The Fortress of Solitude

The first two months of volunteer service are probably the most challenging. The language is still new; the culture is still somewhat mysterious. You don’t know the people you need to work with and the people you need to stay away from, you don’t know the shortcuts through town or where everything is, and you can't get the things that you need or want without asking someone for help. You haven’t developed your emotional support network or found your groove yet. You still don’t even really know what it is that you’re doing here. It’s hard, but it’s also the Peace Corps.

But to deal with all this, they don’t expect us to rely solely on our superhuman moxy. They know that we need a local refuge and advocate, and so they put us in host families. The irony is, however, that although the family is beyond saintly in the way they take care of you, the level of cultural submersion that comes from living within the folds of a Moroccan family can – and almost always is – one more stressor for the volunteer. There are a great many differences between the way the stereotypical American and the stereotypical Moroccan like to organize their lives (as I sincerely hope you’ve figured out by now from everything else I’ve written). American life generally prides independence and the individual, whereas Morocco revolves around the family and communion. All too often, this means that your American Peace Corps volunteer is stripped of his or her escapism that we rely on so much back home. Hospitality in Morocco means spending as much time as possible with the guest, so it’s not always easy to go out for a walk, run, or bike ride when the family wants you to be with them, nor can you just read, write, paint, or find much “alone time” when all the family is there in the room with you. Over here, when someone wants to be by themselves, that usually means that there’s a problem, so you have to double the amount of attention you give them until they feel right again.

Two months don’t last forever, though, and eventually every volunteer reaches the point when they have to move out on their own. Actually, you don’t have to move out if you want to stay with the family, and nearly every host family hopes this will happen, but nearly every volunteer finds themselves facing the Peace Corps Housing Paradox: I love my family, but I can’t wait to live by myself. (There are some unfortunate exceptions who aren’t burdened by that first part or a difficult decision, but this isn’t their story.)

And that’s where I am. In fact, tonight is going to be my last night sleeping in the host family home, though that could easily have been a week ago by the time you start reading this on the internet. Like everyone else I know, I found myself a new place and spent many long nights explaining to host mama Mahjouba that American culture just works that way, and this in no way means I won’t be coming over to visit all the time, staying warm at night, or eating well. I have no doubt that she thoroughly disbelieves the latter two, but I’ve managed to convince her well enough on the first that she’s not going to call the headquarters in Rabat and file a formal complaint. Anyway, she approved of my choice of house.

So let me tell you about it. For those of you still uncertain where I’m going with my choice of title, I’ve decided to name the new house The Fortress of Solitude. Now, I admit that this name does lend itself to a certain measure of teenage angst, but I assure that there is no better description readily available in the English language. Also, it’s supercool.

The house is more of an apartment, really, located in a neighborhood called the “Rosemary Condos,” a fitting name since all of the shrubbery in this tiny enclave about the size of two football fields is wild rosemary bushes. My particular part of all this is found on top of a big market, which has a massive two-story indoor courtyard (filled with rosemary) and all of the various things I’ll need in the stores located around the bottom. The apartment itself is not very big, but I’ve recently learned that despite what I’ve always heard, smaller is actually better. Big houses apparently require divine intervention to keep warm, and nothing is of greater importance to me after this past winter (which is far from over).

The front room is the kitchen, convenient for grabbing a quick bite and running out the door – something I haven’t done in a long time. Also useful because the stove, oven, and water heater (located in the kitchen) run off of butane gas, so you need to keep a window open while using them or else you’ll die. The kitchen is fortunately located next to a window. Next to the kitchen is the bathroom (excuse me – you aren’t supposed to say “bathroom” without excusing yourself, either). The bathroom is particularly important because it contains a shower, not something to take for granted around here, which is allegedly attached to the hot water heater. This means that I’ll be able to start taking showers more than just 1.5 times a week, not that I necessarily will.

Moving along you come to a room that I like to refer to as a pregnant hallway. I’m pretty sure this is the technical term, but I’m not at all certain what to do with it. For now, it’s just a place to put things that I also don’t really know what to do with yet. At the end of the hall is the salon, very useful for sitting and holding discussions about the prospects of a popular uprising among the French peasants. It also has a beautiful window across the entire back wall looking West across the mountains that I hope will be as fantastic at sunset in the summer as I like to imagine it will be.

The coolest part, though, is the bedroom. Going back to the kitchen, you see a flight of tiled stairs spiraling upwards, which, if you follow, will lead you to the command center of the entire apartment. A cozy little room with a vaulted ceiling and built-in cabinets (hooray for not having to waste my living allowance on that). And the best part is that everything will be beautiful when it’s filled with furniture the way that I’m picturing it now. For the moment, though, I have only a small table and an empty canister of butane, but it’s the big kind, so that’s something. Actually, I’m fairly certain that this house is going to require a good amount of work to get it up to the level where I want it, but it’s the principle. Despite the fact that I’m still here in my host family’s place because the bed salesman won’t bring the bed to town on account of it’s raining, I still have a place where I’m in charge of everything.

It’s going to be cold, though, probably until June, I’m told.