5/29/08 The Berberville Grapevine

After I went to the post office this morning, I stopped by the recently vacated home of Zahra, the departing Volunteer. Her landlord was (is) my host dad, and it’s very likely that I’ll be moving into that house when I finish my homestay. Because of that assumption, she gave me her keys before she left, and also let me leave some things there (notably a huge backpack that I brought with me when I came on site visit, and which I haven’t actually unpacked since it was first packed at the end of February).

After I picked up my packages, I took them to Zahra’s place to open them in the privacy of her home, and so that I could pick up the fleece and Tevas that I’d left there after site visit. (It was cold last night, and I found myself missing my fleece. And Tevas are always handy.) Getting into her house was harder than I’d anticipated. For one thing, her key doesn’t work all that well. Plus, the steel crossbar bolting the door shut isn’t aligned perfectly, so pulling it open involves scraping steel on steel—a noisy and awkward proposition. But I finally succeeded in wrestling her door open, climbed the steep stairs to her 2nd story apartment, and there I was! I ate a little chocolate, read the introduction to Innocents Abroad, and then figured it was time to head back to my wonderful host family. Locking up her apartment was about as challenging as unlocking it had been, and the clanging and scraping attracted some attention. Also, as I walked back, I passed some of my Berberville neighbors who wanted to chat. (I’m not a particularly skilled chatter in Tamazight, but I gave it my best shot, and I think we understood each other.) They asked if I’d been in Zahra’s house, and if she was really gone. I answered both questions. I’d originally hoped that no one would notice I’d been there—not because I was doing anything wrong but because I didn’t know how to explain what I was up to in Tamazight—but I figured that that train had long since left, and that I might as well be forthright about it.

As I was talking, it occurred to me to wonder how long it would take to get back to my host parents – aka the owners of the apartment.

It didn’t take long.

About two hours later, my host dad came up to me and asked if I’d been in Zahra’s house. I said yes, and then he said something long and complicated that I didn’t completely understand. I caught the words “key” and “house” and “your clothes” (could also mean “your baggage” – the same word is used for both), so I just kept smiling and nodding. Yes, she had given me the key to the house. Yes, I had left some of my clothes – in my baggage – there. If he said anything else, I probably agreed to that, too. Towards the end, he asked if Zahra had given me the card for the electricity. (It’s shaped like a credit card, and actually works exactly like the laundry card at my last apartment. You put money on it, then use it to transfer money to the electricity meter in your house. As long as you put money on it at least every six months, and keep your balance above zero, you have power!) I said that she had, and showed it to him.

He held it for a minute, seemed to make a decision about something, and then said that I should probably hang onto it. I guess that until then, it had still been an open question for him as to whether I’d take the apartment. (It hasn’t been for Ama. She’s been giving me the hard sell for a while now.)

Satisfied that all was well, he went off about his business.

This afternoon, Ama came up to me and asked if I’d been over to Zahra’s place. (I guess my host dad hadn’t talked with her about it before leaving.) I said that I had, and gave the explanation that I’d figured out how to say in Tamazight: My jacket was there. I was very cold last night. I went to Zahra’s house in order to bring my jacket back here.* (Simple, declarative sentences are my strong suit.) Mama laughed and said, “It’s not Zahra’s house anymore. It’s your house. Kawtar’s house! Zahra is gone to America. She’s an American girl now. She’s—” and here she pantomimed wearing a tank top, wiggling her hips, and generally being Hshuma. “It’s Kawtar’s house now. You’re a Moroccan girl now. Later, you’ll be an American girl,” and again she showed how Hshuma American girls are. As soon as she’d done her American pantomime, I’d started laughing, and by the time she finished the second round, I was busting a gut. She’s not wrong – American girls do wear short sleeves and dance around (though, for the record, I hate tank tops) – but somehow seeing her caricature it was just the most startling and hilarious thing I can remember seeing.

* If you’re curious: Jakitinu illa. Idgam, krfgh bzzef. Digh s tadart n Zahra afad ad-iwidgh jakitinu.