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Leaving Morocco
As the swallows flew dizzying circles outside my little house in the Kasbah I just felt sad. I had said goodbye to too many people (and Sweetpea too). This is the worst part of this kind of living -- the constant goodbyes and for me it's only gotten more difficult over the years, not easier. But I'm sure I'll be back, at least that's what I always tell myself. It makes me feel better. Part of my last full day in Morocco was spent going through the medina (or souk), saying hello (and goodbye) to all my friends. I had tea and a conversation with my carpet guy, picked up some fabric from my fabric guy, Said, and said goodbye to Said's brother (Said called later to say goodbye). Another friend who sells painted wood gave me a wallet and a lovely little painting when I said goodbye - and the only language we have in common is a few words of Arabic and smiles. I got my last sandwich from my hole-in-the-wall sandwich guy who does the best fried eggplant and potato pancake sandwich ever. And then the people at work totally surprised me with a little party and a fabulous cake. Saadia my neighbor across the way brought me lunch and my friend Giulia fed me my last few nights as we sat on her candlelit terrace overlooking ancient walls and the river down below. I have many families here and that's one of the things that I'll miss. It seems to always be that way - it's not the places or the food or the climate or even the work but the people that make the biggest impact, that leave the longest impression, that claim a part of your heart -- because it's the people that make the place. It's the taxi drivers that take your life into their hands when you hop into a taxi and barrel kamikaze-like down the busy streets. It's the vendors at the shops that you come to know and form relationships with after buying countless liters of fresh squeezed orange juice or loaves of bread. It's the students who drive who crazy with their universal excuses of why they couldn't get their work finished and the working journalists you've argued with about ethical standards and the role of opinion (or not) in their stories. It's the Cat Man who always warmed my heart as the cats swarmed him and his bags of goodies. It's the friends who've cheered me up when I missed my husband and the neighbors who brought me couscous every Friday. I remember the day I left Florida back in January and I remember wondering what the hell I had been thinking when I had signed up for this five-month solo mission in Morocco. I had only gotten married 6 months earlier and here I was gallivanting halfway across the world. But while I definitely made some sacrifices on the personal front, I also was rewarded. How often does one get the opportunity to live in a Kasbah? To sit on the terrace in the evening with a glass of Moroccan wine, swallows whizzing around and the heady scent of citrus and jasmine filling the air. To walk down ancient pathways and call up across a 40-foot ancient wall to a friend that has also made the Kasbah home. To whiz by the walled medina in a tiny blue Fiat taxi and down grand boulevards with the most vibrant, overgrown bougainvillea you've ever seen. To hear the sometimes melodic muezzin and the call to prayer at four in the morning. To watch young men on the beach playing soccer at six in the morning as the tide goes out and the mist rolls back. To go to the markets and trying to bargain in your best Arabic all the while explaining that you're not just a tourist so surely they can give you a better price. To come home after a long day and enter through one of the few ancient doorways to the Kasbah only to be greeted with a smile and a hello by just about everyone. To share a 10-pound plate of couscous with a group of Italians on Easter Sunday and to share in the delicacies of a freshly slaughtered sheep with a Moroccan family during the 'Id. Yes, I guess I do know why I do this kind of work and why I want to continue doing it. There's this constant stimulation when you live and work overseas that, while exhausting and often overwhelming, is just so rich and full it almost defies explanation. And even today I can't really explain why I went and why I feel this overwhelming need to work with journalists and aspiring journalists around the world. But I suppose, in a sense, it's become what I do. I'm writing this final Moroccan missive, number 13, at the kitchen table in our rented apartment in Washington, DC. The dog is snoring on the couch behind me and one of the colorful Moroccan paintings I brought home is in front of me. I've only been back in the US just over two weeks but it already feels like a lifetime ago that I was in Rabat, on my terrace and throwing dog treats over to Sweetpea's roof. And it will be just a couple more months before I head back to the region - this time for two years to Amman, Jordan. Yes, on the road again - or maybe still. My husband has taken a job with the US State Department and our first assignment is Jordan. For me it means I will hopefully be able to continue training and doing some more freelance work as well. But it also means leaving a lot of people behind and dealing yet again with the hassles of moving and living overseas. But I look forward to the new people we'll meet, the interesting places we'll discover and the unexpected adventures we'll have every single day. And I hope that some of you will come visit and share in our adventures and experience your own! |  |
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Previous Columns
Leaving Morocco
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