and two to watch.

I spent the weekend with three of my housemates on a jaunt to the Sahara to ride camels and sleep under the stars… well, not exactly under the stars, as we were in a tent, but pretty darn close.  It’s hard to describe how magical the camel ride was and the sleeping out in the desert in the middle of nowhere, but I have to admit, when I returned to the house tonight, the first story that came out was me getting stuck in the small bathroom in my hotel room.

Because it was a 10-hour drive from Rabat to where we would ride camels and camp in the Sahara, we arrived pretty late, so we stayed in a local hotel, where we would board our camels the following day for our trek to the campsite.  The bathroom door lock was not functioning properly from the beginning, and I wouldn’t have even used it except that it was the only way the door would shut, and I felt it was a courtesy to Mimi, my roommate for the evening.

Shortly after breakfast, I returned to the room to get my things, used the bathroom to get ready for the trek, and when I tried to unlock the door, it wouldn’t budge.  I fiddled around with it for a few minutes when Simone (one of the other girls I was traveling with) knocked on the door to tell me they were ready to go.  When I told her I couldn’t get out, I heard her go down the hall shouting “….uh….we’re going to need some help here…”  And that is when the four Moroccan men showed up and started shouting directions to me in Arabic.  I wasn’t having any luck explaining to them that it wasn’t the door handle that was jammed, but the lock below it (honestly, I don’t know why I said anything, as they couldn’t understand a word I was saying).    I was in there a good 15 minutes before I saw a crow bar rip apart the door jam to free the lock.
I was starting to panic a bit, as the bathroom was very small and I wasn’t sure exactly how they were going to free the lock, short of knocking the door down.  When the door was finally opened, and I saw the damage to the jam, I looked at them with a thankful, yet oh so apologetic look, and they just shrugged their shoulders and smiled as if to say…”No problem, it happens all the time…” (which I’m sure is not far from the truth).

I was leery of bathroom doors with funky locks the rest of the weekend… and that included most of the ones I saw.  Between trying to hold the door shut with my foot and leaning forward to keep it shut with my hand, I decided the easiest (and safest) route was to let it swing open and forgo privacy, which I did. Fortunately, it seemed to hit the public bathrooms, not the others.

After a weekend of magic in the desert with a camel trek, a full moon, and a night under the stars, honestly, it was the getting locked in the bathroom story that came out first to my housemates once home.
The rest of the weekend, I’m savoring and will share in pieces…

Give it time and have patience…

Today, during an impromptu study of adjectives, I had each of the six students come up with three positive adjectives describing someone they knew, without repeating any.  The next-to-last student at the table described her best friend with these three adjectives:

1.  She’s beautiful

2.  She’s stylish

3.  She’s slender

The last student, a 20-something young man with a continual smile on his face and twinkle in his eye, had only one response when I asked him for his three adjectives, and it was:

“I want that girl’s phone number.”

And we’ve connected… the teacher and the students.
This is real learning.  We’re getting to know each other well enough that humor is beginning to filter into the lessons….
Today was a much better day.

My name is in there somewhere…

One last thing… in the short amount of time I’ve been here, I’ve already become accustomed to the bells, that sound more like fog horns, that signal prayer time…  four times a day..

This is what I learned today… (Or at least what stood out).  Arabic is a challenging language, but I had kind of figured that out before I came, so I’m not going to count that as one.

1. TRUE Argon oil (very popular here) comes from the Argon tree, which is only grown in one city in the world… Agadir, Morocco, which also happens to be the hometown of our house manager.  Goats climb the argon trees and eat the hard shell off of the nut, which then falls to the ground and is harvested.  I’m hopeful to be able to witness this… trees filled with goats.  Mohammad said it looks a lot like a tree full of birds, only of course they are goats, not birds.  Seems like something worthwhile to seek out.

2.  Bread is considered sacred (it is a very bread-centered diet here… again, died and gone to heaven on the food here…) so all bread scraps must be put in a separate container when we clean up our plates after mealtime.  The leftover bread is then fed to animals.  All other trash is thrown out.  No recycling (or at least not here…)

3.  If you are Moroccan and want to get a hotel room with someone of the opposite sex, you must show proof of marriage.  It is illegal for Moroccans to share a hotel room unless married.  This does not apply to other nationalities.

