Sitting in the town cafe, I notice
that it seems to serve two customers;
the people who enter through the front doors,
and the birds who fly in through the windows.
But the birds always appear suddenly.
I never see them waiting on the pane;
they just immediately flutter in.
the time is always the same every day.
bus arrives, then I walk to the cafe,
set up my laptop, and give my order.
Mother and child enter. Call to prayer
from the mosque across the street starts the day.
Shadows inside the mosque window rise, fall,
rise and fall, rise and fall, again, again,
the bird flies in, breaks my concentration.
I turn to the mosque; the shadows are still.
Turning back to the bird, I watch as it
ticks its beak against the white tile,
pecking at pieces of bread. All the while,
the men, finishing prayer, fill each seat.
The cafe grows louder from men's voices.
I unplug my laptop, prepare to go.
As I leave, I look out at the window.
A bird flies in and sits where I once was.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Olive Season Pt. 2: Wheel and Mule
Go To Part 1
My landlord has an olive press. I never thought of pressing olives before, but I’m sure if someone had said the word “olive press” to me, I would have thought of something like a big juicer or a big panini maker. In my village, the olive press consists of two separate machines, actually. The first machine is a large shallow bowl with a large stone wheel with grooves in the center. When the olives get smashed under the wheel, the liquid falls down the grooves, and what is left is a large pile of mashed olives. The wheel is turned by way of mule. The second machine is a large basket inside of a metal squeezer. The mashed olives are placed inside the basket, and the squeezer is turned so that it mashes all of the liquid out of it, where it pools into a container buried halfway beneath the ground. Once the liquid is drained, the remains of the olives are placed back in the shallow bowl, where they are pressed again. My landlord told me that they transfer the mashed up olives back and forth about three times. They make about one thousand liters during the initial picking, which can bring in a lot of money for a village of one hundred people.
I watched as my landlord and his brother “worked” the machines. (By work, I mean told the mule to keep moving.) I watched as the mule walked in circles around the bowl, and I saw that she had a patch over her left eye. My landlord told me that it was to keep her from getting dizzy. I nodded my head and looked back at the mule. I wondered how long of a memory she had? It was her left eye that would be able to stay focused on one point, namely, the wheel. But that eye was blinded, and so she always saw a carousel of events on the outside circle of her experience. I wondered if she remembered me every time I was in her field of vision, or if I was a new person to meet every time. Did she always think the chicken coop was filled with new chickens, or did she know them? Did she recognize the woven baskets that lined the mud brick wall? Or did she remember it all and instead try to find new things with each go around? Maybe she noticed that I was in a different position from the last time.
My mind wandered. I knew that somewhere, there was an analogy in what was happening. That’s when I thought of the Buddhist Wheel of Life. Every being is trapped on the wheel, but we all are blinded to that fact because of ignorance. My life is like the mule, and the olives are our karmic actions. We keep the wheel moving, and our karmic actions all get crushed under the wheel: black olives, red olives, green olives, full olives, shriveled olives; they all eventually get crushed by the wheel. Rarely, an olive will fly out of the bowl, where it will simply whither away. Sometimes, the mule will stop, and that’s when karma stops. Our actions no longer serve as a continuation of the Wheel of Life, pressing our karmic actions into further lives, just as when the mule stops, the wheel no longer presses the olives.
I then looked at my landlord, who wore a saffron colored jump suit. I have realized that my mind either settles deeply on something, or it flies madly about like a flag in the wind. I watched as he circled the bowl, over and over again, only to shout at the mule every few minutes. I imagined him as a gyoja of Mount Hiei. He has been doing this every year since he became a young adult, just like his father did, and his father before him, and do on and so on, in an uninterrupted chain of time going back generations. He was literally walking in his father’s footsteps. I imagined that as he moved around the bowl his shouting to the mule became his mantra, and the mantra slowly filled out an invisible rosary. The gyoja of Mount Hiei, in order to become an abbot, must complete both a 100 day and 1000 day challenge that consists of running in between 40 and 84 kilometers per day. If they cannot complete this challenge, they must commit suicide by stabbing or hanging themselves. I imagined my landlord, thinking that this wasn’t just a job, this was an integral part of his life. An unbroken chain of life starting with his ancestors. But was his way to enlightenment to continue the path, unreservedly, or was it to stop the mule entirely? That was where my analogy broke down.
