RPCV: Ragamuffin Peace Corps Volunteer

Saturday, I volunteered at Boston's Head of the Charles, the biggest regatta in the world. (Or so they claim, though I had a South African fellow-volunteer assure me that the Henley Regatta in England is still the biggest.)

Knowing that I'd be outside, on the water, exposed, for about 10 hours, I dressed carefully.

For the first time since leaving Morocco, I layered on multiple sets of long underwear, and kept layering up.

As I walked towards the subway in the chill predawn, I realized that for the first time since starting my new job (ie since buying work-appropriate clothing), I was dressed completely in clothes that I'd brought back from Morocco.

Two sets of long underwear: check

Thermal jacket: check

Polar fleece: check

Jeans: check

Hiking boots: check

SmartWool socks: check

And moreover, as I'd noticed while dressing, these clothes are RAGGED.

I wore. them. out.

Life in the Peace Corps is hard on clothes. I tended to wear them a lot of times between washings, and then to wash them, I'd soak them overnight (which is hard on the fibers) and then scrub the bejeebers out of them (which is hard on everything). But what damaged even more of my clothes than the heavy wear and tear and washing? Burns. Between sitting too close to my heater, wrapping myself around my heater, carrying my heater from one room to another, and using my sleeves as hot-mitts in the kitchen, I managed to burn virtually every piece of clothing at least once.

I'd forgotten this till I got dressed Saturday morning, and kept finding more damaged bits.

My favorite blue jacket? Hole in the forearm. Bigger than a quarter, smaller than a ChipsAhoy cookie.

My beloved green fleece? Sleeves mostly destroyed with multiple burns from (ab)use as hot mitts.

My trusty jeans? Hole near the hem from sitting too close to the fire. It used to be the size of a nickel, but it's growing.

My stalwart hiking boots? Scuffed and stained and trim-torn-off. Oh, and I'd forgotten that I have the slipperiest laces in all of creation: I have to quadruple-knot them, and they still tend to come untied every few minutes. Square knots, too.

And so on.

As I tromped in my trusty (abused) boots towards the T, I couldn't escape the conclusion that I was one raggedy-looking PCV by the end of my service.

And yet it seemed so normal at the time...

8/19/10 Kalima

When I moved to Berberville, 27 months ago, one of the first people I met was a tiny little girl that Ama introduced as Kalima (left, with her sister and mine).

"Kalima" sounds like the word kalimo, which means word, so I figured her name was a reference to the holy scriptures in the Qur'an. It occurred to me later that our village's dialect blurs the distinction between l's and r's, and that the little girl's name might be "Karima", a common Arab name.

But since I never saw it written - her mother, like Ama, is illiterate, and even after the child started school, I never asked her to write her name - I simply had to pick a mental spelling, and I've always thought of her as Kalima.

Kalima's mother is Rebha - one of a thousand women in the area to carry that very common Tamazight name. This particular Rebha is Ama's next door neighbor, and her closest friend. Their daughters pour into and out of each other's houses, playing and giggling at all hours of the day and into the twilight. Kalima is the youngest of the girls, and tends to follow Noora and Fatima around with the eager delight that I remember following my big sister around with myself, when I was 5 or 6 like Kalima. (Ages are usually vague, too, because dates are as hazy as written words for the women in my village.)

Whenever I think of Kalima, who I haven't seen in three months, I first remember her sparkling eyes, dancing with mischief and innocence and delight. Sometimes all at once. I've never seen such bright eyes. They glowed with some inner radiance.

Next, I remember her ready smile, with its tiny white milk-teeth. Rebha is one of the better cooks in Berberville, but refined sugar is rare (except in tea!), which might explain why Kalima's teeth remain perfect, without benefit of western impositions like a toothbrush.

Many Berberville children were wary of the tall pale foreigner, but Kalima - like her older sister, Noora - accepted me immediately. After a long day of children clamoring for my attention or begging for candy, it was always restful to run into Kalima on the path by Ama's house, and relax in her undemanding presence.

Kalima and Noora could be found underfoot at Ama's house at least as often as any of my own little brothers and sisters, so she shows up in several of the pictures I shot in my host family's house. Here, she and my sister are reading (or at least looking at) books I brought back from Rabat:

I also took a few deliberate portraits of her on the day of my cousin Lucky's wedding, because she was dressed in her sparkling new caftan (and apparently trying to focus on a mote of dust a foot in front of her ):

For reasons that I never understood - despite repeated painstaking explanations using lots of words I didn't understand - one of Kalima's neighbors decided that he wanted to buy brand new caftans for Kalima and Noora, for the wedding.

Kalima in her new caftan:

Caftans are an Arab import into my Berber village, but they're hugely popular at weddings. Made of satin (or shiny polyester), embroidered with bright patterns, and often liberally sprinkled with sequins, caftans are long, tightly belted garments that manage to cover a girl or woman from neck to wrist to ankle, while still showing the general curves of her body and flowing gracefully with her movements.

Every young woman needs at least one caftan to wear to family weddings - and *somebody* gets married almost every summer evening in my little town. Of course, the entire town is always welcomed at any wedding - whatever you're wearing - but relatives of the bride or groom are expected to dress up. And in Berberville, wedding dress code = caftan. For women, anyway. For men, it's simply the white tunics they wear to pray in the mosque.

Wealthy young women own more than one caftan, plus girls tend to loan them out as freely as my friends swapped our gel bracelets in elementary school, so pretty much anyone who wants to dress up for a wedding will be able to.

The little girls aren't quite as lucky. Since little girls everywhere grow like pretty little weeds, buying custom-tailored garments that can only be worn a handful of times before they're outgrown doesn't make sense to most families. So little girls whose sisters or cousins are getting married usually have to make do with hand-me-down caftans, belted and cinched within an inch of their lives.

At our cousin Lucky's wedding, my little sister Fatima was one such cinched figure, tripping over a hem that trailed a good six inches on the floor, and nearly drowning in a garment meant for a girl at least twice as wide as my stick-thin sister.

But Kalima and Noora got brand-new, custom-fitted caftans. I think because their neighbor is related to the family of the groom, who is connected in some truly round-about manner with the mother of the bride...? Yeah, I never did figure out exactly how they scored new caftans, but that didn't stop me from beaming happily (and snapping lots of pictures) as they paraded around town in hand-tailored finery.

Here's Kalima (second from the right) and a bunch of other sleepy girls at Lucky's wedding. This picture was taken around midnight, when the festivities had been going for about 8 hours and had another 4 or 5 hours to go...

Why am I spending so much time talking about my tiny friend Kalima? Who I met when she was 4 or 5 and who I knew only two years?

Because last week, for no reason anyone could discern, Kalima lay her tiny body down, curled up into an implausibly small ball, and died.

Children die all the time in the Third World, usually from preventable illnesses. I'm truly grateful that none of my tiny friends passed on during the two years I spent in their village.

But that blessed bubble has now burst, and Kalima's shining eyes have closed for the last time.

Ajaar akom Allah.

7/1/10 Haggling in the Chinatown Souq

The first time I went to Chinatown, it was in New York City. I felt quickly overwhelmed by the foreign smells, sights (Is that really a carcass hanging in the butcher shop?!?), crowding, noise, bustle, and general feeling of barely controlled mayhem.

I've been to a few other Chinatowns since then - DC's has a special place in my heart - and then I spent two years in Morocco. Which, while not Chinese, has its share of open-air markets (called souq), complete with carcass-y butcher shops and dishonest vendors, adding up to its own style of a haggling, shoving, bustling mayhem.