This is a fascinating country, and our in-country manager, Mohamed, is extremely personable and very knowledgeable.  He served in the Peace Corps, has a law degree, is fluent in several languages, and has an incredible sense of humor.

You know you are far from home when you have to go through two other translations before you finally hear English. Still, you’re discouraged that you can’t understand a word of your native tongue, which is hidden behind a very thick Arabic accent with a significant French influence.  And then there’s the signage, as beautiful as it is curious.

The journey to Rabat was long… not because it was all that far (a “short” two hour flight from
Paris), but because the most significant part of the flight, Boston to Paris, felt more like a Kansas City to Albany run given the size of the plane…knee to knee, elbow to elbow, bad food and generous pours on cheap wine, all adding up to a not so great experience, short of a lovely French woman sitting next to me (seriously, are we ever so intimate with strangers but on a plane?) who was interested in what I was knitting and pulled out her phone to share photos of her recent knitting projects.  Sometimes words aren’t necessary.  I love that.

The house where I’m staying is small but very charming and efficient.  It’s also immaculate, and I would feel totally comfortable eating off any part of the floor, where, by the way, shoes are not allowed.  Barefoot all the way.  I will be sharing my small room with two bunk beds with another girl, whom I haven’t yet met, as she is away this weekend.  I’ve taken cues from her neatly stacked belongings and have tried to organize my things with that in mind. I’ve copied her and am using the top bunk to lay out my clothes, as there isn’t another spot to put them. I couldn’t help but think back to my college dorm days, waiting to meet my roommate, whom I didn’t know and whose bed was mere feet away from mine.

Tomorrow, the four volunteers who arrived today and I will have our orientation, when I will learn more about what I will be doing during my time here. Mohamed, our house manager, said I may be the only one from the house placed at the women’s center, as it sounds like everyone else will be working at the orphanage.  The unknowing, going to bed with new sounds, new smells, and new sensations, reminds me of why I love this so much, which surprises my orderly, Virgo side.  It takes me back to so many first nights in new countries when I teetered between waking up in the middle of the night with feelings of what the hell am I doing?, to not being able to fall asleep because I was so anxious for it to be morning when I’d be able to get a closer look at my new temporary home and learn more about where I’d be volunteering.

There were only four of us in the house tonight as the rest of the group was traveling for the weekend. We had a lovely light supper of lamb, rice, fruit salad, roasted fennel, Moroccan soup, homemade bread, dates, pomegranates, and a combination of sautéed vegetables.  Not only was it a beautiful spread, but it was also delicious.
For now, I’m tucked in my lower bunk, ready to sleep off some of this jet lag.  I’m soaking in the smells and sounds of this new city, new country, new continent, and it’s feeling pretty fantastic.  I can smell a hint of jasmine that is coming through the billowing curtains of my open deck door. Perfection.

I need to add a disclaimer regarding editing. I’m not used to my new iPad combined with my blog site that’s totally gone French on me ( I definitely need to learn how to say “delete” in French and quit pushing that button.) This was quite a challenge for me to complete this tiny task of typing tonight. I’m hoping I can blame most of it on jet lag, but that may be overly hopeful. So ignore the obvious, including the creative indents that insist on being present regardless of what I do.

Salaam from Rabat!

Laurie Sunderland, reading from right to left.

In a few days, I’ll be leaving the many comforts of home and stretching my travels a bit farther than my usual 677 miles east or west down I-70.  I’ll be headed to Morocco, where I’ll be living in Rabat for three weeks.  I’ll be spending my time volunteering at the Feminin Pluriel, a women’s center that utilizes social, cultural, and educational activities to empower women.  That being said, I really have no idea what I will be doing.  The language barrier is a bit daunting to me right now, given that I don’t speak Arabic, and I’m going to assume they don’t speak English, but I may be wrong.

