On the Old Country

People say you can never go home. This has, for some time, been somewhat worrisome of a thought for me. You see, despite how happy I may be with my decision to join the Peace Corps, I’ve always planned on my time here ending at the appointed 27-month mark (give-or-take a month of gallivanting about the continent), and then continuing along the natural course of my life. And so it was no small amount of sleep lost considering that this might be it. It appears, however, that these declarations are blatant lies, as I proved once and for all on December 24^th, 2009, at some un-Godly hour of the night when I walked out the front door of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, Georgia.

I never intended to come back to the States when I first joined with the Peace Corps. It seemed to me like a waste of both money and vacation time, and I liked to joke to my friends here that I had no need to go back and see my family – they should come here and see Morocco. Certain events transpired, though, that brought me home. First, no one wanted to come to Morocco, thus negating my very witty first policy. I looked next to taking a trip with Salma to Europe (the Mexico of Morocco), but, international time zones and the rotation of the earth being what they are, several days of very scant vacation time would have been lost in transit. The same proved true of Central and South America (the Mexico of Mexico), and costs were simply far too high to justify the irrational desire to not be in America.

By that time my brother was getting really close to having a baby and requested gently but firmly that I not add another stress to the house, and I didn’t really want to have to deal with the constant repetitions of “so, what I’ve been doing in Morocco.” (A note on telling my friends what I’ve been doing in Morocco: I’m sorry I didn’t call and chat; I honestly just didn’t want to talk about work. If I may follow my apology with a subtle accusation, however, my preferred way of telling you what I’ve been doing would be to show you. You know what I mean.)

But Salma saved Christmas at the last minute, saying that she needed to go to Birmingham and wouldn’t mind spending her vacation in Georgia. My other brother, Gordon (henceforth referred to as “Gordo” to avoid any confusion with the many other Gordons of the US Peace Corps), trucked down as well, and it turned out that my old pal Bob (see August 26^th, 2009, “You Can’t Spell ‘Tunisia’ without the Word ‘Tun’”) was in Savannah. And so I spent a relaxing five days in Atlanta, punctuated by a three day cruise through Birmingham and Savannah, and a final fufurah in Atlanta before going back where I came from.

Most of the details of which are largely uninteresting, and that’s not what I came here to talk about. I came to tell you about how a lot of volunteers have warned me about going back to America. “Don’t do it,” they said. “You don’t want to tempt yourself with all those things you missed before you finish with your service.” They worry about the freedom of driving, Mexican food, easy access to a wide variety of breakfast cereals, central air, and family Christmas parties, and, to be honest, they have reason to. These are some of our greatest advances our society has made in the last century, and there’s nothing like a 16-month stint away from home to prove it. But, in the end, they were wrong. Not about the great civilizational wonders of America – believe me, I ate as many asiago cheese bagels as a person physically can in twelve days – but about its uniqueness. My latest discovery, and what I’d like to share with you now, is this: Morocco = America.

One thing that drives me crazy about living in Morocco (probably not specific to Morocco, just a product of being someplace other than America) is when people – Moroccans – tell me how great everything is in the States. Sure we’ve got it going on (though not without our own problems), but it’s the way they say this that gets my goat. It’s always in the context of “America is great and things don’t work in Morocco. This self-abuse drives me crazy, especially as it’s patently false.

It all began on the flight out. At the airport in Casablanca, I was given a final taste of the chaotic fire drill that is “queuing.” The airline wanted to call passengers according to their seat rows, the passengers wanted to cram into the gate like 13-year-old girls five minutes late to a Hannah Montana concert. Somehow, the airline managed to enforce their order, which only really resulted in people whose turn it wasn’t standing there in the gate preventing the admittance of those passengers whose turn it was. A lot of frustration was voiced and a lot of knowing glances were exchanged. “Welcome to Morocco; we hope you enjoyed your stay.” I just read a book and waited for the end of the line to come around eventually.

Big deal, right? You should have seen Paris, specifically, the insanity that occurred at gate 25E at around 6 PM on December 24^th. I kid you not, not only did no one pay attention to what rows were being called (so much so that the flight crew eventually abandoned all hope of boarding passengers in any semblance of order), but I swear that I saw several people cut the ticket check completely and just walk on to the plane. Another dude held up the entire process by trying to bribe the Delta sales representative to upgrade his ticket, and it took significantly longer for us to get on board than it did in Casablanca. Of course, we could blame the French, but judging from people’s accents, I’d say that the vast majority were Americans. Who else would want to go to Atlanta?

I can answer that question in part: three other people from Morocco. In a coincidence of coincidences, this couple that I happened to notice waiting to check-in in Casablanca happened to be riding on my plane, and happened to ask if I would switch seats with one so they could sit together. Of course, I replied yes, but, being the charmer that I am, I did in Arabic. They were shocked, so we got to talking, and talking led to occasional advice on in-flight entertainment, and occasional advice on in-flight entertainment built the foundation for explanation of the customs form, which eventually brought on guiding them and their friend through immigration and being asked to step forward as a translator, all of which inevitably allowed me to feel as though I’d made the slightest of down payments on all the hospitality the Moroccan people have shown me. It also meant that I took about two hours coming out of the airport.

And now that I’d arrived, I couldn’t help but start making comparisons between my life and my other life. Gordo showed up in town the next day, and since I was driving (my car, the Space Capsule, was waiting for me in Atlanta), my brother necessarily wanted nothing to do with choice of radio. Usually, this is a problem, as neither of us is really crazy about Georgia’s taste in music, but not this time. He just powered up his phone, jacked it into the car stereo, logged onto Pandora, and we could listen to as much of the wuss rock garbage he loves as we wanted. There have been so many times when I’ve wanted to tell you about how hilarious it is to see guys walking around in Morocco with their cell phones turned into mp3 players playing the latest sha’abia hits. It’s just one of those things that catches you off guard and makes you smile (or, conversely, drives you nuts in a bus or train car or cyber café or restaurant); it’s the Moroccan ghetto blaster of the new millennium, and Gordo was doing the same thing.