time passed, and the landlord’s mother came out with some deep fried bread and tea. He stopped, as did his brother, and we all sat down together to eat and drink. As the oil soaked bread slipped through my fingers, I thought to myself Maybe you don’t need an analogy for this. Maybe this just is. Maybe your landlord is just pressing olives. Maybe the mule is just being a mule. Stop complicating things. They finished and got back to work. I listened to the sound of the wheel, the heavy stone against the bowl, to the sound of the olives being squished, and to the sound of the mule’s hooves hitting the dirt. I stayed for a little while longer, and went back to my own house.
Maybe that’s why my meditation has been hitting a wall, lately. Maybe I have been trying to hard to find a connection to everything that I do not stop my mind enough to appreciate the separateness of things. At least, that will give me a new exercise for meditation in the coming days.
My landlord has an olive press. I never thought of pressing olives before, but I’m sure if someone had said the word “olive press” to me, I would have thought of something like a big juicer or a big panini maker. In my village, the olive press consists of two separate machines, actually. The first machine is a large shallow bowl with a large stone wheel with grooves in the center. When the olives get smashed under the wheel, the liquid falls down the grooves, and what is left is a large pile of mashed olives. The wheel is turned by way of mule. The second machine is a large basket inside of a metal squeezer. The mashed olives are placed inside the basket, and the squeezer is turned so that it mashes all of the liquid out of it, where it pools into a container buried halfway beneath the ground. Once the liquid is drained, the remains of the olives are placed back in the shallow bowl, where they are pressed again. My landlord told me that they transfer the mashed up olives back and forth about three times. They make about one thousand liters during the initial picking, which can bring in a lot of money for a village of one hundred people.
I watched as my landlord and his brother “worked” the machines. (By work, I mean told the mule to keep moving.) I watched as the mule walked in circles around the bowl, and I saw that she had a patch over her left eye. My landlord told me that it was to keep her from getting dizzy. I nodded my head and looked back at the mule. I wondered how long of a memory she had? It was her left eye that would be able to stay focused on one point, namely, the wheel. But that eye was blinded, and so she always saw a carousel of events on the outside circle of her experience. I wondered if she remembered me every time I was in her field of vision, or if I was a new person to meet every time. Did she always think the chicken coop was filled with new chickens, or did she know them? Did she recognize the woven baskets that lined the mud brick wall? Or did she remember it all and instead try to find new things with each go around? Maybe she noticed that I was in a different position from the last time.
My mind wandered. I knew that somewhere, there was an analogy in what was happening. That’s when I thought of the Buddhist Wheel of Life. Every being is trapped on the wheel, but we all are blinded to that fact because of ignorance. My life is like the mule, and the olives are our karmic actions. We keep the wheel moving, and our karmic actions all get crushed under the wheel: black olives, red olives, green olives, full olives, shriveled olives; they all eventually get crushed by the wheel. Rarely, an olive will fly out of the bowl, where it will simply whither away. Sometimes, the mule will stop, and that’s when karma stops. Our actions no longer serve as a continuation of the Wheel of Life, pressing our karmic actions into further lives, just as when the mule stops, the wheel no longer presses the olives.
