The Simple Life
For the past two months, staring up at me in our program itinerary in big black bold letters, were the much-discussed words “Village Stay.” I had heard horror stories about how no one escapes contracting some crippling intestinal parasite during the week, about how you will need nose plugs for the bus ride back because no one has seen a shower in seven days, about how for one week we must venture into a world without e-mail, television and- heaven forbid- Facebook! The village stay was a thing to be at once feared and eagerly anticipated.
On Saturday morning, we boarded a bus and headed east of Casablanca about three hours. Then, reminiscent of an earlier village expedition, we crammed some 15 students into the back of a cargo van and set off along a dusty unpaved road snaking over green hilly pastures. When we arrived in our village and nervously stumbled out of the van we were greeted by more of less the entire village standing anxiously in a cluster waiting to collect their mystery Americans who would share their homes for the week. We were the first group of Americans ever to stay with these families.

The village we stayed in is Arab as opposed to Berber, the original North African inhabitants who speak a different language called Tamazight. The village population is around 300. In some form or fashion nearly everyone is related, which made for some confusion when both my friend Sam and I were told we were living with Mustafa Faiz family of four! Turns out we were cousins. Actually I was cousins with about half a dozen of our peers!

The families stood excitedly on one side. The anxious students on the other. It was like picking teams for grade-school kick ball- the quiet chatter and nervous laughter. The roll call came…I grabbed my backpack, a two days supply of bottled water and a roll of toilet paper and approached the collection of curious villagers to shake hands with my Mustafa…and the journey began!

She’ll be falling off a donkey when she comes!
In one of my favorite movies the main character spends a summer in the Greek Isles enjoying a forbidden romance. In one scene she glamorously rides a donkey up the narrow stone streets, passing by blue and white villas as the azure sea sparkles below. Let me right now dispel this mythical image! Donkey riding is not in the least bit glamorous!

Before I knew it, my Mustafa- who shall from henceforth be known as my Baba or simply Baba- had flung my three year old sister on top of the donkey and was grabbing my arm to hoist me up as well. Baba is a rather a wisp of a man despite his vigorous lifestyle and I was sure that with my backpack on I had Baba by a good fifteen pounds at least. This coupled with the fact that there was no stirrup for support and that I had to maneuver some remarkable acrobatics to swing one leg high enough to straddle the donkey made for an interesting mount.

Once atop this donkey I quickly discovered that there was no “handle” to speak of and that the only thing within my grasp was the small child in front of me, who seemed ridiculously as ease with the whole situation. I was not sure if I was expected to hold her so that she did not fall off or if really in my efforts to “secure her” I was just looking for something to cling to while our donkey clopped up the uneven hillside.

With my legs flopping and hanging awkwardly six inches from the ground, a three year old in my lap, a thirty-pound sack on my back, and Baba at our side, I bumped merrily along to our house on top of the hill. I actually laughed out loud a few times as I pondered the situation and looked forward to more moments of hilarity and cultural exchange to come. Let the learning begin!

My family and village life
What do a cardiologist, an imam, and a sheep herder have in common? Me!

My most recent father, Mustafa, is 42 years old and grows wheat and herds sheep. My mother Aisha is 33. She was born and raised in the closest big town which has 60,000 people but moved to the village when she married Mustafa at age 18. I am not sure how much schooling she has had. Their 3 year-old daughter, Nohila, is one of the most beautiful children I have ever seen, with a mop-head of dark brown curly hair and big brown eyes.

Next door to us live Mustafa’s brother, his wife and their brood of nine children and one grandbaby. We spent most of our time together, including meals.

Our house is a stone/clay building with three rooms. All the floors are stone, though some have been covered by carpets. In the middle of the three rooms is a small courtyard with a single olive tree in the middle. The kitchen has a small fireplace where Aisha cooks bread, a gas burner to heat tea and tagines on, a very low round wooden table, and a place for sacks of animal feed, dishes and other kitchen essentials. When she cooks, Aisha either squats incredibly low or else sits on a small plastic stool only six inches off the ground so that she can knead the bread in the dish on the floor. I learned to make seven types of bread this week.

Our meals consisted of lots of bread, roasted vegetables, the occasional chicken (which I watched go from alive and clucking to roasted and savory- a first time experience!) Every meal was accompanied by lots of tea loaded with sugar as was every visit by friends and neighbors. People do not use tooth brushes either although there is a natural plant that they chew to clean their teeth.

The other two rooms of the house are fairly interchangeable. Both have stacks of blankets in the corner, mats on the floor, and a pile of pillows. We spent a lot of time on the floor-eating, sleeping, watching the small black and white TV, and weaving. The women sit behind the loom for a good chunk of the day, when they are not washing, cooking, and tending to the animals. Aisha’s day was a constant string of tasks from 6 am until bed time around 10. The carpets and blankets these women weave are intricate, colorful and truly beautiful. In the U.S. they would sell for at least 50 dollars each but in the weekly souk in the nearby town each one goes for between 6 and 12 dollars.

The men meanwhile spend most of the day outside, herding and farming. The drought plaguing Morocco these past few years has been placing a lot more pressure on these families. We had discussions with both the village men and women separately and both expressed hopes that their children would be educated and find work in the city or abroad as agriculture is no longer that viable.