So when I went to San Francisco's Chinatown a little while ago, instead of feeling out of place, like in my first NYC attempt, I found myself simultaneously homesick and right at home. Homesick for Morocco, where I learned to master the souq, to haggle with the best of them, to sneer at unworthy merchandise in hopes of scoring more worthy products...

Plus, some of the products were similar. Like the scarves. I had a two-year love affair with Moroccan scarves, and brought a few dozen back with me. And here, in San Francisco's Chinatown, I found hundreds more in the styles I've come to love! I looked at the prices, wrinkled my forehead, and quickly converted the prices into dirhams. Then my eyes widened with the delight of a shopper who's found a deal.

I did this a few times, for various products, before really consciously realizing what I was doing. And then I had to laugh at myself.

When I first came to Morocco, I converted prices into US dollars, to make sense of the incomprehensible dirhams and riyals. (Riyals are worth 1/20th of a dirham. It's like giving prices in nickels. I, like so many other Moroccan PCVs, am now capable of remarkable mental math feats as long as they involve multiplying or dividing by 20.)

And now, freshly back in America, I'm coverting prices into dirhams, to know if I'm getting a fair deal. Because I have no idea what scarves are supposed to sell for in America, but I know exactly how much I can get them for in Morocco. (25 dirhams apiece in Essaouira, 20 if you find the right guy in the Fes medina, and 40 in Rabat where they're made of better quality fibers. Tourists typically pay 5 to 10 times these prices, but that's 'cause they don't know what they're doing.)

I was in Chinatown with my sister and a friend, who looked up to see what I was laughing about. I explained it to them. My sister the scientist, always looking to make rational sense of the universe, loftily announced that this was entirely normal, and due to the fact that I'd had more scarf-shopping experience in Morocco than in the US. She's not wrong - I don't think I've ever bought a scarf in America - but that's not the whole answer, either. It's about familiarity. Comfort zones. Associations. Chinatown, with its bright colors and rapidfire negotiations and delicious smells, feels more like souq than anyplace I've been in a long time. So of course I'm going to react like I'm in souq - with a sharp eye for a bargain, a savvy sense of fair prices, and a comfort level in, yes, Moroccan dirhams.

In a related note - America money feels like play money to me now. Much like the multicolored Moroccan money did when I first got there. (20 Dh notes are purple, 50's are green, 100's beige, and 200's blue. These last are sometimes called "Big Blues" instead of "Two hundreds".) While I was away, American money changed color. The 5 turned purple. The 10 turned orange. The faces grew and shifted their locations slightly. The 1's retain their classic appearance, but have the buying power of dandilion fluff. How long have I been gone?!?

7/14/10 Giant Stores

I'm getting better at giant stores.

[[Giant stores = Target, Walmart, Safeway, CostCo...even a CVS or Walgreens if it has enough aisles.]]

I haven't attempted a mall yet, though. I didn't like malls even before Peace Corps, and my experience with stores tells me that I'm not likely to enjoy them any better, now.

The first time I walked into a giant store, fresh out of Morocco, I got dizzy. Lightheaded. Kinda lost it, a little bit. I couldn't find the edges of the store. Or even of the ceiling, because the shelves rose so high. I felt myself entering a foreign realm, whose edges reached off my mental map. Here, there be dragons.

Commercial dragons.

Who breathe fiery lies about the need for near-infinite selection.

At these giant stores, I can buy anything. Anything that has ever been dreamed of, constructed, and had a pricetag slapped onto it, anyway. And if they don't have it in stock, they can order it for me. (Or I could go home and order it online, myself.)

The number of choices available in these places ... blows my mind.

In Morocco, I'd count myself lucky if I found an American soda that wasn't Coke. ('Cause yeah, Coca-Cola has encircled the globe. Many, many times.) Here, grocery stores devote entire, 50-yard-long aisles to their soda selection. Same with shampoo. Or deodorant. Or ... sponges. Laundry detergents. Frying pans.

How do people make so many meaningless distinctions?

How much mental energy is devoted to distinguishing between essentially identical products, none of which we actually need??

In Morocco, I discovered that products labeled "shower gel" cleaned my hair at least as well as those labeled "shampoo", and usually better. It's handy, only having to bring one small bottle and a towel, and knowing I'll get nice and clean.

So when I stare down the shampoo aisle - or worse, wander through the shampoo maze in a drug store - I'm stunned both by the extraordinary number and types of products, as well as the very idea that people feel the need to have this selection.

Same with cereal.

At one point, when describing my reactions to an RPCV friend, I heard myself use the phrase "temple to consumerism."

Maybe it's because I've spent some time wandering ruins in northern Morocco (once Mauritania, a province of the Roman Empire) and in Rome and Jordan. I've seen temples, built to long-forgotten gods.

And the giant edifices screeching BUY HERE BUY HERE are almost as imposing. They certainly try as hard as any ancient culture to bully me into accepting that their vision of the universe is the correct one. That I'm a deeply flawed mortal, in the hands of an awesomely powerful authority, who will condemn me to eternal torments if I don't have this month's shoes.

(Forget sacrificing a bull - they've taken care of that step, and the ones after it, the sacrificing and butchering and tanning and rendering into steaks and belts and burgers and motorcycle jackets and ... shoes.)

So, yeah, I'm avoiding the mall. And while giant stores no longer make me dizzy, it's because I've gotten better at tunnel-vision. If I make targeted runs for whatever items I planned to buy, I can resist the crushing waves of the oceans of options roaring in my ears.

But I miss my corner hanut, with the limited selection that never felt overly limiting. The entire shop was probably 10 feet across and 15 feet deep, and my friend Ali knew every inch of shelves, and could find anything for me with a smile - or explain that no, he didn't have it, with a somewhat more rueful smile.

I remember complaining about the pressure-to-buy from overeager merchants (which Ali never was, lhumdullah), but it pales in comparison to the pressures that the multi-trillion-dollar commercial enterprises bring to bear.

I never thought I'd say it, but ... I think I miss souq.

5/23/10 Twenty-Seven Months

[[Yes, there will be lots of posts about COSing. Most are written, and just need to be typed up. But I'm only getting 2 hours of sleep tonight as it is, so I'm not typing them now. Just some thoughts from today...]

I've been out of touch for 27 months.

Not out of communication. Thanks to the miracle of teh intarwebs - with its gifts of Skype and email and Facebook and oh, yeah, my blog! - I've stayed connected to my loved ones.

But I'm out of touch with developments in America.

I hear about the big stuff. I watched Election Night and the Inauguration. I've heard about the tea bagger movement and the various economic crises.

But I've missed the other stuff. Like what movies have come out, and who's the latest "It Girl", and other things that honestly, I didn't mind missing.

I've also missed the recent waves of technology.

How much can change in 27 months?

A lot, it turns out.

iPhones. Dude, people can check their email and surf the web with their PHONES now. What's up with that!? Sitting in a cafe in Holland Park, London, I can confirm my flight and figure out how to get to Gatwick at 5am. Plus, with their built-in GPS and Google Maps and Enhanced Reality, people may never be lost again.

Computer chips embedded in ATM cards. This one's a bugger. I've been spending the remnants of my Peace Corps stipend, transfered into local currencies...but in order to get more funds, I need to use the ATM card attached to my American bank account. Problem is, my cute little twenty-seven-month-old card doesn't have one of these chips...which means that 90% of ATM machines reject it. Whoops.

