Career Volunteer
This last Monday turned out pretty well, but started off with a real punch in the face.
Just for sake of setting the scene a bit… the previous Wednesday I had been in Marrakech (where they have good internet) to watch my sister’s wedding LIVE from Jamaica via webcam. I really wished I could’ve been there, a pretty little spot by the ocean; but ever the volunteer, I still had about six months left to go on my term in the Peace Corps. Wishing I’d been somewhere else that day began with the first of two shoving matches I had gotten into with punks on the street who felt the need to shoot their mouths off at my friends (one female, the other of Asian descent [plenty of people here think it’s acceptable to "talk trash" in the street and seem genuinely surprised that someone is going to do something about it.])
So coming back from ‘Kech to my provincial capital of Azilal, my EMT buddy and I stopped by the local Protection Civile station. Behind the high gate, the guys were playing soccer against a cement wall when we showed up unannounced. They saw the two aromi (Moroccan Arabic: Foreigner) and seemed to wonder what we wanted… "Nous voulons jouer!," I shouted. ("We want to play!")
Ice broken: I explained as best I could that we were EMTs in the States and wanted to have a sit-down kind of info swap with these obviously well-equipped, well-trained fire and medical responders. We all shook hands, exchanged greetings (in the very thorough local style). They told us we were very welcome, but just to come back the next Monday when the chief would be there. Great! Our little ambulance project was stepping up from the countryside to the main stage.
Later that night the rain and the snow began to fall seriously for the first time this season. The damp weather only made the cheap soup we ate for dinner that night so much the better. For the fact that Moroccan soups are really good and cheap, many of my meals are heavily soup-based.
The rain continued in Azilal and the snow in the mountains where I live through the weekend until the next Monday when the action of the story really begins.
As per usual, to get out of my village it’s necessary to be down the hill and at curbside by about 4am to catch the van as it goes by. It usually doesn’t rain very much up here; and up until that day I had never stood there in the rain (cold yes, but until then, I’d had the luck.) It wasn’t a heavy rain and I even wore my new coat… a present for a recent holiday (Eid-Kebir, where we sacrificed a live goat) from my host-family who are of limited means. It was a nice gesture, but I’m almost sure it’s a women’s coat.
As I stood there for over an hour in the dark and the rain it became more and more obvious that I was the only idiot who wanted to go to Azilal on that particular morning. I guessed that many in my village (and at Protection Civile too) would’ve just said ‘go another day;’ but that wouldn’t be stubbornly American of me. I said I’d be there.
The only other way to get out is to hike out two hours to the intersection of the road to the larger town on the other side of the valley. Peace Corps has two other volunteers there, both from my group. I set out, walking in the dark and the drizzle. After only a minute or so I stepped on a rock which I hadn’t seen, rolled my ankle and jammed my knee in the pavement. I caught myself on my palms before it was my chin too. I probably looked bad, but I jumped right up, as if to prove to all the people who weren’t there that I was OK. My only thought was about my camera (still safe, if not damp in my backpack) and whether or not I’d bleed through my long-johns and pants. It was unlikely, but I couldn’t tell in the dark. Limping for a few paces, I pushed on; but I began thinking about why I was A) in the Peace Corps, B) on a mountain in Morocco, C) walking in the dark and the rain when everybody knew Protection Civile wasn’t going anywhere and no one would be the worse off if we did this later in the week, and D) why do I keep volunteering for things? After all, since university I’ve been in a volunteer military, a volunteer EMT and now a volunteer in the Peace Corps.
If there is some higher calling and duty, then let it be a duty to honesty… If I’m really being honest with myself (and I think oneself is the easiest person to lie to) then I’d say I’m doing all this because I crave the adventure and the challenge. I like proving to myself (and to others, I guess) that I can; and it’s all fun for the most part. And I get to learn a lot about people, places, myself… I guess it works out. As long as I’m out looking for feats of strength to perform, I may as well make myself useful and do something for someone else.
Nothing profound there… you’re cynical philosophers will say that no one does anything for anyone else, but only the selfish satisfaction of having done it. Others have said that the satisfied feeling is the great reward for helping people. I guess, being a career volunteer, I’ve always kinda grappled with the two and wondered what I was really doing. The honesty feels good though. I know it’s a bit of both.