I then looked at my landlord, who wore a saffron colored jump suit. I have realized that my mind either settles deeply on something, or it flies madly about like a flag in the wind. I watched as he circled the bowl, over and over again, only to shout at the mule every few minutes. I imagined him as a gyoja of Mount Hiei. He has been doing this every year since he became a young adult, just like his father did, and his father before him, and do on and so on, in an uninterrupted chain of time going back generations. He was literally walking in his father’s footsteps. I imagined that as he moved around the bowl his shouting to the mule became his mantra, and the mantra slowly filled out an invisible rosary. The gyoja of Mount Hiei, in order to become an abbot, must complete both a 100 day and 1000 day challenge that consists of running in between 40 and 84 kilometers per day. If they cannot complete this challenge, they must commit suicide by stabbing or hanging themselves. I imagined my landlord, thinking that this wasn’t just a job, this was an integral part of his life. An unbroken chain of life starting with his ancestors. But was his way to enlightenment to continue the path, unreservedly, or was it to stop the mule entirely? That was where my analogy broke down.
time passed, and the landlord’s mother came out with some deep fried bread and tea. He stopped, as did his brother, and we all sat down together to eat and drink. As the oil soaked bread slipped through my fingers, I thought to myself Maybe you don’t need an analogy for this. Maybe this just is. Maybe your landlord is just pressing olives. Maybe the mule is just being a mule. Stop complicating things. They finished and got back to work. I listened to the sound of the wheel, the heavy stone against the bowl, to the sound of the olives being squished, and to the sound of the mule’s hooves hitting the dirt. I stayed for a little while longer, and went back to my own house.
Maybe that’s why my meditation has been hitting a wall, lately. Maybe I have been trying to hard to find a connection to everything that I do not stop my mind enough to appreciate the separateness of things. At least, that will give me a new exercise for meditation in the coming days.
Olive Season Pt. 1: Picking
I made a resolution to be more social with my village this year, so I went out to talk to my neighbor, who informed me that January is olive season in Morocco. My neighbor told me that he was going to the president’s field with the other men. Remembering my resolution, I agreed to go with him. The sun was just beginning to rise over the mountains, and when I got there, I saw that the men were already hard at work. In my village, it is the men who go out into the fields, buckets, tarp, and bamboo shoots in hand, in order to collect the olives. I watched as a small group of men climbed the trees to hit the branches with the shoots. The olives that were loose then fell to the ground, onto the newly laid tarp. Another group of men would carry the tarp to another part of the field, tie it to a tree so that it hung vertically, fill a bucket with what fell, and hurl the contents of the bucket at the tarp. Only the olives would make it to the tarp; the leaves and small twigs would flutter to the ground in between the thrower and the tarp. I was in the group that hunched over and picked up the olives that either did not make it to the tarp, or that fell from the tree while the other men were moving the tarp.
I was not expecting to do work like this here. To be honest, a lot of what has happened in Morocco falls under the category of “unexpected occurrence”. Running back into my house at night when I see a dog running towards me, stuffing my face with fresh bread deep fried in oil, listening to men talk openly about prostitutes - events like these are not exactly what one thinks of when they are told that they will be teaching health in rural Morocco. Nonetheless, I remembered my resolution, and if this is what the men are spending their time doing, I will make sure that I am there with them.
I sat at the edge of the field and picked the olives, one by one. At first, I started to think of how much faster this is done in America where we have machines to do this work for us. I listened as the men chatted idly with each other: how their days were, how their families were, funny things that happened to them while in town. These little sentences that they repeat to each other, I have learned, are important in their own way. Every now and then, they would turn to me and ask me, “How are you doing?”, “Are you tired?”, or, “How is your family?” Of course they already know the funny story, and of course they know how their families are doing - They all live next to each other. I knew that the things they say to each other are second nature. My religion, however, teaches me to try to talk only when necessary, and to try to make what I say mean something. I responded with quick answers, saying "My family is wonderful.", or, "No, my muscles don’t hurt because in America I did yoga."
After a few hours, it was time for lunch. The president pulled out a pressure cooker that one of the women had brought from the house and revealed boiled vegetables and chicken. I looked down and saw that my hands were dirty, so I went to the nearby river. The water was ice cold, but I started washing my hands. The men asked me what I was doing, and I explained that my hands were in the dirt with animal feces and bugs. Of the people that were there, half decided to join me and thoroughly wash their hands, as well. A little bit of goal one, I thought to myself, accomplished.