Kindles. Which are just SO COOL. ::drooling::

How much can change in 27 months...

And in non-technology changes:

* The host cousin who was a silly 15-year-old when I arrived in Berberville is now married. MARRIED. (She's 17, he's 18. She met him the day before the wedding.)

* The host cousin who was a thoughtful 18-year-old is now married AND HAS A BABY BOY. (She's 20, he's 30. She met him TWO days before the wedding.)

* My host mom had a baby.

* My sitemate's host mom had a baby.

* My host aunt had a baby.

* My American nephews grew up from being a munchkin and an anklebiter to being a kid and a munchkin (respectively).

* I learned enough Tam to carry on complex conversations with nearly anyone. Well, any one of the 50,000 or so people who speak it. =/

* My American friends and cousins got married, had kids, graduated from their doctoral programs, and changed careers...without me being there.

Twenty-seven months.

In which I learned to walk down the middle of the street, how to eat *anything* with my hands, how to handwash anything, and other lessons that won't be terribly useful in the First World. (That first one has nearly killed me a few times already. Dude, you can't take me *anywhere*.)

Some cravings that have already been met:

* Mexican food

* Leafy green vegetables (including broccoli!)

* Seeing a movie on a screen larger than my laptop

* Lots and lots of cheese

* Root beer (including a root beer float!)

* Wearing a tanktop in public (and I have the sunburn to prove it - skin that hasn't seen sunlight in two years is *sensitive*, it turns out)

The "reverse culture shock" has begun. And will hopefully be of very short duration. :) 'Cause if I've learned nothing else from Peace Corps, it's how to deal with the unexpected with grace.

5/2/10 Chitchat

Due to an odd and unfortunate series of events, I ended up having a longer conversation with Ama than I usually get to.

The conversation rambled, as long talks tend to do. Here are some of my favorite bits:

Ama: You'll be in America so soon!

Me: So soon.

Ama: And then you'll find a man and get married and have a big wedding!

Me: If God wills.

Ama: Here, you can't find a man. Moroccan men suck. But in America, you'll find a good man.

Me: [starting to protest her blanket condemnation of Moroccan men, then letting it go.] Inshallah.

Ama: In America, you can dress all sexy.

Me: [startled laughter]

Ama: You'll go to parties and wear little dresses like this [pantomimes strapless dresses, like the one she saw me wearing in a photo from my one bridesmaid stint] and get a man fast.

Me: [still laughing]

Ama: Here in Morocco, you have to cover up all the time. But in America, you can be sexy.

Me: [giving up on speech, falling over laughing]

A bit later, I thought of something.

Me: Oh, when Hassan comes, he might be embarrassed when you feed the baby.

Ama: What? I don't understand.

Me: In America, it's Hshuma to see a woman's breasts. They don't have to be covered very much [we laugh], but they have to be covered.

Ama: Really?

Me: Yes. It's very, very, very Hshuma to see a woman's breasts. So when you feed the baby, Hassan will look somewhere else. [I pantomime a series of evasive, embarrassed acts.] So if he looks down, or away, or suddenly starts talking to Baba - he's not crazy, he's just trying not to see your breasts.

Ama: But it's no big deal. If my husband is here, if my dad is here, if a male cousin is here...

Me: I know. Even on a transit, when strange men are around, a woman will pull out her breast to feed her baby. But it's strange for us. Because in America, that would never happen. When I was new here, I acted evasive around breastfeeding mothers, too. But then I got used to it. And Hassan will probably get used to it. But at first, he'll be awkward.

Ama: OK, I understand. Different people have different Hshuma things.

Me: Right.

Ama: Like once, Baba brought a group of tourists, and they were all eating dinner. One of them farted really loudly, so the kids and I were all shocked, because that's really Hshuma. They noticed that we were startled, and asked Baba what was wrong. He explained, and they said that there's nothing embarrassing about farting - it's a compliment to the chef.

Me: [laughing] Wow.

Ama: And another time, we took the kids up to [a city 2 hours north]. There, it's really Hshuma to notice when the goats are screwing, but here, it's just normal. So Mohammed pointed out to his auntie that the goats were going at it, and everyone began Hshuma-ing him. He was confused, and his auntie explained that you aren't supposed to talk about it. He said, "But why? In Berberville, we can talk about it."

Me: Right, different places have different customs.

Ama: OK, I understand. So maybe I should cover up with a blanket when I'm nursing?

Me: No, don't worry about it. He'll get used to it.

A little later...

Me: So you know how I told you that my friend Ali was coming to visit?

Ama: Yeah. Shouldn't he be here by now?

Me: I just heard from him - he's not coming.

Ama: Why?

Me: He spent all morning waiting for a taxi to fill up, and they kept asking him to buy out extra seats. They wanted him to pay for two seats, three seats...

Ama: Shame on them!

Me: I know! But he said, "No, I can't afford that, I'll wait for the taxi to fill up."

Ama: Right. Because you volunteers don't have a lot of money.

Me: Exactly! So they waited and waited. Finally, they had enough people - and the driver still insisted that Ali pay double!

Ama: What!? He can't do that.

Me: I know! Shame on him!

Ama: Ali should report this to the Caid. Or the gendarmes. Or both. That's just wrong.

Me: Yeah, he said he was going to tell his friend in the Caid's office.

Ama: Good.

The conversation rambled all over the place, touching on her kids, my future plans, the apartment I rent from her and Baba, and pretty much everything else. I told her that my American mom wanted to thank her for taking such good care of me; she assured me that all moms worry, but that it'll be better when I'm back in America. Of course, that's when she'll start to worry about me.

See why I don't want to leave?

2/28/10 Word of the day: aHandir

As I've said before, "Berberville" gets its sobriquet from its standing as the heart of Berber - Imazighn/Amazigh - culture. Of course, there are many flavors of Amazigh culture, just as there are several dialects of the overall Tamazight language: Tarifit, Tamazight, Tashelheit, Tasusit, and whatever crazy blend they speak in Marmoucha (Tamarmouchit?).

But Berberville sits deep, deep in the High Atlas mountains, pretty much at the middle of a blank spot in most maps. It's the biggest village (town?) around, and is home to the Ait Hadidou tribe. There's a wonderful story I'll tell sometime, about our tribe's origins, but the short version is that it's a combination of Ait Brahim and Ait Yaza. Ama is Ait Brahim. Baba is Ait Yaza. Many families, like mine, are a hybrid. Generally speaking, girls keep their mothers' tribe, while boys keep their fathers'. The logical implication is that all of Ait Hadidu are probably genetic mutts, despite people continuing to identify by either Ait Brahim or Ait Yaza.

Women show their tribal affiliation/heritage on their faces, with chin and/or forehead tattoos, as well as on their backs, with traditional capes.

These capes are called aHandir (the big H represents a sound like a sharp exhalation; if you say ah! an deer! you'll be pronouncing it reasonably accurately), but cape is only a half-translation, at best. The word aHandir includes the full sense that these are the traditional, striped, capes, made in precisely the same way and following precisely the tribal design. (Each of the half-dozen tribes in the region has their own traditional aHandir design.)

Here are some performers from this year's summer festival:

The two women in the center are wearing the aHandirs of Ait Brahim, but the mostly-hidden woman behind them is in the zebra-striped Ait Yaza cape. Ait Brahim's design features broad swaths of blue and red and black, with some white accents. Ait Yaza's is black and white striped, though a closer look reveals some red as well.