There are definitely days when we don’t really feel the gratitude we think we deserve or we see that we are more motivated than the people we think we’re helping; on those days it’s pretty obvious we’re out here for our own sense of accomplishment. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to help. There’s no way out of this circle, so I suppose that accepting it is the only way to ride in style. That’s all.
Oh, and I did make it to Protection Civile (and only about 5min late). The assistant chief (about late-twenties and in his sharp uniform looked a ton better than I did crawling in from the backwoods exhausted, drenched and freezing, however bundled I still was in my blue women’s coat and tattered pants… my now old, but formerly waterproof boots soaked from having to help push our van through a small river of mountain runoff water earlier that morning.
Our little info swap session at first went awkwardly. My friend and I brought another guy (a local from Azilal) to help translate, but even with that help; this young asst. chief still didn’t really understand what we wanted. I’m sure he first thought that these two Americans were there to rescue to the poor Moroccans. Still, he was polite and welcoming, but he had a look that seemed to say he didn’t ‘need’ our help. Finally, we got through the idea that we wanted to learn from them as well and even then he wasn’t sure what exactly to tell us.
I realized it was a hard question to ask… Tell me about some of those little tips and tricks you pick up along the way, I was saying. (By the way, tips and tricks really doesn’t translate well.) We had a few prepared which we passed on as we sat around a couch and small table in his office. He finally broke out his procedural manual; it was old and French, but it did the job. He flipped open to any page and basically started talking about anatomy and physiology basics; but all of that started real conversations. The three of us discussed techniques for giving oxygen to unconscious patients (with and without spinal injuries), what to do in cases involving pregnant women and we contributed a bit about monitoring brain function after head injuries. It was exactly what it should have been; and luckily almost all of these words come from Greek and Latin so English to French wasn’t a big deal.
We also saw their ambulance and fire trucks. They’ve got some hi-tech stuff. Their ambulance can carry three patients, two better than us. If you’re familiar, on the ‘bench’ side, they can essentially set up this sort of bunk bed operation that puts two patients above the bench. Pretty cool. We all learned something, we did our jobs and perhaps most importantly… I had my little adventure for the day.
Mission: Accomplished
This last Monday turned out pretty well, but started off with a real punch in the face.
Just for sake of setting the scene a bit… the previous Wednesday I had been in Marrakech (where they have good internet) to watch my sister’s wedding LIVE from Jamaica via webcam. I really wished I could’ve been there, a pretty little spot by the ocean; but ever the volunteer, I still had about six months left to go on my term in the Peace Corps. Wishing I’d been somewhere else that day began with the first of two shoving matches I had gotten into with punks on the street who felt the need to shoot their mouths off at my friends (one female, the other of Asian descent [plenty of people here think it’s acceptable to "talk trash" in the street and seem genuinely surprised that someone is going to do something about it.])
So coming back from ‘Kech to my provincial capital of Azilal, my EMT buddy and I stopped by the local Protection Civile station. Behind the high gate, the guys were playing soccer against a cement wall when we showed up unannounced. They saw the two aromi (Moroccan Arabic: Foreigner) and seemed to wonder what we wanted… "Nous voulons jouer!," I shouted. ("We want to play!")
Ice broken: I explained as best I could that we were EMTs in the States and wanted to have a sit-down kind of info swap with these obviously well-equipped, well-trained fire and medical responders. We all shook hands, exchanged greetings (in the very thorough local style). They told us we were very welcome, but just to come back the next Monday when the chief would be there. Great! Our little ambulance project was stepping up from the countryside to the main stage.
Later that night the rain and the snow began to fall seriously for the first time this season. The damp weather only made the cheap soup we ate for dinner that night so much the better. For the fact that Moroccan soups are really good and cheap, many of my meals are heavily soup-based.
The rain continued in Azilal and the snow in the mountains where I live through the weekend until the next Monday when the action of the story really begins.
As per usual, to get out of my village it’s necessary to be down the hill and at curbside by about 4am to catch the van as it goes by. It usually doesn’t rain very much up here; and up until that day I had never stood there in the rain (cold yes, but until then, I’d had the luck.) It wasn’t a heavy rain and I even wore my new coat… a present for a recent holiday (Eid-Kebir, where we sacrificed a live goat) from my host-family who are of limited means. It was a nice gesture, but I’m almost sure it’s a women’s coat.