Later, after I had been hunched over for a total of five hours, my mind finally began to quiet down. I stopped thinking of how things are done in America. I stopped thinking about the idle chatter. I began to view my mind as the field. In meditation, the goal is to settle your mind so that you can find the areas of ignorance. Each black spot of ignorance needed to be cleared much like the little black olives needed to be cleared from the field. Sometimes, I would lift up a pile of bamboo and find a black olive hidden beneath it. Another few hours passed, and the men began to notice that out of the time I had been there with them, I had barely spoken a word. “You don’t talk,” they said, “Are you all right?” I looked up at them. “When lips are quiet,” I said, “the mind is quiet. When the mind is quiet, there is peace.” I don’t know if what I said made sense to them, but I did notice for a moment that the talking died down a little bit after that. At least, for a few minutes. I noticed that there were very few olives left on the ground just as the sun was beginning to set along the mountainside. Cats began to appear in the fields, looking for mice, and the women started walking along the road by the fields. I heard people whisper some things, one statement that stood out was, “His family gave him a Quran in English.”
I want to be thought of as a good person; that’s one reason why I do what I do. Sometimes, however, I worry that thinking along those terms is a selfish reason. Most of the time, I like to think that I do good things because it simply is the good thing to do. Other people need help, so you help them; it is a simple formula that does not need to be complicated. But sometimes, I find that there is a little voice inside of me that says, Look at you, you are so much better than everyone else. You came all the way here to live a simple life. How great are you? You sacrifice so much to be here. I wish I never had to think those thoughts. I wish I could always think unselfishly. But the truth is that I am still a human being. I’m not enlightened, yet. I feel like my meditation seems to have hit a wall a lot, lately. But I suppose this is as good as I can be for the time being.
For the record, I try not to listen to that voice that tells me what a good person I am. So what if I am here in Morocco, picking olives and telling men to wash their hands? My sisters are raising good, intelligent sons. My mom is a police officer. They all tithe at church. I like to think that everyone in my life is trying to live their lives according to their values. My values simply led me here. It says nothing about me being better or worse than they are. We’re just trying to be true to ourselves and our values in life.
We left the fields just as the moon was beginning to rise over the mountains. There were no lights on in any houses, and the moon and stars cast a blue light over everything. I walked over the riverbed stones to the other side of the village, and made it to my house in time for tea and then bed.
Continue To Part 2
I was not expecting to do work like this here. To be honest, a lot of what has happened in Morocco falls under the category of “unexpected occurrence”. Running back into my house at night when I see a dog running towards me, stuffing my face with fresh bread deep fried in oil, listening to men talk openly about prostitutes - events like these are not exactly what one thinks of when they are told that they will be teaching health in rural Morocco. Nonetheless, I remembered my resolution, and if this is what the men are spending their time doing, I will make sure that I am there with them.
I sat at the edge of the field and picked the olives, one by one. At first, I started to think of how much faster this is done in America where we have machines to do this work for us. I listened as the men chatted idly with each other: how their days were, how their families were, funny things that happened to them while in town. These little sentences that they repeat to each other, I have learned, are important in their own way. Every now and then, they would turn to me and ask me, “How are you doing?”, “Are you tired?”, or, “How is your family?” Of course they already know the funny story, and of course they know how their families are doing - They all live next to each other. I knew that the things they say to each other are second nature. My religion, however, teaches me to try to talk only when necessary, and to try to make what I say mean something. I responded with quick answers, saying "My family is wonderful.", or, "No, my muscles don’t hurt because in America I did yoga."
After a few hours, it was time for lunch. The president pulled out a pressure cooker that one of the women had brought from the house and revealed boiled vegetables and chicken. I looked down and saw that my hands were dirty, so I went to the nearby river. The water was ice cold, but I started washing my hands. The men asked me what I was doing, and I explained that my hands were in the dirt with animal feces and bugs. Of the people that were there, half decided to join me and thoroughly wash their hands, as well. A little bit of goal one, I thought to myself, accomplished.