Here's a group of Ait Yaza women, awaiting the long-promised arrival of the king. (For the record, he finally reached us about 5 hours later. But the cheering, singing, and ululating didn't let up. These folks *love* their king.)

As you see, the Ait Yaza aHandir features black and white stripes, with red piping. Two women in the middle of the group aren't wearing their aHandirs, but are instead wrapped in lighter-weight outer garments. The one on the left is a bedsheet, which is common here (since aHandirs, when not being worn, look exactly like blankets to the uneducated eye, I suppose the logical extension is that in warmer weather, you should wear a sheet). The one on the right is wearing the traditional wrap of the southern region. You see them around here from time to time, as increased ease of transportation leads to more and more cultural exchanges. Speaking of cultural exchanges...

These two women, standing across the street from the line of Ait Yaza-dressed women, are wearing taHruyts, which aren't actually an Ait Hadidou tradition at all. These white, decorated capes are traditional to a tribe several mountain ranges away. However, a long time ago - exactly when is lost in the mists of memory - a woman came from that valley to Berberville with her taHruyt, and the women found it so beautiful (and sparkly!) that one copied the design for her own marriage, and then another did too, and now you're more likely to find taHruyts at weddings than aHandirs. Every woman still weaves herself an aHandir, of course - some things go without saying - but she might also make herself a taHruyt or two for her wedding day. Or, more likely, she'll borrow one from each of the two or three cousins that have one, and thus have them on her wedding day. (Property ownership is clear, here in Berberville, but property use is very nearly communal, especially within families.)

2/27/10 Mbruk l'3id Milud!

Today, Muslims around the world are celebrating the birth of the Prophet Mohammed. In Arabic, the name of the holiday is 3id Milud. It translates approximately as Feast of the Birth, and is one of only 3 major religions holidays Muslims celebrate annually. (Morocco has lots of holidays, but most of the rest are secular, and usually nationalistic - ascension of the king to the throne, king's birthday, the day Morocco staked its claim over Western Sahara by marching hundreds of thousands of people in to occupy it/live there...holidays like that.) Most of those holidays are marked on the Western (Gregorian, solar) calendar, so they fall on the same day each year. Islamic holidays, though, are marked on the Islamic (lunar) calendar, so they shift about a week and a half each (solar) year. So last year's 3id Milud was March 5th and 6th (? as I recall), and the year before was I think March 21st(?).

In addition, Islamic holidays are determined by the observed phase of the moon, which builds in some uncertainty. How full the moon looks to astronomers in key places in each country, determines whether or not they celebrate the holiday the following day. So folks don't know until the week of, and sometimes not even till the day of, if it's a holiday. There's probably a point to be made about the impact that has had on the role of uncertainty in the local culture, but I'll let it go.

Enough background.

Today we celebrated!

This is the first 3id Milud I've actually gotten to celebrate as such. The one two years ago was during CBT/stage, and though I was with my (first) host family, there was no real celebration. Nobody ran around calling "Mbruk l'3id! Mbruk l'washer!" (Happy Feast! Happy Holiday!) Nobody spent the morning going door-to-door for tea and cookies. Midafternoon, my host mom set everybody in the family down and gave us each a piece of chocolate...and that was it. Safi. Rather anticlimactic. Our LCF (Peace Corps-hired tutor-person) found the whole thing depressing, since she's from a part of the country that makes a much bigger deal of it.

My second 3id Milud in-country, last March, I spent with a group of friends in Essaouira. Since we'd been given 2 vacation days for the holiday, we took a 4-day weekend for fun in the sun. :) Good times, yes, but not exactly a traditional celebration.

Today, I went early to my (2nd and final) host family's house. I would have gone even earlier, but torrential winds rattled my doors and windows, making me unwilling to walk across town. (I'm not a crazy wimp - pebbles were being flung at my windows so hard that when I woke up, I thought it was hailing. Life without paved roads means that there are lots of bits of dirt and pebbles around.) The wind died down mid-morning, so I headed over.

Before that, though, I gathered up the gifts that I've been accumulating for a while, for my host family. Crayons and stickers and books I found in Marjane and cookies from SouqTown and suchlike. Bubbles, complete with wand-in-the-bottle-cap. A handmade wooden rattle for the baby. Etc. I also dressed in a relaxed version of Moroccan-wear: headscarf, turtleneck, slacks under a skirt. I left off the jellaba that I've worn the past few 3ids, because almost no one in town wears them. (They're more common in my CBT region, where I bought two of them.)

Ama was delighted to see me, of course, and promptly served me bread and cake and cookies and tea. She assured me that today is not a feast of meat like 3id al-Adha, to which I responded with a hearty, "Al-humdulillah." A few friends and neighbors came over and shared in the deliciousness, and then Ama and I headed over to one of my aunts' homes. More chatter, more tea, more cake, more hugs... :)

Then back to Ama's house for lunch and some quality hanging-out time (including the distribution of presents). I explained that in America, gifts are traditional at birthday parties (both regular ones and Christmas, which is the closest analog for 3id Milud). I didn't explain that I feel awkward giving just-'cause-I-was-thinking-of-you gifts, and so had been waiting for an opportunity - an excuse? - to give them the presents I've been accumulating.

I've brought gifts for my little brothers and sisters, and occasionally for Ama and Baba, every holiday I've spent with them. They've never given me a present as such, but it never occurred to me to find this odd. They feed me a few times a week, house me whenever I want, and have been a source of love and refuge in a thousand different ways. I respond with cookies and presents (and lots of love!). It seemed perfectly equitable to me, the few times I even thought about it.

But apparently, unbeknownst to me, Baba had been thinking about it, too. Today, while I was watching my little brothers and sister parcel out their stickers (they're sticklers for equity between the siblings, so they tore apart the long coiled strip of stickers to make sure that each one had exactly as many stickers as the others) , Baba (apparently) told Ama that she should give me something. She told me a couple weeks ago that she'd been hoping to weave me a rug or aHandir before I left, but between chasing a newborn and then convalescing from surgery, she didn't think she'd be able to. I'd assured her that it was fine, but that I did want an aHandir from her tribe, both to remember her by and because they're gorgeous, and she'd promised to help me buy one.

(Her help would be key because, though my haggling skills have gotten steadily better over the past two years, I'm still going to be starting from the tarumit - foreigner - price, where Ama will be starting from the tamaghrebit - Moroccan - price. As she explained, and as I already knew, most weavers would simply expect that I'd pay at least 100dh more than they'd think to charge a fellow Moroccan. So she was planning to do the negotiations for me, if I'd just provide the cash. I found this an excellent idea, and felt very grateful that Ama would overcome her severe dislike of the souq to help me.)

But then, this afternoon, as I sat in the living room, playing with my siblings, she walked in carrying something. (She, and everyone, routinely come and go from the kitchen, the bathroom, the other room, so I hadn't even noticed her slipping out a few minutes earlier.) Wrapped in shiny paper was a folded, carefully stored, aHandir. Of her tribe.

I blinked. Gasped. Felt my jaw drop.

"Snnit?!" (Really?!)

She explained that Baba had urged her to give me something, but that she'd felt bad because she had nothing to give. Then she remembered that I want an Ait Brahim aHandir, and she realized that, well, she's got two of them.

So she gave me one.

I unfolded it slowly - reverently. I love both the ancient and modern styles of her tribe's cape; the only difference is the brightness of the colors. The "classic" design features organic dyes, as have been used for centuries or millenia. The more modern look uses synthetic dyes, and therefore really "pops". Both look beautiful. This - my! - aHandir featured the organic dyes.

