Crossing the River

A couple weeks ago I went for a hike. It had rained some that afternoon, the temperature was cool, and the dust had settled. I left my house around 4 pm and returned a couple hours later to discover that the river bed was, for the first time since my arrival, full of brown, silt filled, rushing rainwater that had drained into the valley from the surrounding mountains. This much water in one spot is a marvel rarely seen in my desert community, and many had gathered on the banks of the river talking excitedly about the unprecedented flow. As pleased as I was to bare witness to the event, I was presented with a situation that was potentially problematic. I happened to live on the other side of the river, and I was currently sweaty, dirty, and hungry. Plus, I was scheduled to leave the next morning for a meeting in my province center, the sun was just about to go down, and I had conveniently forgotten my phone. Even though my very nice friends and neighbors who lived on this side of the river would have been delighted to host me for the night, I made the decision that I needed to cross the river. My host sister was very unhappy with this decision and began to (for lack of a more fitting expression), freak out. She was unaccustomed to the shear amount of water in front of us and exclaimed over and over again that I would die in the crossing. I explained that I swim in the ocean and for me this was only a little water, but she was still very concerned. She, her husband, neighbors, and an impressive flock of children had gathered and all prepared to watch me attempt the crazy and impossible. After examining the area and locating the best place to attempt a crossing I began my journey, one cautious foot at a time, feeling the rocks below, leaning my weight against the current. With each step my host sister would gasp and squeal and the children would follow suit, her husband watching in silent concern. At one point the water came above my knee and they began to plead with me to return, but hell if I was going to turn around in the middle of my quest. So I continued, slowly but surely, until I reached the opposite bank and climbed to dryness. An applause of impressive magnitude erupted from the crowed and the children began to chant, “Layla shkaw, Layla shkaw!” which means Layla is tough. (Layla is my Arabic name.) I turned and waved good tidings to my onlookers and continued on my way home, where I prepared myself a plate of cooked squash and enjoyed a warm bucket bath. It was a good day.

Upon reflection I found this event to be rather fitting to describe my experience in my first several months of service. The beginning was exciting but difficult as I became accustomed to my life in Morocco and my new family and friends became accustomed to me. At times I stepped into murky water, unsure of what would happen next, and many times I have been looked after and protected by my hosts. Now however, I have risen into dryness. I am comfortable in my community where I have many friends and ten times more acquaintances. Tashelheet is now the language I think in, and when I am hungry I often crave cuscus. While I also partake in visiting the sights of Morocco (I am currently writing while traveling for a couple days), I genuinely enjoy being home, and I look forward to returning as much as I look forward to outings and gatherings with other volunteers. I have two personalities now, Layla and Whitney, and I jump back and forth between the two, Amazigh and American.