In the Beginning

In the Beginning
A Look Back
Andrew Tibbs
I guess you could say that joining the Peace Corps was something of a split second life decision for me. Making split second decisions on what to do with your life for two years may seem somewhat risky, especially when you're considering leaving civilization behind. For me though, it was all a matter of timing. I had more or less finished college but was certainly not ready to make any serious life shaping plans. I had no idea yet what shape of a life I even wanted. So, I went searching for something to do with myself and wound up on my college Peace Corps recruiters doorstep. I liked what I heard there. It was a two year delay on real life, more time to think things over, while at the same time getting me out there, helping people, making a difference. With luck I would make contacts in the international community that could help guide my vague notions of my future and shape them into something feasible. I signed on the dotted line
Or tried to. The Peace Corps application process was a maze of paperwork, interviews and medical clearances that would put astronaughts pre-flight checkups to shame. A year or so after beginning I was ready to give up but pretty much that very same day they called and told me I was going to Morocco. This came as a small shock to me since I had been preparing to go to Jamaica, but hey, I was desperate to get going somewhere... anywhere where I could use my fresh minted, hard earned college degree. Anywhere not Target, where I had been killing time while I waited.
I was definitely excited. At least once I figured out where Morocco actually was. One of my friends wondered if there would even be much need for Peace Corps in a country full of casinos and looked after by a good looking European princess. Ahh, if only. Instead I was off to do environment work in the national park system in a different monarchy on the North West coast of the African continent. Monaco it definitely was not. I tried to find out all I could of course. Travel books and essays, guide books, news articles. Whatever I could get my hands on really. It was all interesting but kind of vague for my purposes. I couldn't find a single thing written by someone who had gone just to hang out with the locals. I resolved to keep my attitude as accepting as possible and my expectations minimal. Ready for anything. World here I come.
Nor was information very forthcoming from Peace Corps. Instead of sending me stuff they asked for still more details about my life so that the "staff could be better prepared for our arrival." The packing list had a million and one items and a note saying that we may or may not need any of it but they can highly recommend at least the underwear. The recurring theme of all correspondence from them was; "Morocco is the cold country with the hot sun." Well, Great... what does that mean exactly and what should I bring? Calls to the information desk never breached the voice mail wall. Clothing was supposed to be "business casual" which left me wondering what type of rural African village this really was. Eventually, I just threw a bunch of stuff into a bag using the "little bit of everything" approach and two rolls of duct tape to cover the contingencies. I could barely lift the thing but in true boy scout fashion I was prepared.
My friends and family were supportive, though now I realize that they no doubt thought I had gone off the deep end. Or at least further off than usual. Here I was packing off to a Muslim country at a time when tensions were high, opinions were hot, and understanding was minimal. I figured that this made my mission more important. Things couldn't be as bad as all that. I exchanged addresses, shot rolls of photos to decorate the walls of my mud hut (see, already a use for the duct tape) and extracted promises from absolutely everyone I knew even vaguely to keep in touch. I must have known subconsciously even then how important these links would be down the line. A few low key (mostly) parties and tearful goodbyes later I began the first leg of my new life. A thirty minute flight to Philadelphia for "staging."
Staging was a crazy experience. I hadn't even left the States yet and I was already in over my head. I had met a new friend at the airport baggage claim (she and I were the only ones with 300 pound bags on the thirty minute flight from Boston. Peace Corps seemed a fairly safe bet.) and was nearly overwhelmed by the relief of finally being able to truly share the experience with someone who was actually doing it. Before that moment I hadn't even realized that I had been so stressed out and nervous. There were two more recruits in the airport van to the hotel and the four of us got lunch together and talked shop as if we actually knew what to expect. It made me happy that I wasn't the only nervous one there.
Activities included myriad ice-breakers and get-to-know-you games which served only to make me jealous of everyone else's qualifications. There were people that had already lived in Morocco, people that had worked at Jane Goodal's field research station, people that fed me homemade chex-mix while calmly relating that this would be their eighth trip to Africa. There were old people and young people, nurses and forest service employees, experienced and inexperienced, published scholars, married couples and single people. I wasn't even the only red-head. 48 people all told, and though I didn't realize it at the time they were all just as clueless as I was. When it came to this experience we were all equally green.
To be honest, I don't even remember what we learned at staging. Only snapshot images of bright colored maps and photos of Morocco and an energetic man (who talked to groups like us for a living) explaining the basic ins and outs of living in a culture that's not even close to anything like you might have imagined, so that hopefully we wouldn't embarrass ourselves or our nation in the first five minutes off the plane. No nose rings, no motorcycles, no pressure. Got it.
Then the long ride over the Atlantic and WAY out of my comfort zone. I think that peer-pressure to be strong was the only thing that kept us all from screaming. It certainly wasn't the in-flight movie. I pretended to sleep but couldn't have actually managed it if someone had shot me up with elephant tranquilizer. When we arrived and walked down the steps to the tarmac it was into the light of the rising African sun. I had a silly urge to commemorate the occasion somehow so when I got to the bottom step I jumped and hit the ground of my new country, my new home, with both feet. Perhaps only the watchful security official noticed my over-enthusiastic arrival but it was still worthwhile. I had cleared the hurdles, stuck with it and made it happen. I had arrived to make my difference.
Now, 18 months and many stories later I realize that those first hurdles were the shortest and the easiest to overcome. Making it here was just the beginning. But I've also learned what adaptability really means. For one thing, it's impossible to have no expectations. For better or worse experience has repeatedly shattered mine. For another, except for the duct tape I packed mostly the wrong stuff, but in my defense I'm not sure there is "right stuff" and I've become an expert at improvising. Of those 48 odd strangers from Philly only 25 remain here and they are all friends. Some great ones. We've all taught each other something by now and none of us probably would have made it alone. Ohh, and Morocco really is the cold country with the hot sun. You'll just have to visit and see for yourself.