Life as a Peace Corps volunteer can be very lonely. Some volunteers have site mates – volunteers from other sectors living in the same town – but these can be hit or miss, and some volunteers don’t have them. There may be a few people who speak English, but they often don’t understand everything you try to say, and frequently don’t understand the cultural contexts that make it so comforting to speak with someone of the same linguistic identity. You may be in a relationship, but that’s not easy, either. If you left someone back home, you probably talk as much as you can, but you’d probably also trade all that talking for a single hug. If you didn’t leave someone behind (or, unfortunately, sometimes even if you did), you could meet someone here, but that comes with as many or more problems of its own. In a gender segregated society, it’s not always the easiest to just go out on a date. It’s illegal for Muslims, and it’s frowned upon for foreigners. Most tourists do it anyway, but most tourists aren’t trying to integrate into conservative rural or semi-urban communities. Having a PCV boyfriend or girlfriend happens plenty, but requires all sorts of subterfuge. Having a Moroccan boyfriend is similar. Having a Moroccan girlfriend is all but impossible unless you convert to Islam and marry her. Before you start dating.
In the face of so many obstacles to companionship, most volunteers turn to the next best thing: kittens. Pessimistic Moroccans tend to complain about the absence of natural resources here in the kingdom that forces them to become a nation of servants pandering to the swarms of tourists looking for orientalist romance. There’s some truth to this. Tourism is by far Morocco’s number one export. They’ve got a few more, most notably sardines and phosphates. If the international markets ever move in the direction of cats, they’ll be ready for that one, too. The reason is simple: Morocco suffers from an acute lack of Bob Barker. The animals just run free and do what they want, which mostly consists of scavenging in the garbage and gettin’ busy. It would probably be a geneticist’s dream to come and observe the various recombinations of color patterns in he kittens. Most of the time, though, it just makes you feel a little sad to see all the kitties scrounging in the street.
And so, I’ve decided to address both of the these problems by getting a pet cat. It’s one less kitten in the street, and something to talk to at home without feeling like a crazy person. And she definitely keeps me busy. She’s still very small, but she’s full of energy. Probably because she sleeps all day while I’m gone waiting for me to get home and play – whether I want to or not. Her favorite games so far seem to be run-around-like-a-crazy, ambush-Duncan-from-around-the-corner, and jump-on-the-computer. It’s adorable, most of the time.
It wasn’t always like that. The first day that she lived with me was probably the hardest of my entire service. She came from a carpet salesman I met in our seminar site, about 45 minutes away from Freedonia, so she obviously did not enjoy the trip through the mountains to get home. When she got here, though, she ran into my bedroom, ran under the bed, and stayed there. All day. She didn’t eat, she didn’t drink, she didn’t mew, she didn’t move other than to shake uncontrollably. It broke my heart, and I was pretty much convinced that I had committed a horrible crime against nature and began contemplating how to violate out-of-site policy so I could bring her back to her home before the following weekend, by which point I was fairly certain she would be dead from starvation. At some point, however, after I had pulled her out from under the bed to try and show her some affection and trick her into liking me, she accidentally stepped in the water dish I had laid out for her and unconsciously drank about 7 laps worth until she splashed it in her face and scared herself back under the bed. I was so happy I almost cried; at least her instincts would prevent her from killing herself. It took until the next day when I bought her some chicken liver for her to start adapting to the new digs.
A week later, I named her Amal. It’s a Moroccan tradition to name new-born children a week after their birth in a massive ceremony (I haven’t witnessed one of these yet, so I hope to write more about it later) after sacrificing a ram. I obviously didn’t do that, but I did make some very successful jokes with my host family about slaughtering a mouse. I didn’t actually do that, either. So, why Amal? Amal, if you couldn’t figure out from the heading, means “hope.” It’s also a standard girl’s name, so that met criteria number Amal, if you couldn’t figure out from the heading, means “hope.” It’s also a standard girl’s name, so that met criteria number 1: be a Moroccan name. Furthermore, “hope,” as all of you undoubtedly know, is Rhode Island’s motto, which meets criteria number 2: be related to my home in some way. Finally, however, Amal was born on January 20th, 2009, also known for having been President Obama’s inauguration day, meeting criteria number 3: be related to President Obama.
And so a little description. Amal is a gray tiger, with a bright white stomach and white feet, and has greenish-blue eyes. She’s currently very small, though that will probably not be the case forever. Her favorite hobbies include sleeping, running across the computer keyboard while I’m typing, eating, and freaking out like a madcreature when she sees, smells, or thinks about cheese. I’ve got a watergun for keeping her in line about most things, but when cheese is involved, not amount of soaking will quell her berserker rage. She also likes to play with string.
So, now I have my new best friend to keep me company here in Morocco and to give me countless new opportunities to make my neighbors look at me like I’m from Mars and ask themselves what the Hell goes on in the world outside of Freedonia where people actively choose to keep cats in their houses.
I just need to get the poor little lady fixed before the vengeful spirit of Bob Barker falls on me with all its wrath.
