Up the Mountain

I came to Morocco because I thought I had something to offer the girls at the boarding house here.  I had grand plans to teach art classes, and bring in supplies.  I planned to teach the girls English and I figured I would spend my evenings planning activities for the next day, creating lesson plans and mapping out all I wanted to accomplish during my time here.

I've been in Morocco a week and a half and I have yet to teach an art class.  I have yet to plan any structured activities.  The most structure I've had to offer the girls here was a short dance lesson and going over the colors in English.
Yesterday I hid in my room until 4 pm, emerging only to eat meals.   In fact most of my mornings are spent on my own, not planning anything, simply trying to take care of myself and recovering from the constant overpowering newness of every moment in Morocco.

The girls on the other hand, have be in a constant state of giving since I arrived.  They give me little notes and drawings, flowers picked from the garden, and near constant affection that ranges from holding my hand while out on a walk to literally applauding my attempts to speak Arabic.

Wildflowers from the girls

I have had far more Arabic lessons then they have had English.  I have had henna applied twice, I have learned how to make Moroccan tea, and I have tried more new dishes than I have in the past 10 years combined.

One of the villages I visited

This weekend I accompanied a few of the girls on their journey back to their villages in the High Atlas Mountains.
Their families, living in bare, concrete houses served me meal after meal, cup after cup of tea.  I had plates full of salad prepared especially for me (funnily enough, Moroccans have the same reaction to finding out I'm vegetarian as Americans do) and heaping plates of freshly picked cherries placed in front of me with an encouraging mangez, mangez Laura! repeated through out the meal.   I had entire cakes baked for me, and plates of cookies served to me by families that sleep on thin mats on the floor.

I used squat toilets, and didn't brush my teeth or shower for 3 days straight.

My salad.  Yes, I was expected to eat it all by myself

Since I returned, I've been trying to reconcile what I saw over the weekend with the exuberant, joyful girls that I have come to love since arriving in Morocco.  Girls who love nail polish but hike up mountains on a weekly basis to return home wearing only thin flip flops.  Girls who love Shakira but have houses lit only by a bare bulb on a wire in a handful of rooms.  Girls who carefully make sure their hijab (head scarf) matches their outfit and shoes but wear the same clothes for a week straight.
Girls who suddenly get shy and timid when surrounded by boys but have a cousin who recently got engaged at only 16 years old.

Girls who squabble with their little sisters but who tell me they have a total of 10 siblings, 3 of them dead.

Girls who dread exams but are the only girls in their village to receive a secondary education.

The sign for the village primary school

In many ways they are just like American kids.  They argue and hug and giggle and pout.  They complain about school and don't want to do their chores.  They are just like American kids, until suddenly they aren't.

Suddenly the reality of growing up in a village so remote it is accessible only by donkey or on foot comes crashing down around me.  Suddenly having illiterate parents and a mouth full of rotten teeth hits me square in the chest because these girls aren't just a sad photo in an infomercial asking me to donate to needy kids in Africa.  Their names are Kadija, Maraem, Mina and Fatima- Zhara.  They bring me flowers and hold my hand and burst out laughing when I make a face after trying a disgusting milk drink.

Where I slept for the weekend

Going to the village for the weekend was an exciting adventure for me.  I got to trample up and down a mountain for a few days, sleep on the floor and wake up before the sun.  I had my backpack carried by a donkey and sticky babies climb all over my lap.

I keep wanting to come to some definite conclusion about my trip up the mountain.  I want to know if these girls have it better or worse than kids in the US.  Is their life harder or better or more meaningful than life in the US?  Are these girls stronger, more determined than their American counterparts?  Or are they more disadvantaged?

I keep comparing and contrasting and trying to pin down a definite answer.  My human mind likes certainty, but try as I might I can't come to a single conclusion to the many questions bouncing around my head.

One of the girl's houses I visited

The United States has poverty and kids with mouths of rotten teeth.  It has unemployment, and kids going to bed without enough to eat, kids getting married and having babies extremely young and girls dropping out of school.  Morocco isn't better or worse than the United States, it just is.

My time here isn't better or worse than my life in California.  My trip isn't either worth all the money and anxiety or not worth it at all,  it just is.  I am not a good traveler or a bad one, I just am.

I am here and having these experiences, absorbing all I can, and for now, that is enough.  Maybe one day I will untangle this messy knot of feelings regarding my Moroccan mountain girls but for now I am here and it is enough just to be alongside them.