Another window into small town, Moroccan Life

Since my last blog, I have moved from my host family house and into my own, made a solo venture into Marrakech for the first time, and have started teaching English at the Dar Chabab, but I just walked in the door at 11:30 at night, and couldn’t wait to blog about the experience I just had. 

Earlier today, Tariq showed me a room of his house I had never seen before.  It actually has its own door to the outside (as well as a 5 foot tall door to the inside).  Tariq proudly told me that this was going to be his and his wife’s “home” once they are married.  Its about 10’ by 15’, has no windows, and both doors are solid metal,  but Tariq is so excited about having a small place to call his own.

Then, a couple of hours ago, he, Otman, and another friend came over to my new house and of course custom required that I serve them something.  Needless to say, I have no food or furniture (actually, I bought a plastic table and four chairs on the way to my house, so we at least had somewhere to sit). I bought some cherries (awesome , delicious cherries) in ‘Kech on my earlier trip so I threw them in a pot (I don’t have any bowls), and we sat around on our plastic chairs and drank coke and ate cherries (we killed a kilo in short order, ‘cause you can’t find cherries in Sidi Bouthman, so it was actually a treat).

…anyway, to make a long story longer, along comes “Xamis” (which means “Thursday” in Darija, which seems a little random, but whatever) and yells outside the window and Tariq asks if we can invite him in, so of course, we do, and he has some cherries and coke (Xamis got the overturned bucket, ‘cause that had to substitute for the 5^th seat).  Then everyone gets up to leave and I wasn’t sure whether something specific was going on or if everyone was going their separate ways, but I should have known better, because it was only 9:30 or 10:00. 

We all headed over to Tariq’s house and he opened up his “new” room and Xamis changed into some overalls and pulled out a trowel.  It turned out, it was a late-night “cement-the-floor-of-the-new-room” party (who knew).  Out came more plastic chairs and the four of us sat at one end of the little room and watched Xamis start cementing the floor (it was cemented before, but lots of pock marks and very uneven).

I thought that was the funniest thing and said to myself that I would have to blog about the craziness of what “a night on the town” means in Morocco, sitting around and watching someone cement the floor of a room.  But then it got immeasurably better because Tariq’s dad and brother came in toting more plastic chairs and now there were six of us watching.  Then Tariq goes out and comes back with a table and a teapot full of water, and we all proceed (including Xamis) to wash our hands under the teapot and then sit around the table.

Well, out comes a huge platter of couscous and we all commence to eating couscous in the corner of the little room that Xamis hasn’t yet cemented (at 11:00 at night, no less).  …and I don’t think that was considered the least bit unusual.  After our meal, we had to move the table and chairs so that Xamis could finish cementing the floor, and so that ended the entertainment for the night, so then we all went home.

Maybe you had to be there, but it was soooo random as to be bordering on the absurd, and yet perhaps provides another glimpse of the differences between the two cultures.

Well that’s a new one…  Tariq told me of an awesome dinner of chicken with spices (of some sort) and lemon, mixed with fried tomatoes, peppers and onions.  That sounded awesome, so off we went.  We went to the suk, which is Sidi Bouthman is a series of small stands selling anything from watermelons to meat to t-shirts with American slogans on them.  Crammed together and situated on dusty ground, you’re forced to squeeze through small spaces at times and dodge the lambs and sheep hanging from hooks in the middle of the pathways.

As it turned out, we weren’t going to a restaurant to enjoy this meal.  We were going to create this meal.  This process, I learned later, was partly to help me learn my way around the town and fend for myself, because I had mentioned to Tariq the day before how dependent on him I was because he always takes care of everything for me and I just follow along and look stupid.

Our first stop was the mul djaj (chicken butcher).   There I saw many drumsticks, thighs, and whole, skinned chickens (as you would expect) and Tariq tried to get me to order the chicken from the mul djaj.  Of course, I was clueless so I pointed to a couple of the thighs and legs and looked to him for approval.  He laughed and said something to the mul djaj, who then went in the back and brought out a live chicken, and asked us if this was the size/amount of chicken we wanted.

Tariq looked at me for approval (as if I might know how much chicken we wanted by looking into the eyes of this poor, squawking foul).  I looked at him wide-eyed but he just smiled, and told me to ask him how much it was.  I did and Tariq immediately said “gali bizef” (too much) and told me to negotiate the price (which was a total joke because he was friends with the mul djaj and knew there was no bargaining).

 So I paid the mul djaj (about $4) and he proceeded to whack off the chicken’s head and stuck the chicken in a bowl to “drain.”   He then quickly butchered the chicken while Tariq went off to purchase the spices and lemon.  The butcher took about two minutes to have it ready and Tariq came back with the ingredients, and they put the chicken in a plastic bag, mixed in the ingredients, squeezed in the lemon, shook the bag around, and off we went.

Next stop, the little restaurant we sometimes go to. He just handed the guy behind the counter the bag and said we’d be back in a couple of hours.  I guess its not that unusual to bring in your own “main course” because the guy didn’t seem that surprised by the statement.  We went to the ciber (a series of cramped desks with computers with Internet, which Tariq owns, actually), and then went back to the restaurant a couple of hours later (with Otman, a good friend of Tariq’s and an awesome guy who speaks English quite well).