Later, after I had been hunched over for a total of five hours, my mind finally began to quiet down. I stopped thinking of how things are done in America. I stopped thinking about the idle chatter. I began to view my mind as the field. In meditation, the goal is to settle your mind so that you can find the areas of ignorance. Each black spot of ignorance needed to be cleared much like the little black olives needed to be cleared from the field. Sometimes, I would lift up a pile of bamboo and find a black olive hidden beneath it. Another few hours passed, and the men began to notice that out of the time I had been there with them, I had barely spoken a word. “You don’t talk,” they said, “Are you all right?” I looked up at them. “When lips are quiet,” I said, “the mind is quiet. When the mind is quiet, there is peace.” I don’t know if what I said made sense to them, but I did notice for a moment that the talking died down a little bit after that. At least, for a few minutes. I noticed that there were very few olives left on the ground just as the sun was beginning to set along the mountainside. Cats began to appear in the fields, looking for mice, and the women started walking along the road by the fields. I heard people whisper some things, one statement that stood out was, “His family gave him a Quran in English.”
I want to be thought of as a good person; that’s one reason why I do what I do. Sometimes, however, I worry that thinking along those terms is a selfish reason. Most of the time, I like to think that I do good things because it simply is the good thing to do. Other people need help, so you help them; it is a simple formula that does not need to be complicated. But sometimes, I find that there is a little voice inside of me that says, Look at you, you are so much better than everyone else. You came all the way here to live a simple life. How great are you? You sacrifice so much to be here. I wish I never had to think those thoughts. I wish I could always think unselfishly. But the truth is that I am still a human being. I’m not enlightened, yet. I feel like my meditation seems to have hit a wall a lot, lately. But I suppose this is as good as I can be for the time being.
For the record, I try not to listen to that voice that tells me what a good person I am. So what if I am here in Morocco, picking olives and telling men to wash their hands? My sisters are raising good, intelligent sons. My mom is a police officer. They all tithe at church. I like to think that everyone in my life is trying to live their lives according to their values. My values simply led me here. It says nothing about me being better or worse than they are. We’re just trying to be true to ourselves and our values in life.
We left the fields just as the moon was beginning to rise over the mountains. There were no lights on in any houses, and the moon and stars cast a blue light over everything. I walked over the riverbed stones to the other side of the village, and made it to my house in time for tea and then bed.
Continue To Part 2
Sunday, January 2, 2011
New Year's Eve Pt. 3: The Stars
Go to Part 1
We left the dune at sunset. I was a little upset when I realized just how quick and easy it was to get down compared to the length of time I spent climbing up, but was also glad to finally be back on somewhat solid ground. We could smell the tagine cooking in the makeshift kitchen. Even came, and that was when we looked up and saw the night sky. In the desert, without any light pollution for miles, every star shone and lit the ground around us. Even familiar constellations became new with the advent of the stars surrounding them. I sniffled.
“I love it when I can see in a clear night.” A volunteer said.
“There are times when I hate it.” I said.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
I looked over to him as I held back a tear.
“During the day, we have the illusion of a blue covering above us. We have the same thing on a cloudy night. But on nights like this, we have no protection from it. The infiniteness of it all. When we can’t see it, then we can pretend that all of our little fights that we have over religion, race, sexuality actually mean something.”
I looked back up. A meteor flew through Pegasus.
“But now, looking out at these things, these lights, and knowing that it is so great a distance that it would be impossible to reach them, nobody can help but realize just how petty and stupid all of those fights are. But the funny thing is that even though mankind has been able to look up and see all of this, they continue to do it.”
The volunteer looked at me, not speaking but also nodding his head in agreement.
“And we continue to believe that we are at the center of this. These constellations are made up of stars that aren’t even close to each other. Sirius in Canis Major isn’t anywhere near the other stars of the constellation, and yet here we are, placing importance on it. It’s all just so... stupid.”
We finished the evening with the Moroccans leading us in song and dance that lasted until midnight. Then I heard the volunteers.
“10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1... Happy New Year!”