Some women still use them today, though most have switched to the brighter colors, in the ongoing evolution of their very-much-alive-and-dynamic culture.

"Did you make this?" I asked, softly.

"Yes," she answered. "Well, me and Xalti." I immediately imagined the two women sitting at a loom, weaving together, chatting together, spending hours upon hours creating this... But wait, Xalti hasn't lived with us over a year. And Ama's loom hasn't been set up since well before that.

"When?" I asked next. This isn't the kind of project you can work on in secret; the loom fills a good chunk of the family room, and a project of this scale takes weeks or months, depending how many hours per day you spend working.

"We wove it for my wedding to Baba," she said with a smile. "I was twenty."

And then I realized that not only was she giving me a handcrafted work of art, she was giving me her wedding dress. (The cultural equivalent thereof, anyway.) Tears rose to my eyes, and I hugged her again.

I spent the next hour or so fingering the wool - I can still feel the lanolin, thirteen years after it was woven! These things are extraordinary - and then, eventually, it was time to go. I asked Ama to take a picture of me, wrapped up in her - my? our? - aHandir, feeling delightfully Moroccan. Yes, my clothes were actually all western, but I'd chosen ones that don't look out of place here. And most of them were covered by the cape, anyway. All you could see was my scarf-wrapped head, my Imazighn tafuyt earrings, and this glorious cape from my mother's - and therefore my - tribe.

Kauthar tin Ait Brahim.

8/30/09 Viva Espana!

I´ve been in Spain for about 4 hours. (I say about because with all the time zone changes and stuff, I´m genuinely confused. What time is it?)

I flew up this morning - more to come on that later, when I´m not paying European prices for a cybercafe - and have been reveling in the sun-drenched countryside.

It´s as hot here as it has been in SouqTown, but the key difference is that I don´t have to dress to Moroccan standards of modesty here.

Aaaah, tank tops. How I have missed thee.

Back to enjoy this gorgeous, too-brief taste of Europe. Tomorrow, I´ll hop through two more European cities - spending only a few hours in each - before I take a 10,000-mile flight to California. I´ll be in the US in something like 24 hours. Might be exactly 24 hours, come to think of it...drat you confusing time zones...

Hasta la vista, mis amigos!

7/22/09 First Forty Days

On July 5th, my newest baby brother met the world. That was a Sunday evening. That Wednesday, my family threw a huge party for the women in Ama's circle. 91 women attended, plus assorted children ranging from newborns through teenagers. The next Sunday, my family hosted the sib3, a religious ceremony for the men in Baba's circle. Given the exclusivity of a religious ceremony, Ama expected virtually no women - just a few from her immediate family - but about 20 women showed up, so we got a reprise of Wednesday's dance party fun.

So that was the first week of my baby brother's attendance here at Earth's School of Life. He got his name at the sib3, as is traditional, but the family had been calling him by it since Wednesday morning. I won't post his name here - it's unique, as far as I know - but instead I'll call him M'Barak, a reasonably common Moroccan name and the one that I'd lobbied for. (M'barak is the closest Moroccan version of Barack, and I thought it'd be pretty awesome to have my baby brother named after my president. I'm just sayin'.)

Anyway, we're up do about Day 20 of Baby M'Barak (say baby um BAR ik), and today at lunch Ama explained some of the rules surrounding a baby's First Forty Days.

For one, you can't leave the baby alone. At all. Benign neglect is a defining characteristic of Moroccan childcare. Kids have almost complete freedom to go wherever, do whatever, play with whatever... I've seen infants handed lighters as toys, toddlers crawling up and down uneven packed-earth stairs, and small boys scrambling through tree branches like monkeys or up and down mountains like goats, all without a lick of supervision. And it works. I'm almost scared to describe this to my childrearing American friends, adhering as they do to the baby-gated, baby-proofed, padded-universe view of childcare, but, well, maybe Moroccan kids are just hardier. Or maybe it's just Berber kids. But these little people run, jump, toddle, and crawl through all sorts of scenarios that would give my paranoid American friends heart failure...and keep running, jumping, toddling, and crawling on. The primary cause of infant and child mortality here is diarrhea, not accident. But all that said, babies can't be left alone for their first 40 days. Not for a second. If the mom has to go to the bathroom or to prepare lunch or for anything else, there in the house, somebody else has to stay in the room with the baby. And if she goes anywhere outside the house, the baby is strapped onto her back. This supervision goes on for 24 hours; though he has a small, mosquito-netted space to sleep and peoplewatch from during daylight hours, he spends every night next to his momma, just a turned head away from nursing.

Also during the first 40 days: no part of his little body can be altered. The circumcision waits, as do haircuts ('cause yeah, little M'Barak has a *full* head of hair), nail clippings (and again, he's got some Barbra-Streisand-esque claws), and any other potential changes to his little form. Even baths are few and far between; I think he's had only 1 so far, though he may be up to 2. I know his first bath was 15 days after his birth. (Well, OK, I'm not counting the hospital cleaning him up immediately after birth. I'm counting the times Ama has bathed his little person.) The fingernails are becoming a problem. As I've said before, M'Barak was born two full weeks late. I was also born about two weeks late, and my fingernails got clipped within hours of birth, because they were already long enough to scratch myself with. M'Barak inherited my fingernails (how's *that* for genetics), and has already scratched himself a few times, but they won't clip his little nails till he hits the 40-day mark. (I recommended putting little socks over his hands; Ama seemed skeptical, but might consider it.)

And just as we were walking out - heading to a neighbor's house for Friday couscous - Ama turned around to rush back inside for another scarf. She had the small scarf that is always wrapped around her hair (but only her hair - her forehead and neck are always exposed, as they are for many Berber women), but she went back for a big, pashmina-sized scarf that she folded over her head and shoulders and over half her face, saying, "This is what mothers do, for the first 40 days." I'm not sure exactly what she meant - wearing a scarf? Wearing a really big scarf? Covering her mouth in public? - but I've long since discovered that asking explanatory questions never really gets me anywhere (the usual answer to Why? is Because that's what's done), so I figured I'll keep observing and try to figure it out.

There may be other First-Forty-Days rules as well; for the same reason Ama can't explain why things are done, she can't usually explain things comprehensively. That is, if I'd just asked her, "What are the rules for the baby's first 40 days?" she'd be confused and probably wouldn't be able to think of any. Because she hasn't learned them as a list of rules. She just knows what should be done, and what cannot be done. So again, I'll just keep watching and learning - that's the story of Peace Corps service, right? :)

7/10/09 Fes Medina

Disclaimer: I haven’t spent any time in the Ville Nouvelle of Fes, so really can’t speak about it. It’s a modern city, complete with McDonald’s and office buildings. Whoopdy-doo. If you come to Fes, head straight for the medina. It’s cooler than the New City in the summer, because the cramped alleys prevent much sunlight from penetrating down to street level, and warmer than the City in winter, because the close press of bodies traps lots of human warmth in the streets.

So you want to visit the north, or else you’re interested in the cultural heart of Morocco – or both. Fes feels to me like the intersection of New York City with Williamsburg. You can buy nearly anything in the cramped streets of the medina, from artisans who are practicing crafts identically to the way their great-great-grandfathers did. Skills and trade secrets have been handed down from father to son (no, sadly, almost never to a daughter) for countless generations. Countless millennia, quite likely.

Fes served as Morocco’s capital hundreds of years ago, and remains its cultural and artisanal capital today. No matter how resolved you are not to buy anything, you’ll likely find yourself seduced by the jewelry, the herbalists’ wares, the woodcrafts, or especially the leather.

