Limits
The Old City of Safi. Some buildings are over 700 years old.
There’s not a lot to do here in the summer. The oppressing sun and the 105+ degree heat just evaporate away motivation, and what little can be mustered is spent as it comes. I have learned to chain my bursts of energy: waking up can turn into a quick breakfast in the morning, into cleaning the kitchen, brushing teeth and shaving, then returning to sweep the floors, and maybe if the sun is not too harsh on the stucco roof, I sit down to a load of laundry. If I do not spend these initial bursts they inevitably fade within seconds, and they do not come frequently. Under this heat, motivation is a ghost, a shadow under a flashlight.
Salvation is found in structure. I have helped facilitate summer camps in the last month and a half, and though the responsibility and attention they require has been invaluable, the camps also follow the laws of our hellish weather. Every working day was bookmarked with frequent naps and water breaks, and each evening flowed into a waking night when the air cooled, and students would find a second wind in the evening respite.
There was something beautiful in this process. Moroccans of all ages go throughout their days this summer, but for every living soul, the hours between sunrise and sunset exhausted a worn and patient thread. Under the sun’s burden, resilient and humble grace was stretched to a taught and nervous tension. I saw lips cracking, teeth grating, muscles flexed when eyes locked. I heard insults whispered, and joints popping. Day after day, even when stewing in the uncertainty of juvenile life, the daily respite of a few meager degrees was just enough to calm the air. Nearly fifteen years of drought in Morocco, yet I have only seen one summer.
An Old Portuguese Prison in Safi
It feels impossible to even write a decent post without the heat seeping into every paragraph and keystroke. My writing time is relegated to nights because the keys literally burn my fingers if I open my laptop between the hours of eleven and seven. It’s a small and grateful miracle that none of the plastic keycaps have been deformed by the radiator they rest on. It’s no surprise then that the most enjoyment I have found this summer has been away from my laptop and my writing, as sitting by it makes my days, on average, 10% more miserable.
The camps are truly a grateful break. The inevitable unpredictability and frustration were a good excuse to meditate and stretch more, and once I felt sufficiently loose, the camps became a great way to learn about the Moroccan youth in a more personal and careful way.
In a classroom, I am a miniature mayor. I must make sure the students learn of course, but I am also responsible for bathroom breaks, and class materials, and lesson plans, and I serve as an authority on translation, and in some small way a representative of America too -- yet at the summer camps, I was more just “Jacob”. The students approached me more often, they made jokes, played pranks, and we talked about basketball, Rubik’s cubes, and martial arts, and our favorite books. We talked about being healthy, and our personal quirks. We talked about who we wanted to be and who we were now.
We organized cultural days and went to the beach together. We were confused together at breaks, and at ceremonies we delivered speeches, performances, and thanks. We swapped snacks, decided Lebron is the GOAT, and that nerds aren’t cool again. We pushed each other to learn more, and we found ourselves better for it.
The Portuguese Fortress, from the early 1500’s
And yet, in this heat, I found within myself a festering question: Why can I not do more? I didn’t find the sense of accomplishment I was searching for this summer. The camps were messy and chaotic, much like my days at home, they were spent lounging idly and until we rapidly sprang into action, hoping to squeeze as much value as possible from our scheduled classes and clubs.
So inevitably, between our daily activities, we slipped back into a solemn resignation. We admitted that the heat was far too hot, that the day was best spent by the salt breeze and ocean spray or in a cool and shaded bed.
It has been a beautiful summer. But it has had limits which were frustrating and obvious. The only answer I can find is that my methods were weak. I was not ready for the oppressive noon, the loud nights, or the festering inside of me. While Morocco continues to amaze me, this summer, I found myself an unacceptable failure. It is a limit I must break.
