Swunfu ("Relax")

We are all going to have different experiences. I forget about that sometimes and am reminded when I come into contact with other PCVs. I recently spent the better part of the week with Titrit in her site. Her village is much larger than mine, and I got easily confused trying to find her house. Since Thursday, October 15th, was Global Handwashing Day, I had text her earlier in the month asking her if we could do a program together in her site and then spend the weekend together. We had talked about a trip to Merzouga and this was supposed to be a great time of year to trek there.
Titrit had set up programs with a few different schools in her site, the association and possibly the Dar Tilibab (youth hostel just for high school girls). The first program we had at her association with preschool age children. There were about twenty and they were adorable. Titrit had worked with her tutor to put together a bit of a talk and explanation for our presence and then followed up with a handwashing scenario with everyone involved. I wanted her to take the reigns, since she had been practicing the language and I wanted people to recognize and give credit to her. I was just there to help things along, explain when needed, take pictures and help. We hadn’t even started when we got the first tears. One little boy, looking at us, burst into full-blown tears. And like a domino effect, one by one starting crying. There were about five kids crying at this one table. We hadn’t even said anything. The tutor, who had come along, explained to us that the kids thought we were going to give them shots. That our bag of “microbats” (microbs/germs) actually vials of glitter, were actually needles. Poor things. After settling them down, Titrit got into her truest form, the thespian, (she went to school originally for acting) and put a small amount of Vaseline and glitter on her hands. She then went around and shook hands with each of the kids, distributing the glitter amongst all of their cute little hands. They loved it! Everyone loves glitter and watching Titrit was a lot of fun. She is incredibly animated and funny. We all washed our hands with soap and got rid of the “germs”. We did this another 10 times for other classrooms and around 60 high-school age girls at the Dar Tilibab that day and the following morning. By the time we had talked to the 5th classroom or so, Titrit had it down to an art!
We left that afternoon for the next largest town, Tingrir, to get transportation to Errachidia. Titrit had made a friend about a month ago and he had invited us to stay with his family and then the three of us would travel to Merzouga. We were on the souq bus headed to Errachidia when Titrit gets a text message saying that her friend, Ali, was on his way in his dad’s car to pick us up. We got off the bus just in time and waited about an hour for Ali to get there. He was with his older brother and his wife. They were all Arab and only knew a few words in our Berber language. Luckily, most of the family spoke some English. Like in most, if not all Moroccan families, we were greeted like long lost friends and exteneded the warmest of welcomes. The family consisted of a short, portly mom, a tall limber dad, 4 sons and 3 daughters. Two of the children were married and had their own houses, 3 were still in school, one was a doctor and Ali worked as a guide for tourists. There house was finished and tiled, there was lots of furniture and decorated, very different from typical Berber houses that I encounter in the bled. The three of us took off to go to the hammam, once again, I implore you, when you come to visit me, you have to go to the hammam. It was clean and hot and empty. Titrit and I had it to ourselves, unfortunately, it was late and we were a bit rushed.
Titrit always the best unusual and awkward encounters at the hammam. One of the ladies who worked there came in, asked us if we wanted our backs scrubbed, (sometimes there is a fee involved). We replied that we were fine and could take care of things. The woman then bent down and squatted in front of Titrit, I think she might have asked her another question or two but she sat there on her haunches for a good 5 minutes, not saying anything and just watching Titrit. Titrit asked me if I knew what was going on, of course, I didn’t and just was giggling to myself. This has happened each time we have gone to the hammam together. She has a few choice piercings that usually get attention, but this time there was no mention about them, just staring. Haha! Love it.
Next morning we got up and got started, we had to stop by one of the sister’s house to say hello to her and family. She had married a berber man from the Azilal province and so we could communicate some with him. Let me take a second now to talk about race relations here in the good country of Morocco. There is a hierarchy here that was a shock to me when I first came. Reading a book now called, Lords of the Atlas, The Rise and Fall of the House of Glaoua 1893-1956 by Gavin Maxwell has provided much needed insight and history into Moroccan customs, ways of life and things that my language has prevented me from asking. I understood that Berbers do not care for Arabs (generalization). I understood that the Arabs came into Morocco around the seventh century and brought Islam with them. The Arabs were powerful and imposed their religion on the people here. Different tribes conquered different areas of Morocco. These tribes enacted taxes and tariffs from the people living on the land. Berbers were strictly monogamous, women held positions of power, their clothing was different, exposing their arms and legs, they would elaborately braid their hair and put henna or a mix of spices in it. They wore jewelry their tribe made and had beautification tattoos on their chins, foreheads and wrists. They had their own system of laws and policies. When the Arabs or French came in to conquer these people, they fought fiercely and with guerrilla-like tactics, sneaking into their camps at night and stealing weapons from them. It wasn’t until later, that the Caids or khalifas had amassed huge armies to show their strength and might that some of the tribes adhered to their demands. Some of these demands were gifts of crops, money, and daughters. These girls were either added to the caid’s harems or given as gifts to other men in their family or intimate circle. It was later, after these men with their money, huge Kasbahs, harems consisting of 30 or so women that Berbers started resemble them and want the same things. Then they started to take on multiple wives. I see Berbers now who follow and adhere closer to Muslim law than most Arabs. Berber women are more conservative than their Arab counterparts. A hundred years ago this was not true. I suggest you read the book and others like it to truly understand Morocco’s complicated past.