I looked up at Sirius for a moment and headed into my tent. I had made it. I knew that I needed to do everything I could to help see just how little our differences meant in comparison to everything around us. We are this tiny planet at the edge of one galaxy, and rather than appreciate these beautiful differences that make us into an elaborate garden of humanity, we choose instead to root out what we call weeds that are merely different flowers. Muslims and Christians are unable to recognize their commonalities right now, but one day, they will. I know it.
I fell asleep to the sound of fireworks in the next campsite. Outside my tent, I could also hear the foghorn like sounds of the camels, and the sighing of the sands, once again saying, we have seen all of this before. You were not the first here, nor will you be the last.
We left the dune at sunset. I was a little upset when I realized just how quick and easy it was to get down compared to the length of time I spent climbing up, but was also glad to finally be back on somewhat solid ground. We could smell the tagine cooking in the makeshift kitchen. Even came, and that was when we looked up and saw the night sky. In the desert, without any light pollution for miles, every star shone and lit the ground around us. Even familiar constellations became new with the advent of the stars surrounding them. I sniffled.
“I love it when I can see in a clear night.” A volunteer said.
“There are times when I hate it.” I said.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
I looked over to him as I held back a tear.
“During the day, we have the illusion of a blue covering above us. We have the same thing on a cloudy night. But on nights like this, we have no protection from it. The infiniteness of it all. When we can’t see it, then we can pretend that all of our little fights that we have over religion, race, sexuality actually mean something.”
I looked back up. A meteor flew through Pegasus.
“But now, looking out at these things, these lights, and knowing that it is so great a distance that it would be impossible to reach them, nobody can help but realize just how petty and stupid all of those fights are. But the funny thing is that even though mankind has been able to look up and see all of this, they continue to do it.”
The volunteer looked at me, not speaking but also nodding his head in agreement.
“And we continue to believe that we are at the center of this. These constellations are made up of stars that aren’t even close to each other. Sirius in Canis Major isn’t anywhere near the other stars of the constellation, and yet here we are, placing importance on it. It’s all just so... stupid.”
We finished the evening with the Moroccans leading us in song and dance that lasted until midnight. Then I heard the volunteers.
“10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1... Happy New Year!”
I looked up at Sirius for a moment and headed into my tent. I had made it. I knew that I needed to do everything I could to help see just how little our differences meant in comparison to everything around us. We are this tiny planet at the edge of one galaxy, and rather than appreciate these beautiful differences that make us into an elaborate garden of humanity, we choose instead to root out what we call weeds that are merely different flowers. Muslims and Christians are unable to recognize their commonalities right now, but one day, they will. I know it.
I fell asleep to the sound of fireworks in the next campsite. Outside my tent, I could also hear the foghorn like sounds of the camels, and the sighing of the sands, once again saying, we have seen all of this before. You were not the first here, nor will you be the last.
New Year's Eve Pt. 2: The Dune
Go to Part 1
I should have realized that climbing a sand dune was not like climbing a mountain the moment I set my foot down and my shoe disappeared into the sand. The difference became obvious. When one climbs a mountain, it is expected that where one places one’s foot will be the place it stays. Climbing a sand dune, however, does not afford that luxury. I noticed that no matter how far I placed my stride, my foot would always end up sinking back down halfway or more.
Another difference is that when one climbs a mountain, one can stop and be safe to assume that they would simply continue where they left off. Not so with a sand dune. I noticed that when I took my first break the small bush I had passed a while earlier had managed to climb up to meet me.
After the first twenty minutes of this, my legs decided to tell me what they thought of me. As I trudged through the sand, I began to get sharp pains in my thighs and calves. No, I thought, I can’t give up. I looked behind me, and there was Princess Leia, a few feet behind me.
“Reach for me!” I called out to her. Princess Leia looked up, smiled, and struggled a few feet to clutch onto my hand. Rather than pull her up to me, however, we ended up in a middle ground between the two of us. The actions of the people ahead of us had caused a mini sand avalanche, and distinct sound emerged from the dune.
“It sounds just like water.” I said.