Several months ago, I went through the motions of thinking I’d learn some basic phrases in Arabic. I bought the book, turned a few pages, and got discouraged.  Then there’s the whole Arabic characters situation, which, although quite lovely on the page,  is all very unfamiliar and overwhelming.   I will never complain about the subjunctive tense in Spanish again.  The book tells me that with a vocabulary of only a few hundred words, I will be able to “survive in an Arabic-speaking country and even communicate some thoughts.”  I’m still working on “good morning” (sabaahal kyayr), but am not sure how far the one phrase will get me especially once the sun goes down.  I think I’ll bring my knitting.  That’s one thing I can teach without words.  And photos.  Pictures tell stories without words.

This will be my second volunteer trip with the Cross Cultural Solutions organization (my first being to Peru) and my first time in Africa, which feels very far away to me right now… 4,681 miles to be exact.  While preparing for this (ie, packing, unpacking, rethinking, then repacking, etc.) I find myself teetering between feelings of excitement and anticipation, laced with a bit of what the hell am I doing?  I’ve been down this emotional path before while anticipating the pathways to new adventures. Whether it’s on a mountain trail by myself, or getting ready to travel to a foreign country for three weeks by myself,  where I don’t speak the language and know little about the culture,  I think a bit of fear and trepidation is good.  I believe it helps keep me safe.

I’m guessing people will ask me when I return home, What did I do? Did I help build houses, schools, or develop programs that will live on long after my stay?  And I’ll answer just as I did when I returned from Perú—none of those things.  But what I did do was, I listened.  I held hands.  I accepted gracious invitations into homes with dirt floors and was invited to sit on couches that scared me because of the rodents that I’m sure were sharing the cushions. I danced to Peruvian music that I never could find the beat to, and painted the thick, dirty nails of grateful abuelas with old, sticky nail polish while I held their hands in mine and recognized the thread of vanity that connected us both.  I listened to countless stories of abuse, fear, and pain told to me by some of the strongest women I’ve ever met.  I laughed with them.  I cried with them.  I held their hand and accepted their affection.  I immersed myself in a culture that I thought I knew about before going, but really had no idea.

But what did you DO???

What I did was learn that the world is far bigger than the country where I comfortably reside, and that there is so much to be learned from the handful of third-world countries I’ve spent time in.
I learned how much I take for granted—clean water for starters.  I saw a lot of sickness that resulted from drinking the local water without adding bleach to it first.  Seriously.  Bleach.  While we run our water through filters that are supposed to remove impurities, these people were adding drops of the same substance that has warnings on its label not to ingest. Fortunately, I had the luxury of bottled water at my disposal while in Peru, unlike so many in the community where I stayed.  One of the first things my daughter, Emery, said to me during our initial stay in Perú was how little the people we were volunteering with had, yet how happy they were, and maybe, just maybe, they had a much better understanding of what makes a person happy than we did.  What a beautiful realization for an 18-year-old to recognize about life.  To see such joy on the faces of people who live their lives in a constant struggle to survive was a lesson to us both on the importance of living in the moment and finding gratitude in the simplest of things.

I have no idea what to expect during my stay in Rabat, but am guessing many of the experiences will mirror those from Perú, which is what has attracted me to volunteer again with this organization.

Years ago, during my second attempt at college, I decided to major in anthropology after sitting through the first lecture of a cultural anthropology class.  Before signing up for the class, I wasn’t sure what the study of anthropology was.   After making a definitive declaration that my major was going to be cultural anthropology with a minor in Spanish, I was asked countless times what I planned to do with my Anthropology degree and Spanish studies. Teach Spanish,  perhaps?  I really had no idea.  Almost 30 years later,  it’s all starting to make sense.
Although I’m feeling nervous and have no idea what is ahead for me in the African country of Morocco, or “al-Mamlakah al Maghribiyyah” (المملكة المغربية), which translates to the Kingdom of the West, this feels exactly like what I’m supposed to be doing right now.

I look forward to writing my blog posts from Rabat, as much as time and the internet connection allow.  So, for now…. as-salaamu alaykum – the most common Arabic greeting and one that thankfully gets shortened to “salaam”, which means peace be upon you.

I’m going to call that “how to communicate without fuss or fear… instantly!” false advertising…