After visiting for a little, Ali’s sister and husband decided that they wanted to come along with us. Why not? They had the weekend free and they would take the toddler with them. So now we had a full car. Ali, his sister, her husband and child, Titrit and myself all crammed into a car that resembles a Geo but made by Renault. We take off from Errachidia headed for Merzouga, slightly south and east, a solid 2 ½ hour drive. We stopped in a small town for lunch. This area of Morocco is infamous for a speciality dish that resembles our “fat bread” but has much more meat. Fat bread is a common dish here that has the shape of a pizza but in the middle is spices and pieces of fat from usually sheep or goat, it is mighty tasty! This bread was similar except it was full of pieces of meat, whether it was sheep or goat, I couldn’t discern it and Ali’s sister told me there were 44 different spices in it. I couldn’t taste distinctly any of them. It was a fine meal but for poor Titrit, who does not eat red meat, she reluctantly picked through it. There has been a bit of a communication problem between her, Ali and the family. They praised me for eating the meat from cous cous the night before and just couldn’t understand that Titrit does not eat red meat. She doesn’t like it. She hasn’t ate red meat for the past 14 years and doesn’t plan to start anytime either. When we were deciding on what to eat for lunch, Ali had asked if we wanted a tajine, but was concerned because Titrit wouldn’t eat the meat. She explained to him that she would eat the vegetables and sauce that comes with it. Somehow we still ended up with meat bread pizza. Ah, such is life of different cultures and communications.
We were joined by more of Ali’s family for lunch: his brother, the brother’s wife and another sister. So now there was a total of 8 of us and 1 half person. We arranged transportation to Merzouga and the rest of the family, including the new additions, clammered into the Geo. We met at a hotel on the outskirts of the desert there. It was beautifully decorated. We barely had enough time to use the bathroom and get reacquainted with the family when Ali was beckoning us over to the camels. They were sitting down, their legs tucked underneath them. They are huge beasts. They have huge eyes and long eyelashes. Their fur is neither soft like a well-groomed horse nor coarse like a goat’s. More like a mixture. Their hooves were probably my favorite and to come across their footprints later on in mud, they resemble dinosaur tracks. I was waiting for a camel to spit at me or try to bite me, having remembered their notorious unpleasant disposition towards their riders. Our camels did neither, but instead seemed to be suffering from a bout of indigestion and kept burbing up their lunch and making tremendous gurgling sounds from the depths of their stomachs. I couldn’t wait to get started!
Because we had wanted to go and spend the night out in the desert, we had to get started ASAP because it was getting to be about dusk and we had 9 k to go to get to the oasis. In all honesty, I didn’t need anything in my bag except a few things like my toothbrush and maybe my camera. We were a caravan of silliness. The three of us, perched atop our camels, leashed together from ass to mouth, with our guide, Omar, leading in the front, on foot. We sat on top of saddles that could have made even the fattest of women wince in pain, they were uncomfortable to say the least. We traveled up and down the sand dunes, sliding forward and back, the camel lurching as it finds its step in the shifting sand. I was surprised at how green the area was. In the lower areas there were some shrubbery and grasses. It ruined my expectation of sandy desolation and I was a bit disappointed. We shared the area with dirtbikes and ATVs, which disturbed our camels when they buzzed too close. The flies covered our beasts and ourselves, hopping along for a free ride. The stars came out quickly in the black night, we had chosen a weekend with no moon. I could only imagine what the desert looked like lit up in the middle of the night.
We finally got to our oasis. There were a few flashlights wandering about and we could hear a multiude of different languages. We got off our camels and trudged through the poop-riddled sand to our tents. They were of basic design and the various guides kept them all the same, a few blankets and thin mats. We lit a candle and opened a bottle of wine. Ali and Omar, our guide, spoke to each other in Darija, while Titrit and I complained back and forth about our camels. She had the good mind to put in her Ipod and experience the desert that way, while I had quietly daydreamed. We ate another delicious meal of meat pizza bread (poor Titrit!) and finished off another bottle of wine. Soon enough, we retired to bed. I decided to sleep outside, my usual preference, under the stars.
