3id Free Agent

At this time last year, my 3id related worries centered mainly around the most plainly obvious obstacle. The whole sheep deal. Who would clean the blood out of my only tie? Would throwing up while eating undercooked sheep lung and heart kabobs hinder my attempts at integration? And lastly, Why did the man carving up a medium sized mammal in our entryway, who did not wash his hands after going to the bathroom and before plunging them into the insides of my extremely raw lunch, just chastise me for coughing into my hand? In short, I was a fool to be concerned over such petty manners.

This year, however, the stakes were much higher. Due to my in-site host family's high rating on the weak-sauce0meter, my plans for the most important holiday of the year were wide open heading into the stretch. I was a break-week bachelor, a religious independent, the Catfish Hunter of 3id in Morocco. I was a free agent. Notice the past tense.

This rare scenario did not bring liberation, but thrust me into the miserable disarray that is Moroccan social life. Only now do I realize the importance of heeding the Spiderman Corollary, "with great power comes great responsibility." Instead of being able to blaze my own trail, my excess of freedom was quickly mopped up by a flurry of invitations (closer to subpoenas really) for any and all of the many sheep filled days. Resistance was futile. Let me tell you something, if there is one thing Moroccans cannot be beat at, it's guilting guests into eating, or more accurately overeating.

So as I look out over my schedule for the next few days I no longer feel like Catfish, chilling as offers poured in, thinking about which ridiculously awesome offer to accept. I feel a lot more like a poor sap who got lit up after entering the wrong side of town thinking how neat and ethnic it seemed. The week now holds a series of commitments which, if broken, will lead to me getting yelled at by lots of fat old ladies. Seriously though they are really good at guilting peeps.