We sat down and Tariq went up to tell someone what we wanted (I think he temporarily forgot that I was supposed to be doing all this) and a little while later, out came this incredibly looking (and tasting) chicken with fried tomatoes, onions, and peppers, and of course bread!  Awesome!

Then on the way out, Tariq pointed to the owner (who was sitting in a chair counting his money) and told me to ask how much we owed.  I did, and shelled out 29 D (a little over $3), and that was that.  It actually seems a little expensive for Sidi Bouthman standards, but it was cool and yummy and fed three of us.  …and I learned a little bit more about life in Morocco.

The title of this blog is “Humbled.”

Peace Corps over the years has, of course, changed considerably in terms of the places we're sent and the level of comfort we enjoy while "in-country."  At swearing in, I had a chance to speak with two RPCV's who were Volunteers in 1961.  You can imagine the extent to which they were forced to "make do" 50 years ago, with no electricity, running water, cell phones, Internet, etc.

It’s so easy to forget how easy we/I have it, and how quick we/I am to complain about the little things.  This town is f***ing awesome and the people are an inspiration!  I'm realizing that more and more each day, but yesterday humbled me, that's all I can say.

Tariq, as I've mentioned, is the most awesome friend/host brother a person could hope for, and I count him as one of my closest friends after knowing him less than two weeks.  His brother, Aniss, is also awesome, but I only see him on weekends because he works in Marrakech.

Anyway,  Tariq informed me early on that he was engaged and is getting married at the end of June.  We even went to the Suk (the weekly farmers' market) and bought an engagement and wedding ring for his soon-to-be bride.  But it still seemed weird to me because I hadn't met her and he didn't seem to talk to her at all on the phone, and so I asked him where she lived.  He just made hand gestures of going up and down hills and didn't say anything.

So on Friday, he mentioned that I was going to meet his fiancée on Sunday, and so don't make any plans for the day.  Well, yesterday approached and the whole family turned out in Jalabas and/or dress shirts.  ...and because they don't own a vehicle, Tariq told me they rented a car to take all of us to his fiancée’s locale.  And sure enough, a 25 year old Dodge van showed up, the family rolled up an oriental rug from the house, laid it out in the back of the van, grabbed some pillows and threw them in the back of the van, and 12 people piled in, complete with food bizef (lots) to take along. 

Tariq and I received the privilege of sitting up front with the driver, and off we went.  I thought there was only one road out of town, going north (ultimately, to Casa Blanca) or south to 'Kech.  ...but low and behold, we started heading cross country on a small paved road. 

We could hear the family singing and clapping in the back of the van as we dodged potholes and waited for shepards to clear the sheep from our path.   We soon turned off the paved road and continued on a dirt road, which turned into a two-track after about 10 kilometers.  Now we’re bouncing along at about 5 miles an hour, seemingly cutting a path through the desert.  There is neither house nor human (nor even a tree) on this path.  It is hot, desolate, and, barren, and I wonder of our chances of survival if this van decides to quit.

Finally we come upon a tiny village of perhaps two-dozen small buildings, with a water tower and small mosque.  I thought to myself what an amazing place for Tariq’s fiancée to live, in such a tiny, out-of-the-way little… village, I guess, although there is no store or restaurant or… anything.  There was electricity however, as was readily apparent from the satellite dishes on the tops of the few buildings.

To my surprise, we actually drove through this little village and continued on our journey.  I could see several miles ahead, and there was absolutely nothing except more desert.  We continued on for another half-hour, traveling at maybe 10 miles an hour over rock, dust, and cracked earth.  We crested a small hill, and I looked out on what looked like a tiny set of buildings built out of rocks, perhaps two miles ahead.

As we neared, I realized that the structures were indeed once homes made out of rock, but were now largely dilapidated, with most of the structures having fallen (but undoubtedly beautiful at one time).  However, this time we didn’t continue our journey, but pulled off next to a walled structure that was still intact.  Adjacent to the wall was another structure made out of some sort of adobe and hay combination.

Out piled Tariq’s family and out of the adobe structure came a group of women dressed in colorful tribal costume, singing/chanting with several beating small drums.  Greetings were exchanged and “our” women joined in on the singing.  Then a few men sauntered out and greeted us, and the party was on!  This was Tariq’s formal betrothal party involving his family, his fiancée’s family, and me!

We walked through the adobe structure, which had no door, a dirt floor, and the smell of a barn, but as we walked through, it opened into a little courtyard with perhaps four tiny, low-roofed buildings around the perimeter.  This was the home of Tariq’s fiancée’s family and something beyond anything I might have imagined. 