Moroccan leather is internationally renowned, and with excellent reason. The tanneries of Fes have been treating and dyeing sheep, goat, kid, cow, and camel skins for thousands and thousands of years. You can get leather shoes, purses, pappasans (cushion seat things, sometimes called ottomans), and leather jackets for a fraction of what you’d pay in the US. And the quality…you can’t fake that kind of quality. We watched our eager seller threaten a scrumptious leather jacket with water and fire. No kidding. First he poured a glass of water onto it, to show that it simply beads up and runs right off (and he neatly caught it back in the glass, to show the next batch of wide-eyed shoppers). Then he struck up a lighter and held it up to a leather jacket. I wanted to throw myself between this gorgeous coat and the clearly insane man who wanted to torch it…but the leather was impervious to the flame. These guys know what they’re doing, and they guarantee your leather product – jacket, bag, etc – will last fifteen years. (Of course, I doubt anyone travels *back* to Morocco in the event her purse sustains water damage, so that guarantee might not be quite as impressive as he wanted it to sound.)

Navigating the maze-like medina is easier than it first appears. There are two major streets running almost parallel to each other – Talaa Kebira and Talaa Saghira. The Big Street and The Little Street. They run at a steady incline down from the Bab Bu Jeloud, the most common entry point to the medina, where you’ll find lots of inexpensive hostel-style hotels (my favorite is Hotel Cascade, 0635638442) and some moderately priced restaurants. Because Talaa Kebira and Talaa Saghira run steadily downhill, if you find yourself lost, all you need to do is walk out of whatever alley you’re in and find a street running uphill-downhill, then keep walking back uphill until you’re back at the Bab Bu Jeloud.

One famous Fes landmark is the Medersa Bou Inania, one of the few mosques in the country (or, for that matter, in the world) that non-Muslims are allowed to enter. For a modest entrance fee (10dh/adult), you can come in and see the gorgeous architecture and breathtaking design elements of this Merenid masterpiece. It’s easy to find – it’s at the uphill end of the Talaa Kebira and Talaa Saghira, which run along two of its outer walls. It’s also next to Fes’s famous Water Clock, an engineering marvel that functioned for centuries before grinding to a halt; modern engineers are trying to get it going again, but the technology is long lost.

Down a well-marked alley from the Water Clock is my favorite Fes restaurant/café, Café Clock (0535637855). Its owner, a delightfully peripatetic Brit named Mike, will cheerfully chat up any and all customers about Fes, his latest project, or the café’s upcoming events – their social calender might even surpass the menu in its array of interesting offerings. The food (and prices!) are European, which makes it a huge splurge on a Peace Corps budget, but the 90dh camel burger and 25dh smoothies are absolutely worth it. And always get the dessert special of the day – you’ll thank me later. :)

For the museum-minded and history buffs, the Armory is Fes’s must-visit. (Follow signs for the Borj Nord.) Overlooking Fes from a hill to the north - and therefore offering unparalleled panoramas - this rebuilt architectural masterpiece (inspired by Leonardo de Vinci) once defend the walled city from attackers, and now houses arms and armaments from the past millenium. It’s the most sophisticated/modern museum I’ve visited in Morocco, with the one minor drawback that all the exhibit information is in French and Arabic. But even if you can’t read either language, the swords, daggers, muskets, flintlock rifles, pistols, modern rifles, and cannons (some several meters long) make for an impressive visual display.

Because Fes is home to so many m3lims (artisans/craftsmen), some city guides will err on the side of showing you storeroom after storeroom, where these gifted craftsmen silkly turn into gifted salesmen, and suddenly this delightful city feels like an overpriced mall. Be straightforward with your guide about whether your interest is in crafts/shopping or landmarks/history (or a combination). He’s almost certainly getting a cut from every store he takes you to, so his interests and yours may not align perfectly. If you get a licensed vrai guide (pronounced vray geed, and featuring ID cards around their necks), you’ll likely get more of what you want than if you go with a faux guide (foh geed), who could be anybody trying to make money off tourists. (Didn’t you see Slumdog Millionaire?)

In short: I’ve spent more time in Fes than in any of the other Big Six cities, for the simple reason that it’s my favorite. Ancient and modern blend beautifully in this city, where you can find the oldest university on Earth and farmer’s market produce fresh-picked this morning, and everything inbetween.

6/5/09 Grooming habits...

Many of my friends back in the US are in/finishing/recently finished graduate school, so they keep me up-to-date on PhD Comics.

This one made me laugh out loud because it's at least as applicable to Peace Corps Volunteers as grad students (although they at least have hot running water, so they have fewer excuses...).

I know PCVs who have leaned out their window, beckoned over a kid, given him a few dirhams and sent him to the store to pick up eggs and bread, so that they don't have to groom at all and can still eat.

The "Thesis Beard"? Yeah, I don't know *any* male PCVs who shave daily. Maybe there are some, but I don't know them. Most shave when they get to shower, which is once or twice a week for most of us, but nobody shaves every morning. And beards are common.

(Funny sidenote: One PCV buddy showed up for our six-month-in training session (In-Service Training, or IST, officially) with a full beard. He then shaved it down to massive sideburns and goatee a la General Burnside, then to trim sideburns and a goatee a la Sean Penn, down to a mustache, etc. His face looked different every time I saw him, which of course was the point.)

For the record, I've brushed my teeth every day, even when I had to heat water on the stove before I could do it. And I think I've brushed my hair every day, although there were a few weeks in the winter when I had a hat on 24/7, and I may have missed a few days in there. But showering? Putting in contacts?? Wearing makeup??? Ha. Hahahahaha...

6/7/09 The Moroccan Triple-Wrap

It's a misnomer. I realize this.

But it's still the way I think of it.

When I wear a scarf, which I do whenever I travel and most other times, too, 90% of the time - maybe 99% of the time - it's wrapped loosely over my shoulders, in "The Moroccan Triple-Wrap". Like this:

(Quick captioning: This shows me visiting the lab of the researcher I partnered with last summer, and hopefully will continue to work with once his grant is approved. He's trying to produce and market medicinal and not-medicinal-but-still-yummy herbal teas, using herbs that grow wild in the national park near me. He had me surveying my friends and neighbors to find out what herbs they gathered/bought, and what medicinal properties they believed the herbs had; he then took specimens of each, analyzed the chemistry, combined them in various ways, and offered taste tests. Here, I'm sitting in front of a row of tea blends, sampling an anise-wild mint (nf3a + n3n3) that was pretty fabulous.)

The "triple" in "triple-wrap" comes from the fact that three separate parts of the scarf are in front of me: the two tails and the central loop. Of course, it's really only wrapped once, hence the misnomer, but it makes sense in my head. :)

The beauty of wearing a scarf this way is that it covers me in a bulky, shapeless way that is handy for deflecting unwanted attention, plus it's loose enough not to be warm (which is a plus in the heat of a Moroccan summer day!). As an added bonus, it keeps the scarf handy, for times when the sun goes behind a cloud (or sets), and the temperature plummets thirty degrees. Then I can either tighten it around my neck and add an extra loop, for maximum snuggle-warmth, or I can open it all the way out and wrap up in it like a shawl.

This kind of scarf is usually called a shesh or a zif. (I think one is Tam and the other Arabic, but I'm not actually sure.) The headscarf that most Moroccan women wear every day is smaller and lighter, and called a telkusht.