Pretty soon into my stay it became apparent that my usual Peace Corps shabbiness wasn’t going to fly with the family, and I went to get my hair cut. Of course, I had spent the whole day putting it off, so it was just about evening by the time we pulled up at the barbershop. I opened the door; the guy looked up, and said they were closed. Gordo asked when they were open the next day (until six, like always), and I checked what time it was. It was 5:30. Granted, there was only one guy working and he probably didn’t want to take on two heads a half hour before closing, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. I was thinking about how many times have I gone to the post office or police station or school or ministry office, been told that whoever I wanted to meet wasn’t there or some other reason why I’d have to come back another time, and had a Moroccan counterpart of mine start bemoaning the Kingdom’s “lack of work ethic.” And every time I try – unsuccessfully, for the most part – to argue “dude, this laziness is everywhere. Everyone’s trying to cut corners.” I only wish Ali had been there to see it.

To be honest, though, it wasn’t until Salma came down to Georgia that I knew I was still in Morocco. She’s on her way to residency in Birmingham, so she wanted to get to know the city. Unfortunately, we only had a day in Alabama, so in making the most of our time, we made a stop at the Birmingham Tourist and Information Center. It’s a good thing Salma’s already been to Morocco, or else she’d have been freaking out. It was business as usual for me. The guy was really cool and we ended up talking with him for probably an hour. Sure, having endless conversations with complete strangers is pretty Moroccan, but that’s not where he showed his real Green and Red. It was when we were leaving and I had a few lapel pins I wanted to buy as gifts for friends back here. He gave me this look as if to say “do you seriously think I’m going ring up less than four dollars worth of Birmingham-themed souvenirs?” He then proceeded to say pretty much the same and I argued the point, but like every time that happens here, I didn’t end up winning. “Thank you,” was all I could say.

That wasn’t good enough. We looked like nice folks, he said, so he reached under the counter and pulled out what Salma and I still aren’t convinced wasn’t his lunch, and gave us each a roll of Life Savers. It couldn’t have been two weeks earlier that I had gone to visit my closest volunteer neighbor, and, seeing as how it was December, we decided to cook spaghetti. But you need oregano for that, which – as we’ve discussed – isn’t as readily available in Morocco as you’d hope, so we had to do a little hunting. Fortunately, there was a guy who has a store near his house that is undoubtedly a fence for stolen goods, and, mixed in among the stereo systems, woven reed handicrafts, and dates was a selection of uncommon spices. He had oregano, but it was at his house. He could get some, though, and when we asked when we could come back and get some, he replied by leaving the two of us in his shop for about twenty minutes and going home. This was incredibly nice of him, but then he insisted that our money was no good, which was not only incredibly nice but also incredibly unnecessary. We weren’t going to win the argument, but at least we could stay and chat and say things like “if we’re ever in the market for children’s car seats or microwave ovens, we’ll be back to see you.” He wanted to show us all the other irregular spices he had in stock, including various cure-alls from the desert and tea blends. By the time we were able to leave, we not only had more than enough oregano for a year’s worth of running an Italian restaurant, but also a bag of dates and an assortment of healing teas, hand-mixed by our new friend. Obviously, this guy had been to Birmingham before.

I’m not sure if I’d ever been there before, though, but Birmingham has long been famous in my family for one reason and one reason only: the Golden Rule. The Golden Rule barbeque is the gold standard for my family. My grandfather, when he was still living in New Orleans, would drive the four or five hours out of the way to the Birmingham airport every time he flew just to have lunch at the Golden Rule. Obviously, Salma and I went, and this is why I’m unconvinced I’ve ever eaten there before because I don’t expect to forget it any time soon. And it was while we were eating that I realized unnecessarily far I’d traveled to be in the same place. They didn’t even bring silverware to the table. Or if they did, we certainly didn’t use it. And then I remembered how the night before at my dad’s house he’d thrown a big seafood party for all of us being there with lobsters, crab legs, shrimp, and everything else you eat with your hands. The only difference between what we were doing and what goes on in Morocco – as Salma put it – was that I was a lot better at keeping my hands clean than everyone else. Right before I left, all my Moroccan friends were making fun of me because I’d have to remember how to eat with a knife and fork again in America. And of course, it being the South, all I ever had to drink was sweet tea.

Clearly, my sixteen months in Morocco was the exact preparation I needed for two weeks with my family, but I did fail in one area. Just like on my way out here the first time, I thought to myself, “Georgia? Alabama? Well, I definitely don’t need to pack my warm clothes.” You’d think that after all the cold and bone-itis (see December 31^st, 2008, “Bone-itis”) of Morocco I’d know better than going anywhere without long underwear, but old habits die hard. I was freezing the whole time, and to make matters worse, I never ended up getting to take a decent shower at any of the places we stayed because the hot water was always gone by the time I got in. I might as well have been taking a bucket shower.

And so why do I bother writing all this if America and Morocco really are bhal bhal (the same)? I’ll tell you why. I know that a lot of volunteers are starting to get nervous about going back home. They’re scared about reverse culture shock and forgetting their language (Arabic and English) and forgetting the names of their extended family members stateside, and I want to say, “Don’t be.” Sure, they have big supermarkets and early morning infomercials and unnecessarily complicated table manners, but don’t forget about your Peace Corps training. Besides, if the southeastern United States is any indication of the rest of the country, you don’t need to worry about going home. You’re already there.