I awakened in the middle of the night to someone rubbing my back. It was an odd sensation and I groggily awoke, expecting Titrit to be kneeling next to me. It was not. It was our guide, Omar, telling me that it was getting cold and to get inside the tent. I sat up and he started collecting my bed things, the mattress and blanket. I followed him not into Ali and Titrit’s tent but into his small tent. He set up my things and I laid down. At this point I was confused and more awake. Omar then tried to hug me. “What are you doing?!” my immediate response was. He said that it was ok and I rolled over, wanting to relinquish myself back into my heavy sleep and vivid dreams. Then I felt something on the back of my head, did he just try to kiss me? Ew, gross. “Omar, you have a wife and a baby, stop,” I mumbled to him. I did not feel threatened or in danger, just annoyed. He replied that it was not a problem, great, so this is a usual habit of his on these treks. Out of nowhere I hear a voice, “Hanna! Hanna! Where are youuuuu?” It was Ali, coming to rescue me, my hero! “I’m here Omar, hold on,” and I scrambled out of Omar’s tent. “What are you doing Hanna? I am responsible for you,” He went and grabbed my blanket and we walked back up into our tent, I laid down and told Ali how thankful I was for him right then. “I am responsible for you,” was all he replied.
Sidenote: All PCVs I dare say, have seen this in their respective towns, souk towns or bigger cities. Foreign women with Moroccan men, either they be guides or not, with the men lavishing their affections and holding hands and sometimes, in line to get papers for marriage. Often times these women are miskin (berber for unfortunate or poor thing), these women are frumpy with dyed hair and lipliner. The men are half their age and beautiful. A settlement is reached, she finds some love and attention and he gets access to her money and possibly citizenship abroad. It works out. So for Omar to come onto me, like some of his patrons might have had to him, is not unusual. Possibly he read my inquiries into his life at the edge of the desert as interest, but trust me, I had no interest besides understanding his culture and way of life. I pay homage to all the foreign women out there who have paved the way for me and other female PCVs as being seen as desperate and lonely. Thanks a lot.
The next day I told Ali and Titrit about my nightscapades and they were a bit appalled and felt bad. I thought it was funny and once again thanked Ali for interrupting. I forsee the future of that night warding off Omar’s advances until finally getting up to leave for the other tent. Ali just cut out that uncomfortable time inbetween. Ali had asked Omar on the way home what had happened and Omar gave Ali a completely different story. Omar said that I had gotten up in the middle of the night complaining that it was cold and if I could please come and sleep in his tent. HA! Oh how our memory confuses us…
We woke up early to watch the sun rise on the border of Algeria and Morocco. It was not spectatcular but had its fair share of purples and reds. I climbed back on my camel like a novice cyclist mounts her bike on the second day of a 100k journey. I wish I had some painkillers, maybe some of the green stuff, maybe a bottle of gin. Anything to keep my mind off Carl. (For those of you who don’t know, Carl is my nickname for my upstairs, ref. story “Upstairs”). We headed out early and arrived back in Merzouga around 9am or so. After showering and breakfast, we hailed a taxi back into Errachidia. It was Sunday and Titrit had made arrangements for us to stay with her friend, Lahu, a shop owner in Tinghrir, that evening seeing as it was too late for us to get a transit back to her site.
Once again the lines of communication seem to be lost in different languages and cultures. Once we got back into Errachidia we let Ali know that Titrit and I wanted to go costume shopping for Halloween. We wanted to go to the souq area and house around. He wanted us to first meet up with a friend to grab some coffee. He made a phone call, and about 5 minutes later his friend shows up in a car, and as we are getting in I say to Titrit, “Hey, do you think that’s a prostitute?” pointing out a woman walking towards us wearing a tight, shiny jellaba with heavy makeup and high heels. Then she got into the front seat. I got a better look. She had on bright red lipstick and a thin line of an excuse for eyebrows. She had on lots of face makeup and a bright smile. Titrit and I sat back in stunned silence as we pulled away from the curb. We then made another stop for Ali to pick up some of the stuff that Morocco is known for, hash. We had no idea until he returned into the car with a small brown brick of the stuff in his hand. Awesome. We are riding around Errachidia with a prostitute in the front seat and had just stopped to make a drug deal. We were not in a professional setting where we would talk to the woman in front about the dangers of STIs and the importance of condoms, nor were we going to talk to Ali about his hash use. We were just uncomfortably there along for the ride. As we headed out along a main road the car suddenly cut off. The electronics of the car just died down and the car was slowing down. We were headed out to a gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap in the middle of nowhere. I told Titrit I hoped the car died. She looked it me in complete confusion and shock. I told her, “Just think how funny this is going to be later on, hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere, two PCVs who speak Berber with a prostitute and your hashed up friends, it’s going to be SO funny,” She did not find the humor. I secretly wish the car would die. What the hell would we do? Just then the car started up and we resumed speed. Maybe next time.
At the gas station/coffee shop/tourist trap (this is where Ali goes sometimes to find work, he is a guide,) Titrit was clearly upset with the situation and went off by herself. I talk to the prostitute and answered her questions, which are the same ones everyone else asks us. She told us she was a prostitute (duh!) and I should have dived right then and there into a health lesson but wanted to go talk to Titrit about our predicament. Luckily we sorted things out quickly and was back on the road. Titrit then explained again to Ali that we wanted to go to souk and shop around. He said that was fine, but first we needed to stop at home. We did not want another family visit, we were ready to go and do our own thing. Before we knew it we had pulled up at his house. So much for our desires.