(By the way, a year ago today [as I write this, which is actually the 12th, not the 7th], I rhapsodized about the adaptability of scarves. I agree with everything I said then, plus have used scarves to keep dust out of my face, to hide my nose when near unsavory smells, and, of course, to look fabulous. Scarves are awesome.)

6/3/09 Hotel Zween

As I may have mentioned before, zween is a useful adjective that can mean cool/stylish/fancy/high-quality/chic/attractive/exciting/etc.

And zween is the best word to describe a truly gorgeous hotel I recently saw, in one of Morocco's bigger cities...

The hotel has the word "gold" in its name. That should have been my first clue.

But when the taxi pulled past a guardhouse, through a gate, and up a private drive, to stop in front of a group of pale-skinned, silver-haired, shorts-wearing tourists...I knew I'd stepped through the looking glass.

I'd left the Morocco I know and love, and entered the Morocco that wealthy tourists see.

I walked cautiously into the lobby. I held my breath, waiting for someone to shout, "Interloper!" and swarm me with guards to hustle me out of the lushly-appointed lobby.

No one did. I guess my own pale skin and hair gave me an all-access pass to the halls of privilege, despite my general grottiness. (I could rant about this for a while, but I'll leave it at: Sigh.)

For the record: I was clean. Everything I was wearing was freshly out of the laundry. Even my hair had been washed just the night before (for the first time in nine days, so I'd actually shampooed it three times.) But when I caught my reflection in one of the many ornate mirrors bedecking the elaborate lobby, I looked seriously out of place.

Something in my ensemble - long-sleeved T-shirt over hiking pants over seriously abused hiking boots, with a zween Essaouira scarf draped in the usual loose triple-wrap over my shoulders, with a scuffed pack on my back and a faded, handwoven woolen satchel on my hip... The pretty, barely-worn new earrings I'd picked up for 10Dh in Marrakesh's Jm3a al-Fna (my favorite thing about Marrakech, in all honesty, is the selection of 10Dh earrings), couldn't counterbalance the general aura of ... grunge. In fact, the earrings are fairly hippy and funky, so they might actually have made me look more granola-y, and even less suited to the fancypants hotel.

How fancypants was it?

It had overstuffed chairs. Lots of them. CHAIRS, I tell you, not floor ponges, or even the fancy knee-high ponges, nor plastic patio-furniture chairs, which you see in cafes and such...but CHAIRS. Armchairs. Squishy ones.

Sofas. Hosting people wearing jewelry. Using laptops. (Invisible, but evident: wireless Internet.)

Thick carpets. (OK, that's pretty normal for me. Though these were way more elaborate than I'm used to.)

A swimming pool. I stopped and stared at the pool for a while. The water is so ... blue. And there's so much of it! It's like a lake with walls!

The hotel had multiple restaurants inside it. *Multiple*. I didn't dare set foot inside, lest I commit myself to a 20Dh glass of orange juice or something. (Fair price: 6Dh. Best deal in Morocco: 3Dh OJ from a stand in the Jm3a al-Fna.)

Behind the hotel, I found an enormous formal garden. I got nailed by the sprinklers, both because I was distracted by all the greenery - there was grass! Actual wiggle-your-toes-in-it, thick, lush, grass!! - and because I needed the tangible confirmation that I was looking at an honest-to-goodness sprinkler. This desert country gets all its moisture from the snow and rain that fall on its three mountain ranges...which means that the meters of snow I weathered last year (pun intended) have melted, flowed away, and been converted to irrigating grass so that wealthy westerners could feel at home. In Morocco. Isn't the point of going to Morocco to see, y'know, Morocco? If you have grass in your backyard, do you really need it behind your hotel, too? But I digress.

Scattered throughout the grassy, tree-filled garden were rose bushes. So I did what I always do in the presence of rose bushes: take literally the advice to Stop and smell the roses. I inhaled the rich, enveloping, heady aromas, and ultimately decided that the red-and-white ones looked the prettiest, but the pure white ones had the richest scent. (Brides, take note: have some of each in your bouquet and you're set.)

The sun hadn't been up for too many hours, so perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised to have the garden to myself...but I was. I wandered alone through an acre or so of lush, luxurious greenery (and in a dry country, is there a greater luxury than sprinklers?). The few awake hotel guests I saw were sitting on the veranda, looking at the garden without walking in it, or else sitting in an indoor restaurant, far from the sights or smells.

On behalf of all the guests whose overpriced hotel rooms were paying for this indulgence, I wiggled my toes in the grass, and smelled the flowers, and rested in the shade of the giant palms.

It might seem hypocritical of me to find the gardens a massive waste of resources and yet enjoy their beauty...but I felt like I *should* take the time to appreciate them. Otherwise...it's like buying a Lambourghini and leaving it in the garage. Inheriting an egg-sized ruby and locking it in a bank. If someone has invested this much in something - anything - the only moral choice seems to me to be to gain some benefit from all that cost. I can't recoup the spent (not to say wasted) water or money...so all I can do is appreciate what it has created.

5/24/09 The Berber "Farmer Tan"

As most of you know, a "farmer tan" or "farmer's tan" or "farmers' tan" is the look achieved by people actually spending time outside, and not in a tanning bed or at the beach: tanned hands and arms up to a sharp cut-off where the shirt begins, and then a pale white upper arm and torso. You can also use it to point out abrupt tan lines from shorts or socks.

Here in Morocco, I dress modestly, but still in Western-style clothing. My clothes always cover me from neck to wrist to ankle, and I consider it a little risque even to show my forearms (though I admit that I sometimes push my sleeves up on super-hot days).

One of the thousands of ways that the chic European cities are different from my Berber bled is that the modesty standards are relaxed. As long as you're mostly covered, a little skin is permissible.

So I celebrated by wearing a sundress. A cute little dress that still had a fairly high neckline, but left my arms and shoulders bare. OK, I admit it, there were spaghetti straps. Spaghetti straps! Unthinkable! I know, I know... But the sun was so warm, and the harassment so ... nonexistent ... and besides, nobody there knew that I'm a respectable Peace Corps Volunteer, and not just a random European or American tourist... So I surrendered to the seduction of the sundress.

Of course, I can't shake my bled ways entirely, so I wore jeans under it. (The skirt only comes down to the knee, after all, I can't be completely inappropriate and actually show half of my legs! Hshuma!)

A newbie PCV took one look at me and said, "So this is the Berber Farmer Tan I have to look forward to? A tanned face and white body?" I laughed and said, "Yup!" My face and hands have never been browner, but the rest of me hasn't seen sunlight in over a year.

Apparently I'm now two-toned. Go figure. =/

PS: A funny side-effect of the sundress: I was wearing the handwoven wool satchel that I've worn every day for months, and I noticed that it was chafing against the base of my neck. (The strap is so long that I always wear it slung across my body, messenger-bag style.) I couldn't figure out why it was so irritating today, when it has never bothered me before. And then I realized that this is the very first time the woolen strap has ever actually touched my skin! I've worn the bag over teeshirts, turtlenecks, sweaters, jackets, and parkas, but never once against bare skin. Ahhh, city life...