Education, it seems, is by and large valued by the villagers though it is unfortunately not as readily accessible. The village has a primary school but the nearest middle school is too far away to commute. Families must either find financial means to pay for space in a dormitory, send their kids to family members in the city, or move to the city themselves if they hope to continue their children’s education. While some families find the means to do this others unfortunately do not.

Girls in particular are more likely to be kept at home to weave and take care of the house. Some are also married young to older men. An extreme example is the case of my friend Erika’s host mother who was born in 1988, after most of the students on our program! She has a four year old and an infant. The marriage age is going up though and the number of children per woman is going down. Women can access birth control at a nearby clinic. As a rule of thumb births occur at home, unless complications arise, in which case the hour long commute to the hospital often complicates matters further.

There is no running water in the village but a dozen wells provide the community with water carried to the house, I might add, by our dear friend the donkey! There were of course no toilets and without going into too much detail I would just like to say that I became very familiar with the great outdoors! We washed our hands before meals though no soap was used. Surprisingly, as a whole people seemed relatively healthy except for a few cases of the common cold.
Religious sentiment in the village is mixed. There is a mosque but I never saw my family praying. During our open group discussions one man said “Those who do not pray our not ours. They are not Muslim!” Obviously others disagreed with his perspective. The women expressed a desire for literacy classes so that they could learn to read the Koran.

I talked a lot with my mother throughout the week. We giggled over misunderstandings and taught each other bad words in our different languages. We talked about marriage, life in America, our lives as women in general. Despite language barriers I grew close to her in our week together. She expressed so many times to me that I was like family and that she hopes I can return and bring my parents with me.

I don’t know what I was expected to take away from the week exactly. But it certainly wasn’t pity. Perhaps I do feel a slight gratitude at having landed where I am in life due to the accident of birth. By American standards these people live in poverty. But at the end of the day, they are meeting their needs. They are fed, clothed, love one another and seem happy. I speak only for my host-family here as I know there were other more difficult family and economic situations in the village. I do hope that those who seek more-education, more opportunities, lives different form those they currently lead- that they are able to access those things. Their community center is attached to a larger organization that is working to realize those goals.

One of my best friends and mentors often says "There are so many ways to live your life." That is really what was echoing in my head as a rounded out my village stay and prepared to head back to Rabat.

A couple reflections and anecdotes from the week…
In the Spotlight
I realized how ingrained culture is in each of us as I grappled with the fact that personal space did not exist in this place and that was simply not ok with me. Being the first group of Americans in the village already put us in the spotlight. I answered a series of questions daily about America, which I actually did not mind so much. “Do you have mountains/sheep/rain/etc in America?" "How do you make your bread in America?" "Will you marry an American or a Moroccan?" "Is medicine in America cheap?"

The hardest part of all this attention was that I was never alone. I ate with my family, slept with my family, did daily chores with my family. When I wrote in my journal a handful of children looked over my shoulder or stood straight in front of me. I was led outside to go to the bathroom as they were afraid the stray dog might attack me, although it usually whimpered rather than barked. I could not go for a walk in the countryside alone. I was watched, guided, questioned all the time.

At times I was ready to tear my hair out, throw up my hands and run into the middle of the forest like a crazy woman just for a little solace. However, I fought back my individualist tendencies and took a deep breath…several deep breaths. If the roles were reversed, I would stare at me too. I would want to know what in the world made me come from some country across the ocean to this small village in Morocco. I would be curious. I would be concerned.

And the more I thought about it, I was doing the same thing to them. I was in their home, watching their lives, asking them questions. And our mutual curiosity wasn't really such a terrible thing after all. We were all learning, exchanging and growing together- no personal space for a week was a small price to pay for this experience.

Caught Red-Handed
Henna is a sign of celebration and love. Thus I was naturally flattered when my host family offered to "henna" my hands and feet. One night after dinner I got ready for bed, lied back with my feet on a pillow and let Aisha, my mother, go to work with the dark cakey clay substance. My feet and hands were coated in what felt like mud and then wrapped in cloth. It was like wearing surgical scrub shoes and small potato sacks on my hands. She strategically turned me on my side and placed me in the strangest position I think I have ever slept in. My palms were face up and my feet stacked!

All was going according to plan. I drifted off into a relatively comfortable sleep given that I was wrapped up like a roasting turkey in foil! Yet in the middle of the night I jolted awake! My eyes wide. My mind in panic!...I had to use the bathroom!

It was pitch dark outside. The wind was howling. I was sleeping in a room with three other people whom I didn’t want to disturb and I had mud drying on my appendages which were wrapped up like those of a mummy! I tried to ignore it. I told myself I could wait until morning. I didn't want to spoil my henna. -this symbol of love and hospitality so generously given to me by my family. I could be strong. Mind over matter. But alas, I started to dream of lakes and rivers and knew that I had to make a move, caked feet or not! I would leave my henna to the fates!

Don't fret (not that the state of my dyed hands and feet should really concern you at all in the first place!). All turned out ok. My feet are now appropriately red-soled with tiny little scalloped edges on the sides. My palms likewise are a burnt orange and my finger nails are shades of tangerine. The splotches on the pads of my thumb look like giraffe spots and my left hands looks like a kindergartener’s who just stuck his hand in finger paint for a mother’s day art project. And yet, despite it all my host mother oohed and ahhed over the henna, smiled at me, and told me it was “zwayn”- the all encompassing Moroccan word for anything good and beautiful! And you know what? Despite my better judgment I think I just might agree with her. For the next month I’m planning on wearing this gift with pride!