“You’re right,” she replied, “it does.”
“It’s like we’re climbing a waterfall.”
I thought of everything I went through to get here. Not at this dune, but in the Peace Corps. Over a year’s worth of tests, interviews, and evaluations. I had been through weddings that lasted until sunrise and funerals that lasted for days. I had been through so many bacteria and diseases that I considered myself a microscopic Noah’s Ark. There have been times when I wanted to go home. All of my insecurities kept bubbling up into my mind. You can’t even get a project going in your site, I thought, You shouldn’t even be here. What would I do if I gave up now? What would I do if I couldn’t climb this dune? What would happen if I went home?
I turned back to the top of the dune, my strength restored, and continued upward. My eyes began to pop out of my head from the strain, and my legs were on the verge of mutiny. I climbed, one step at a time, with the river of sand flowing beneath my feet. I listened to the sound of the sand and remembered a dawn I spent on a beach with a friend before coming to Morocco. The ocean waves and the sand made the same noise. Everything was continually breathing out, sighing, as though to say we have seen all of this before. You were not the first here, nor will you be the last. Some volunteers had already made it to the top, and I could finally begin to make out their faces as I inched closer and closer.
“You can do it.” They called out to me.
The only sounds I could muster were low growls. I leaped forward and strained to reach the top. Finally, I made it. The sand flattened and I could finally rest. I had done it. If I could climb this dune, I could do anything. I could serve these entire two years. I will serve these entire two years.
Continue to Part 3
I should have realized that climbing a sand dune was not like climbing a mountain the moment I set my foot down and my shoe disappeared into the sand. The difference became obvious. When one climbs a mountain, it is expected that where one places one’s foot will be the place it stays. Climbing a sand dune, however, does not afford that luxury. I noticed that no matter how far I placed my stride, my foot would always end up sinking back down halfway or more.
Another difference is that when one climbs a mountain, one can stop and be safe to assume that they would simply continue where they left off. Not so with a sand dune. I noticed that when I took my first break the small bush I had passed a while earlier had managed to climb up to meet me.
After the first twenty minutes of this, my legs decided to tell me what they thought of me. As I trudged through the sand, I began to get sharp pains in my thighs and calves. No, I thought, I can’t give up. I looked behind me, and there was Princess Leia, a few feet behind me.
“Reach for me!” I called out to her. Princess Leia looked up, smiled, and struggled a few feet to clutch onto my hand. Rather than pull her up to me, however, we ended up in a middle ground between the two of us. The actions of the people ahead of us had caused a mini sand avalanche, and distinct sound emerged from the dune.
“It sounds just like water.” I said.
“You’re right,” she replied, “it does.”
“It’s like we’re climbing a waterfall.”
I thought of everything I went through to get here. Not at this dune, but in the Peace Corps. Over a year’s worth of tests, interviews, and evaluations. I had been through weddings that lasted until sunrise and funerals that lasted for days. I had been through so many bacteria and diseases that I considered myself a microscopic Noah’s Ark. There have been times when I wanted to go home. All of my insecurities kept bubbling up into my mind. You can’t even get a project going in your site, I thought, You shouldn’t even be here. What would I do if I gave up now? What would I do if I couldn’t climb this dune? What would happen if I went home?
I turned back to the top of the dune, my strength restored, and continued upward. My eyes began to pop out of my head from the strain, and my legs were on the verge of mutiny. I climbed, one step at a time, with the river of sand flowing beneath my feet. I listened to the sound of the sand and remembered a dawn I spent on a beach with a friend before coming to Morocco. The ocean waves and the sand made the same noise. Everything was continually breathing out, sighing, as though to say we have seen all of this before. You were not the first here, nor will you be the last. Some volunteers had already made it to the top, and I could finally begin to make out their faces as I inched closer and closer.
“You can do it.” They called out to me.
The only sounds I could muster were low growls. I leaped forward and strained to reach the top. Finally, I made it. The sand flattened and I could finally rest. I had done it. If I could climb this dune, I could do anything. I could serve these entire two years. I will serve these entire two years.