As I stood there for over an hour in the dark and the rain it became more and more obvious that I was the only idiot who wanted to go to Azilal on that particular morning. I guessed that many in my village (and at Protection Civile too) would’ve just said ‘go another day;’ but that wouldn’t be stubbornly American of me. I said I’d be there.
The only other way to get out is to hike out two hours to the intersection of the road to the larger town on the other side of the valley. Peace Corps has two other volunteers there, both from my group. I set out, walking in the dark and the drizzle. After only a minute or so I stepped on a rock which I hadn’t seen, rolled my ankle and jammed my knee in the pavement. I caught myself on my palms before it was my chin too. I probably looked bad, but I jumped right up, as if to prove to all the people who weren’t there that I was OK. My only thought was about my camera (still safe, if not damp in my backpack) and whether or not I’d bleed through my long-johns and pants. It was unlikely, but I couldn’t tell in the dark. Limping for a few paces, I pushed on; but I began thinking about why I was A) in the Peace Corps, B) on a mountain in Morocco, C) walking in the dark and the rain when everybody knew Protection Civile wasn’t going anywhere and no one would be the worse off if we did this later in the week, and D) why do I keep volunteering for things? After all, since university I’ve been in a volunteer military, a volunteer EMT and now a volunteer in the Peace Corps.
If there is some higher calling and duty, then let it be a duty to honesty… If I’m really being honest with myself (and I think oneself is the easiest person to lie to) then I’d say I’m doing all this because I crave the adventure and the challenge. I like proving to myself (and to others, I guess) that I can; and it’s all fun for the most part. And I get to learn a lot about people, places, myself… I guess it works out. As long as I’m out looking for feats of strength to perform, I may as well make myself useful and do something for someone else.
Nothing profound there… you’re cynical philosophers will say that no one does anything for anyone else, but only the selfish satisfaction of having done it. Others have said that the satisfied feeling is the great reward for helping people. I guess, being a career volunteer, I’ve always kinda grappled with the two and wondered what I was really doing. The honesty feels good though. I know it’s a bit of both.
There are definitely days when we don’t really feel the gratitude we think we deserve or we see that we are more motivated than the people we think we’re helping; on those days it’s pretty obvious we’re out here for our own sense of accomplishment. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to help. There’s no way out of this circle, so I suppose that accepting it is the only way to ride in style. That’s all.
Oh, and I did make it to Protection Civile (and only about 5min late). The assistant chief (about late-twenties and in his sharp uniform looked a ton better than I did crawling in from the backwoods exhausted, drenched and freezing, however bundled I still was in my blue women’s coat and tattered pants… my now old, but formerly waterproof boots soaked from having to help push our van through a small river of mountain runoff water earlier that morning.
Our little info swap session at first went awkwardly. My friend and I brought another guy (a local from Azilal) to help translate, but even with that help; this young asst. chief still didn’t really understand what we wanted. I’m sure he first thought that these two Americans were there to rescue to the poor Moroccans. Still, he was polite and welcoming, but he had a look that seemed to say he didn’t ‘need’ our help. Finally, we got through the idea that we wanted to learn from them as well and even then he wasn’t sure what exactly to tell us.
I realized it was a hard question to ask… Tell me about some of those little tips and tricks you pick up along the way, I was saying. (By the way, tips and tricks really doesn’t translate well.) We had a few prepared which we passed on as we sat around a couch and small table in his office. He finally broke out his procedural manual; it was old and French, but it did the job. He flipped open to any page and basically started talking about anatomy and physiology basics; but all of that started real conversations. The three of us discussed techniques for giving oxygen to unconscious patients (with and without spinal injuries), what to do in cases involving pregnant women and we contributed a bit about monitoring brain function after head injuries. It was exactly what it should have been; and luckily almost all of these words come from Greek and Latin so English to French wasn’t a big deal.
We also saw their ambulance and fire trucks. They’ve got some hi-tech stuff. Their ambulance can carry three patients, two better than us. If you’re familiar, on the ‘bench’ side, they can essentially set up this sort of bunk bed operation that puts two patients above the bench. Pretty cool. We all learned something, we did our jobs and perhaps most importantly… I had my little adventure for the day.
Mission: Accomplished