4/23/09 The Big Berber Wedding of Noora and Rachid

A couple weeks ago, I got a text message inviting me to the Big Berber Wedding of Noora and Rachid. The happy couple urged us all to bring traditional clothing and big smiles. Check and check. :)

Rachid (left, below) is about to finish his service and go back to America. Noora (right) COS'd a year ago. Both served as Health PCVs on the other side of the mountain from Berberville. They were friends for most of the year that their service overlapped, and developed a romantic relationship towards the end of their time in-country together. They kept in touch through Skype and email, and spent Christmas together at her family's home. During that vacation, they became engaged. When he came back to his village and told his host family (and his neighbors, and his fellow PCVs, and everybody else he saw for about a month!), they insisted that he bring Noora - who they all remembered fondly - back to Morocco so they could throw him a Big Berber Wedding. She came for a several-week visit in April and May. Sometime during the week or three they spent in Rachid's site, they had their Big Berber Wedding...and we all came!

This is the only photograph you'll see that's out of chronological order. It's one of the last photos I took that night...but it's my favorite, which is why I'm leading off with it. :)

This is a terrible picture of Noora, but the best shot I have of her tahruyt. That's the white thing she's sitting on. It's a single rectangular piece of cloth, usually about 1x2 meters, and every bride I've ever seen is sitting on one, usually draped, like this one, over a ponj (big cushiony seat thing). On wedding days, tahruyts are purely decorative, but after that, this hand-woven, hand-embroidered, hand-muzun'd work of art can be worn as a cape in cold weather. See those small grey things, arranged in rows every foot or so? Those are the muzun - small, shiny disks pierced through the middle and tied onto the tahruyt. They're polished and highly reflective, so when a woman wears a muzun-bedecked tahruyt on a sunny winter day, she's eye-catching and quite literally bedazzling. If several women wear them and stand together, it can be almost blinding.


Here, Fatiha is putting the finishing touches on Noora's makeup. The bride is expected to act entirely passive throughout the wedding day. She can't dress herself, apply her own makeup, feed herself, or even move herself from one place to another (more on that in a bit). Fatiha, Noora's adopted host mother, had come with bags full of clothes, jewelry, makeup, etc, to make her adopted daughter's wedding perfect. She had already brushed out Noora's hair, applied her lipstick, rubbed kohl on her eyes, and is now wiping away the tears caused by the kohl application. Kohl dates back to the Egyptians, and the preparation may well be the same now as it was then (if I'm wrong, Egyptology buffs please correct me!): galena, aka lead sulfide, is ground down into powder form, then hydrated into a paste, which is applied to the eyes via a small pointed stick, about halfway in size between a toothpick and a golf tee. Imagine jabbing a lead-covered stick into your eye, and you'll understand why Noora teared up a few times. In later pictures of me, you'll notice that I'm wearing eyeliner and mascara - the first time I've worn makeup since coming to Morocco. I put it on expressly to *prevent* any overzealous Berber friends from trying to put kohl on me. It's beautiful, yes, but it's also the leading cause of lead poisoning in Morocco.


Noora had brought her own veil (left), but someone discovered that she could peer through the gauze, so she was forced to switch to the completely opaque veil provided by Fatiha (right). She therefore spent the next two and a half hours completely blind. (At that point, she was allowed to switch back to the gauzy veil. She didn't gain full visibility till 45 minutes later.)







Rachid, right, reminded me of one of the Wise Men / Three Kings. I think it's the headscarf. Might be the robe. Noora, in the middle, got a running play-by-play of the wedding from her groom, who got to watch all the action. Notice how Fatiha has her hand on Noora's? That's not an affectionate thing - it's to make sure the bride doesn't move At All. Fatiha, in the role of mother-of-the-bride, took responsibility for keeping the bride as motionless as possible. For hours. While the guests got to eat, chatter, dance, and make merry.


This was a just-for-grins shot. The difference between the pedicured feet of Fatima (my sitemate) and Kareem (part of the Souqtown PCV family) cracked me up. Fatima has pink nailpolish on her toes; Kareem has a Chaco tan (from his Chaco-brand sandals) par excellence. That's not dirt, it's suntan. Kareem lives on the far side of Souqtown, where it's been warm enough to wear sandals for months now. Fatima and I, perched in our mountain aerie, haven't worn sandals outside since probably September. :)


Me, Fatima, and Kareem, rocking out on the Berber instruments, in full Berber dress. Fatima and I are wearing jelabbas (also known as tejlabbin) that I bought down in our training city, last summer. Kareem's is much heavier-weight, so I assume he picked it up around here. Note that I'm playing the large drum, Fatima the small drum, and Kareem is knicking two tea glasses against a metal plate. These three instruments were passed around the room, so nearly everybody had a chance to play, but the more musical skill you had, the longer the crowd let you keep your instrument. We didn't keep them too long. ;)



An hour and a half after the bride's preparations were finished, which is when "the wedding" more or less began, we feasted on sheep-and-prune tagine with homemade bread. This is a traditional feast tagine - I've had it at a funeral and a baby-naming ceremony, as well - but it's usually topped with caramelized onions. This was topped with sauteed vegetables. Still delicious. :)


After the feast, we moved rooms. Since the bride (still blinded by the opaque veil) must remain helpless all day, she had to be carried out of our room, up the flight of stairs, and into the reception room. Here, Fatiha is carrying her piggyback-style. She made it as far as the foot of the stairs before wilting under the weight...whereupon an ancient Berber lady, shriveled with age, carried Noora up the stairs as easily as she has carried countless burdens (grasses, fuelwood, children) for decades. Also, to ease Noora's (and Rachid's!) peace of mind, several tall PCVs had their arms up on either side of the open-air staircase as "spotters", in case the old auntie stumbled or slipped. But she brought Noora up easily, and installed her on another ponj in the upstairs reception hall.



Other members of the Souqtown PCV family, Ilahm and Rahma, enter in their Berber wedding garb. They're wearing kaftans, not jellabas, but the only real difference is that jelabbas have hoods and kaftans don't. Aren't my friends lovely?


Both Noora and Rachid got their hands coated in henna. Noora had her feet done, too. Here, Rachid's host mother is neatening up the edge of the thick layer of henna mud she has just applied to her son's hand.


Guests got henna, too, but only a small dot in the middle of each hand.


I now present Sidi and Lalla Rachid Ait Sidi Meh. Actually, I have no idea when the wedding is officially complete, as distinct from the reception; it's all one long party. But Noora's veil has finally come off, plus she and Rachid have washed the henna off their hands (and her feet), so I figure they must be married now.



Another view of Rachid's wedding finery. I really feel like I should caption this one "King Nebuchadnezzar sitting in state", but the jeans poking out from under his dressy white jellaba reveal what century we're in. The glasses are a bit anachronistic, too, I suppose.


Bridal bling. You can see the engagement ring - an heirloom ring from Rachid's great-grandmother (I believe) - as well as the silver bangles and cuffs that Fatiha and Rachid's family had loaned her for the wedding. Bridal bling is a very big deal: Ama, my host mother, has shown me hers a few times. It's solid gold, and represents a major percentage of the net worth of my host family. Up until the current generation, when paved roads, solar panels, satellite dishes, and the rest of the modern world began intruding into these mountain villages, a bride's jewelry represented nearly all of the visible wealth of a family.

So there you have it: the Big Berber Wedding of Noora and Rachid. We arrived around 2pm, watched the bride's preparation from about 3:45 - 4:15, ate dinner (sheep and prune tagine) around 5:45, ate our second dinner (organ meats from the sheep Rachid had slaughtered that morning) around 10:45, ate our third dinner (chicken and prune tagine) around 11:45, and finally fell into bed sometime between 1 and 2am. Inbetween the various feasts, we mostly danced and chatted. :)

And there was great rejoicing.

Congratulations, Noora and Rachid! :D