Continue to Part 3
New Year's Eve Pt. 1: The Camel
The story begins, as all great stories do, in the middle of the Sahara Desert on top of a camel named Princess Valencia Carmina.
A group of volunteers decided to spend the night in the desert for New Year’s Eve so that we could, on top of our experiences so far, have a memory that would follow us throughout our lifetime. I should have realized that something was wrong with Princess Valencia Carmina when she began to stumble right away. I couldn’t help but notice that the other volunteers’ camels all had a majestic look to them. I looked down at mine and saw the drool that formed along her mouth, the patches of fur in random places due to either genetics or illness, and a look in her eyes that made me wonder whether she had all of her mental faculties.
One by one, the camels stood up to begin the trek into the desert. Princess Valencia Carmina, unable to recognize that the sudden growth on her back was, in fact, a human being, lurched forward, causing me to yelp out to my fellow volunteers. Throughout the two hour trek into the desert, I realized that my saddle continually slid forward, which was odd since she had that large hump to keep it on straight. Needless to say, I ended up at the desert campsite with a distinct swagger.
The campsite lie in the shadow of a large dune; it was a series of tents held together by blankets and rope.
“This is similar to the Moroccan houses,” Princess Leia said, “except made of canvas instead of cement. Each tent would be where a family slept.”
I had no choice but to agree with her. In my site, most families have their own homes and at most are connected by one wall. I nodded and fell down onto a small blanket with the other volunteers and closed my eyes so that I could settle my stomach that was still queasy from the four by four drive across the bumpy roads and the ride on the motor skilless camel.
Before falling asleep, I decided to look at my phone to set an alarm. That was when I noticed that I had no bars on it. In hind site, I should have expected this. I felt bad, though, because I had promised David that I would call him to wish him a happy new year. Now I couldn’t even explain to him that I wouldn’t be able to.
A little while later, I heard a commotion near me. It was the other volunteers.
“Come on, let’s go climb that dune.”
I lifted my hood, turned my head, and looked at the dune next to the campsite. What the heck, I decided, how hard can it be?
Continue to Part 2
A group of volunteers decided to spend the night in the desert for New Year’s Eve so that we could, on top of our experiences so far, have a memory that would follow us throughout our lifetime. I should have realized that something was wrong with Princess Valencia Carmina when she began to stumble right away. I couldn’t help but notice that the other volunteers’ camels all had a majestic look to them. I looked down at mine and saw the drool that formed along her mouth, the patches of fur in random places due to either genetics or illness, and a look in her eyes that made me wonder whether she had all of her mental faculties.
One by one, the camels stood up to begin the trek into the desert. Princess Valencia Carmina, unable to recognize that the sudden growth on her back was, in fact, a human being, lurched forward, causing me to yelp out to my fellow volunteers. Throughout the two hour trek into the desert, I realized that my saddle continually slid forward, which was odd since she had that large hump to keep it on straight. Needless to say, I ended up at the desert campsite with a distinct swagger.
The campsite lie in the shadow of a large dune; it was a series of tents held together by blankets and rope.
“This is similar to the Moroccan houses,” Princess Leia said, “except made of canvas instead of cement. Each tent would be where a family slept.”
I had no choice but to agree with her. In my site, most families have their own homes and at most are connected by one wall. I nodded and fell down onto a small blanket with the other volunteers and closed my eyes so that I could settle my stomach that was still queasy from the four by four drive across the bumpy roads and the ride on the motor skilless camel.
Before falling asleep, I decided to look at my phone to set an alarm. That was when I noticed that I had no bars on it. In hind site, I should have expected this. I felt bad, though, because I had promised David that I would call him to wish him a happy new year. Now I couldn’t even explain to him that I wouldn’t be able to.
A little while later, I heard a commotion near me. It was the other volunteers.
“Come on, let’s go climb that dune.”
I lifted my hood, turned my head, and looked at the dune next to the campsite. What the heck, I decided, how hard can it be?
Continue to Part 2
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