Mindy Woodhead
 
 
 
Sunday morning the mayor woke me up to tell me he would be returning with the governor later that day. “Why?” I asked. ‘He is in town and would like to meet you.’ I could tell the mayor had been disappointed by the bleary-eyed apathy I had shown in response to his personal appearance at my front door. I’m just so weary of men here, and especially those with authority. But with enough notice I managed to muster some surplus glee at seeing the governor outside my door in his black SUV. Our meeting was short and was comprised of me looking in through the sports utility window at the two men. I had the misplaced impression of cruising teenagers. The governor told me I would be going to Biogra the following day. No public official speaks Tashalheet. It must have to do with some class system. They all speak Arabic and I sorta speak a version of Tashalheet spoken in my little region, so I am not able to speak to the police or anyone in a uniform. I don’t mind this at all. I am not here to work with them, I am here to work with my Berber goat-cheese makers, and I do that just fine. So I just pretend I’m in a Tennessee Williams play whenever I absolutely have to deal with the authorities, and demurely sit back while they figure out how to communicate whatever it is they are trying to tell me. So departing for Biogra (a town about an hour or so away), I had no idea if I was going to a luncheon, a press rally, a harem induction, my own beheading… What does one wear that could be appropriate for all those possibilities? It turned out to be an AMAZING 5-course meal at the governor’s SWANKY mansion alongside four other female volunteers from the region. We had a great time. And one of the courses was a fish that rivaled me in pounds, and had teeth that could be used for dentures. I found myself resorting to the “White Gloves and Party Manners” class I had voluntarily signed myself up for when I was ten, and very happy to be out of the village for a bit. Some of the other girls felt very much like country bumpkin plucked from their villages and unsure if they should use any of the myriad utensils, or just hunching over and eating with their hands as they are so accustomed to now. Several went ahead and ate with their hands. The discussions dipped into politics and some controversial statements floated around the room, which caused many of the girls to turn red and huff and puff. We tried not to speak too much English as it would be rude, but did on occasion to translate, and coach. In vouching to be apolitical as PCV’s, I feel it is important when lunching at the governor’s mansion to not attack the man’s views on America. “Validate and dismiss.” I urged my little darlings. I think it is dangerous for anyone to initiate a political retort with emotion in their voice, and no one seemed to have the skill to do otherwise, so I felt we should probably change the subject and later share stories that imply a different point of view. That’s just the way I feel one should converge politics and meals in mansions. As I sat on the beach yesterday I thought how incredibly lucky I am. There are Peace Corps volunteers who don’t get fresh honeydew melon for breakfast, spend days milking goats and making cheese and theatre, live a 15-minute ride from the beach, and lunch at the governor’s mansion. I have a duty to inform my faithful readers that there are boys and girls in Morocco who live in the middle of the desert, and have to work a little harder for their moments of zen.
And A Dollop of Joy
Thursday, April 17, 2008