Inside this dusty courtyard was a small (but actually beautifully constructed) room laid out with beautiful rugs and pillows, but no furniture.  Here all the men gathered (perhaps 15 in all), sitting on the carpet and leaning against the pillows.  The walls were probably 18” thick, to keep the heat at bay, but it was pretty stifling in there.  The women went into another room, but “tradition” dictated that the men couldn’t go in there.  The other room I didn’t see, but looking in, it was also a low-roofed, dirt floor room, most likely a kitchen, and a small bathroom where you lean a piece of wood against the opening to obtain some privacy.  Finally, on the far side of the courtyard was a gate, and inside were dozens of goats and sheep, a few chickens and a donkey.

The men sat around, smoked (in this tiny, unventilated room), chatted, and sweated (well actually, I was the only one sweating because Moroccans don’t sweat, because they don’t drink water).  You could hear the women in the next room singing and banging on the drums.  I still hadn’t met Tariq’s wife-to-be because tradition again dictated that she be kept segregated from him (and the rest of us).

I asked for water and enjoyed a cool drink of wonderfully tasting water.  I saw a light bulb on the ceiling and was shocked that there could be electricity here, but later realized they actually had a little solar panel on the roof, which powered the light. They had no other electricity.  We had tea, chatted some more, then ate perhaps the best meal I’ve had since moving here, of chicken and homemade bread (those chickens were running around the pen earlier in the day, I have a feeling).

Then it got so hot that we retired to the “adobe-and-hay” room I had first seen.  Even though it had only a dirt floor, they rolled out another oriental rug, grabbed some pillows, and continued to sit around, chat, smoke, and drink tea.  It was cooler in that room for sure, with a wonderful breeze blowing through.

Eventually, we all got up and went into the “women’s” room which was stifling and a little ripe, what with all the women chanting/singing and beating the drums for the last four hours.  I saw the bride-to-be for the first time (totally cute, all decked out in traditional garb), sitting on a pillow at one end of the room.  Tariq sat on a pillow next to her, and the betrothal ritual began in earnest, with pictures taken individually and in groups of every combination of family member possible.  Of course, I was brought up to be included in the very first pictures, and had to forcefully bow out to avoid being in most of the other ones.

There were other rituals including serving each other tea out of tiny cups, the exchanging of rings (that Tariq bought at the Suk), some exchanges of words (no idea), etc.  This would have been considered an enormously long wedding in the States, but was only an engagement party!  I have heard that the wedding is an all day affair (maybe even more than one) with multiple changes of wardrobe, etc.  Finally, the ceremony wound down, and the women continued their chanting/singing/drum beating (actually, they never stopped during the ceremony, for that matter), and the men went back to sitting around.

After about 8 hours of sitting and participating in the above-described ritual, I had had enough, and tried to escape to get some air outside the courtyard, and enjoy the breeze I had felt earlier.  Of course, Tariq felt obligated to be my host, so he went with me and I got a chance to look around at the area outside the tiny family compound.  We walked up a little hill and I could see that there were actually other people living in this tiny hamlet.  Tariq said that there might be 8 or 10 families living there, tending crops or livestock, but that many years ago, it was a thriving little village.

As mentioned, most of the rock structures had fallen, but there were a few outer walls still intact, and families had used those as a starting point to build modest little structures that they called home.  As I was looking, out came a couple of the girls, carrying empty jugs and leading the donkey.  The donkey had two large leather flagons (if that is the right word) strapped to its sides and we followed the group down a path and around the crumbling rock wall. 

A few hundred yards away was the water source for the “duwar” (Tariq told me that tiny little hamlets like this are called “duwar”), a hole in the ground about 100 feet deep, where the people go to get their water.  It was actually a beautifully crafted "bir" (well), with a steel pulley above and surrounded by a nicely constructed cement foundation (with steel “cellar-type” doors that close the well). 

There was no pump or crank, however.  Just two leather urns tied to two hundred feet of rope, looped around the pulley.  You drop one bucket in and pull it up, and the other bucket descends into the well, and you do it all over again.  Maybe they hold a couple of gallons, so to fill the jugs and the flagons on the donkey, it was about 50 dips into the well.  And if we “boys” didn’t happen to be there to help, it would have been one heck of a lot of work for the girls.

Finally, the van appeared in sight and we said our good-byes.  I mentioned that I would LOVE to bring my family out to see this place, and Tariq’s fiancée’s family gushed with their desire that I do so.  I was so wonderfully treated by both families.  It was just an amazing experience!

…and I’m so not doing the story justice.  For example, I just recalled that while we were in the “adobe and hay” structure, the sheep and goats start being herded through on their way to grazing, passing within a few feet of us.  Also, that barren desert was actually able to support (sort of, anyway) hay as a crop, and they both harvest it and have the animals graze on it (there being no grass or anything else edible in that area).

It is truly a “see-to-be-believed” situation of surviving and thriving in a situation that none of us can even imagine.  I thought my town was small, but the few people in this duwar (and I assume the duwar we passed through with the water tower and mosque) travel over an hour to my town to get whatever they need.  To them, my town is the big city.  …and I only saw a motorized bicycle for transportation (other than the donkey).

So it’s all in the perception.  I guess I could be spending my two years at that duwar instead of Sidi Boutman.  …and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad…