The Hijrah Diaries Into The High Atlas III

Brooke Benoit returns to her long running series about gracelessly adjusting to living in Morocco – this time in a rural village in the High Atlas mountains.

Day 46
The landlord brought the water bill over to the husband today and hubby says that the guy was “very shocked” by our excessive water usage. I was so upset by this. It has truly been amazing to see firsthand just how much water we use in our household. For the first few weeks up here, without the water heater, we had to heat water by the potfulls every time we needed it for washing dishes, clothes and bodies. This gave us an opportunity to really see exactly how much water we are using- and wasting! Though we tried to be creative, there was very little we could do with rinse/grey water other than dump it. If I ever a garden again, insha Allah, I want to have a little tank under the kitchen sink (maybe the bathroom too) to catch rinse water for reusing in the garden.

I think that where we have failed up here is in our clothes washing. Even though I have completely reassessed my idea of what exactly are “dirty clothes,” we still used a lot – apparently more than anyone ever in the 4,000 year history of the village – of water to wash our clothes. I mostly blame the teenager who would try to hose off his clothes to a near state of clean with the shower head. We are all hoping to get a washer machine in the next few weeks, as the kids have been helping with the laundry and the husband has been doing a lot of it. I know machines use less water than handwashing, but since nearly all the other women in the village wash in the river, I’m afraid my landlord may be only slightly less freaked-out next billing cycle.

Day 60
One of my worst I’m-a-monster-city-slicker nightmares came true today. I was left with the task of burning the trash while hubby is back in the city. Though several of my neighbours burn trash right in front of their homes, we were told to do our burning far from houses, which after having toxic burning trash stench fill my home in Casablanca – I can appreciate that suggestion. I had to get the kids to haul the trash up the mountain, then buy petrol from the little hanout during one of the small windows when he is open and rush up the mountain to build my bonfire while the baby is sleeping or otherwise happily preoccupied. I looked out the window to check the kids’ progress and had a good, hearty laugh seeing my 10 year old son carrying bulging plastic bags up the hill while wearing pink kitchen gloves, which is actually a habit their father instilled in the kids for when they do the dishes, but sure – blame the bourgeois-kid-making on the mother. So, they got the trash out and I called to my eldest to run out and get the petrol as the guy was open – and then he suddenly closed, then he opened a few minutes later and seemed to not have petrol or any idea what son was saying and he closed again. Great. Now cats and wild dogs would surely find some smell of interest to warrant tearing through my trash and spreading it across the mostly pristine valley, which is what I am really worried about and why I wanted to do this in one fell swoop. But I couldn’t have foreseen what our nine year old neighbour was about to do… Ignoring the pleas of my son, the boy tore into every single one of our tightly tied up dozen or so small plastic bags and sifted through the entire contents of each, spreading the trash all over the burn site.
The horror! Quickly I realised there wasn’t anything overly embarrassing in there other than a few too many cellophane treat wrappers. But why would he do this?! My son suspects that he was scavenging for something valuable or reusable as many of the local kids make innovative toys with scraps and trash remnants. I was oddly proud to hear that he found nothing of value or interest among our trash – this means we are doing well to reuse everything reusable.

And I’m realising – once again – that while I work myself into a frenzy worrying about things – I really have no control. Now I have to ‘jab‘ up and go figure out where the husband bought that petrol from and pull my evil disposable nappies out of the thorn bushes.

Day 65
When we first attempted to move to Morocco a decade ago, I very much wanted to simply recreate my US lifestyle in the North African Mediterranean. In Casablanca that was easy enough to do. The few things I missed from the US were mostly food items, and with a little extra work I could I whip up nearly any of those dishes in my Casa kitchen. Before we moved out here to the sticks, I noticed myself doing that same thing again, I was hoarding up every possible thing that I was worried that I would want or need – new shoes, craft supplies, kitchen wares, hair accessories, specialty foods and homeopathic remedies – all these things that are not immediately available on the mountain, but surely my husband or someone could drag them in if we really, really needed them. As I was wondering around another Casa niche shopping district trying to remember what wasn’t on my list, (as there is always something else needed isn’t there?) I finally became aware of my behaviour, immediately stopped shopping and went home. I decided to “just make do” – to truly let go of stuff and just bring in what I could, not worrying about the rest – it would come if we truly needed it.

I began to hope that moving out here to the sticks would help me reevaluate some of my not-so-good dunya habits, such as my materialism as well as my eco practices. If my neighbour can make do without so much that I think is necessary, maybe I could rethink my needs. Maybe we cut our lifestyle down by force, since there really isn’t that much retail and entertainment-for-purchase to do out here, and then slowly we could decide where and if we want to build our… spending, really – it’s mostly about spending and now I have a chance to really see what it is that I value and to prioritise that.

Day 73
Two months in and The Eldest child is finally trying out this hiking bit. Yesterday we all went for a walk and he decided to climb up the foothills and check out a cave. We could barely see the dot of his red T-shirt as he neared the cave and then seemed to quickly descend back towards us. Turns out it’s some old man’s house! There were a few sheep on the ‘roof’ of it and a low rock building to the side. The old man was headed further up the hill to where a few other animals were. Of course now we are totally obsessed with why and how this man lives up there. Is he that poor or does he chooses to live in a cave? Where is his family and what happened that he is now living like that?

A general curiosity in hiking and discovery seems to have been piqued and The Eldest jaunted off after Fajr this morning with a pack full of snacks and the camera. I fully admit to being mildly jealous at my not being able to just go climb a mountain whenever I want, but then again – it’s no longer about me, at least not entirely.

Day 74
That old man on the mountain- found out that’s a shepherd’s daytime rest stop – not his home! This is exactly why I didn’t want to come for just a week or even a month. I want for my children (and myself) to have ample opportunity to really explore Allah’s I creation – to “get to know” each other and lots of goodness in between. As we watch tourists hike through town, (and I read their often cringeworthy blog and travel accounts) I become more aware of how travelling through can mostly just reinforce predisposed ideas. I imagine the story that we could have been spun about that mean old man, rejected by his family and left to fend for himself on the hillside. I’m becoming more aware of mine and our biases around class, gender and race, and I’m feeling that the local pace, which we are still acclimating to, is much more accommodating to explore and rectify these biases – insha Allah. And what a bonus that the backdrop for our “studies” is so magnificent.

Day 89
Hubby keeps asking me if I want to go back to the city, as if I will suddenly change my mind. Things are getting easier and my self-doubts are waning. As he was walking out the door for Thur, he asked for the second or third time today if I am “ready to go back” and then added that the landlord wants us to sign a contract if we plan to stay for a full year. Apparently the homeowner usually stores apples in this house during the winter and wants to be sure he isn’t displacing his harvest for nothing. “Sign it!” I called out to the husband. I am committed. And although I have said that I don’t want to think past one year, today I did walk over to see a little farm that is for sale. Just a little walk, just a little farm, just a little thought.

~~~

Living in the High Atlas mountains with her husband and six home-educated children, Brooke Benoit is (mostly) savouring living in a community where hands-on and doing from scratch are the norm.

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The Hijrah Diaries #8 via SISTERS Magazine

Day 150: The culture shock books don’t say how long it should take me to stop bristling under my skin every time someone wags a “no” finger at me. This is perfectly acceptable, not-at-all rude and frequently used here, which is completely different from my own cultural training that dictates finger wagging as a very, very rude action only used to scold particularly naughty people. I’m pretty sure that I grimace each time someone wags at me, which must seem pretty weird.

Day 158: Today I negotiated to buy a fixer-up bicycle – fixed up. Well no, I’m not completely sure what I negotiated. We seemed to agree at 400 dirhams, but I’m not too sure what that includes. I think I’ll get a frame and new gears that the mechanic will transfer from the mountain bike we were both gesturing at, and I hope he puts on new tires because he kept saying “mzee’in,” meaning “good” – but what’s good? Ok, good, he’ll do it or no, the threadbare tires are good so he’ll leave them on? And I felt confident that the pick-up time was agreed upon for one week from now, but in hindsight, dude pointing at his watch and making rolling motions with his index finger and my response of counting off the days of the week in English on my fingers – that doesn’t seem very clear does it? I have no idea what was agreed upon!

Though it was a little rusty, the frame was nice, but purple –  which I don’t normally like, however I’m trying to get my preconceived aesthetics anyway. I am curious to see how he fixes it up for me, kind of like when I would go to a new hair stylist and say “do what you think is best.” I am so excited about having a bike and someone to occasionally watch my littlest people so I can actually go riding with the bigger ones.

Day 165: The bike situation is not going well. I got it. He seemed disappointed, perhaps I came back later than he expected – more pointing at his watch. I am really disappointed with the work and not sure how to proceed. He didn’t change the wheel and in addition to it being threadbare, all of it is warped. I peddled away feeling kind of wobbly, thinking wow, I was really rusty. Uh, no, it’s the tire! And some spokes are broken. The breaks do not work at all; found this out going downhill to the beach. He only put gears on the back, none on the front. Grr. Unsurprisingly, the husband is not happy that I adventurously handled this transaction by myself. Yeah, yeah haste makes waste, but I’m just not willing to wait a few more months for a bike, nor are the kids who are now expecting to go to the beach every weekend. I’m negotiating for every other weekend and holidays off. But first I need to go back to the mechanic and do a lot of pointing and fingering wagging. And I’m going to continue to try hard not to read into why the dude felt he could do such shoddy work on my bike. Female? Foreigner? Allahualim—my business is getting a rideable bike!

Day 170: The sister-in-law and I are going to try an organised cooking schedule. This forced meals at specific intervals is killing me, but I concede that it probably is best when you’re feeding eight to ten people at non-arbitrary times. I am very used to squeezing food in-between all the activities and stuff the kids and I were doing, but now the meals are central and squeezables are much more rare. We are going to try switching off for whole weeks at a time, she will be in the kitchen for one week, then me the next week and so on. Not only are we going to trade off the cooking, but it will be overall kitchen management, so also cleaning and shopping. The days of living like kings will now come to end for my boys, who will be back to regularly contributing to cooking and cleaning. They are huffing and whining about – gasp – having to wash dishes by hand! But they are looking forward to cooking and making their favorite dishes again. They are also plotting science experiments and have started a list of needs, including food coloring, cupcake wrappers, rock salt and cornstarch. These kids know their crafts and snacks!

I’m hoping to reduce production time in the kitchen. I could easily, and sometimes do, spend four to five hours a day cleaning, preparing and cooking food – plus sauces and vinaigrettes are made entirely from scratch, as most Moroccans do. It’s not uncommon for folks here to make mayonnaise from scratch – no way! Sometimes I feel like my sister-in-law and I are one upping each other, getting far too grandiose creating multiple dishes for each meal. Living in the Mediterranean is really a gourmet delight, but it’s just too wasteful to spend so much time pleasing our tongues. So, I want to find ways to satisfy eight to ten different preferences and dietary needs and not be too extravagant about it. And we are going to have to get some canned tomatoes in this pantry.

Day 177: The house next door has been sold, emptied and demolished in the past couple of weeks. We are now the last house on the block, and one of the few remaining houses in the neighbourhood, which is full to capacity of zone-allotted six-story apartment buildings. Actually, they follow the silly European protocol of calling the second storey the “first storey” so we are shadowed all around by seven storey buildings. And due to the unique, non-uniform shape of our block – we are now wedged between three concurrent construction sites. Two are immediately next to us on the north and south side of the house and another is just about five meters off of the east/back side. I could stick my arm out several of our windows and reach a construction worker. Nice. That’s three different angles from which we are hearing construction sounds all daylight hours, six and even seven days a week. And they occasionally drill and hammer holes into the outer walls of our house to do various things for their sites. We have new and bigger cracks in the plaster all the time. Whenever someone slams a door in the house or the Chergui winds swirling around the house slam the doors, a grandparent yells something about how the front balcony is going to fall off.

I’m trying to remain positive. After all, the construction sites are endlessly interesting for the kids to watch and learn from. The work is done quite differently from the States; much more is done with bare hands and even bare toes in sandals! Still, I can’t help but feeling the very literal encroaching of urbanism all around us and it is choking our dreams of a little land, a vegetable garden and some animals. The “BAM, BAM, BAM. DUHG, DUHG, DUHG. TUNK, TUNK, TUNK” is chipping away at my sabr, sabr, sabr.

~~~

As originally published in the June 2011 issue of SISTERS Magazine–while you’re over there, check out their article “The Down Low, Let’s Talk Clinical Depression.”

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My Hijrah Diary in SISTERS Magazine

I’ve been meaning to tell ya’ll that my Hijrah Diary is being chronicled in SISTERS magazine (The Magazine for Fabulous Muslim Women). It started up in November and should run for several months insha Allah. Here’s a lil’ excerpt from last month:

January 27:  We have 840+lbs of luggage allotment—nearly a ton! — and I can’t decide whether to take the bake ware or not. And I still don’t know if we will be living in the north or south and whether or not to pack for winter or spring! I HATE stuff. If Hassan asks me one more time “not to take too much, but be sure to take ____”, I’m going to a mountain top with my sheep BY MYSELF! Well, I’ll take the baby too, of course. And I’m so mad at myself for being attached to all this glittery distraction, though the bake ware is hardly glittery anymore. I know almost all of it is available there. And if it’s not, then surely I don’t need it because Moroccans don’t need it. Right? Except for the kids’ paperbacks. I need those. And the half dozen books about and by Muslim women that I have bought and not yet read. And the Legos which I can’t afford to replace there. And my mini Pampered Chef spatula. AstagfirAllah.

Really, I know it’s not about stuff. I finally cried a bit today and I couldn’t blame it all on hormones. And I can’t blame it all on stuff.  The reality is that I’m leaving home and I feel like a big baby about it.

SISTERS went monthly last month (congrats Sisters!) and are regularly adding new content to their site, where you can read some articles, so check them (us!) out.

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Remade Moroccan Folk Tales

Eldest son went to the epicerie (bodega/corner store) the other night and when he got back I noticed his shirt was inside out. He often does this when he goes to pray and has some kind of image (person or animal) on his shirt. This one has different sets of eyes that glow in the dark, so turning it inside is kind of useless—but anyway—I asked him if he wore it like that to the store. “Yeah. And a couple of people said something.” “What did they say” I ask. “I dunno. I don’t understand what they are saying. It wasn’t English.” “Then how do you know they said something about your shirt?” “One lady pointed to it and then the epicerie guy pointed to the seams on his own shirt.”

Me, The SIL and The Hub had a good laugh about folks concern for Our Boy and then SIL told me this “Moroccan folktale” that I have since seen elsewhere online as various kinds of a “Middle Eastern folktale”-

An old man decides to take his donkey to the souk and sell it. The journey is not too far and they start off early in the day when it is still cool. After walking just a short distance they come across some people who tell the old man that he should make use of his donkey and ride it. So, the old man climbs up on the donkey and rides along a little further with the boy keeping pace at his side.

Just a little ways down the road they happen on another group of people. These people scold the old man for selfishly riding the donkey and making the young boy struggle to keep up alongside! So, the old man gets off the donkey and puts the little boy up on the blanketed saddle.

As they are getting closer to the market they come upon a third group and this group feels the donkey is too tired to even carry the child and again the old man is scolded for his thoughtlessness. Finally, coming into the marketplace, all the people turn to stare at the old man who is carrying a donkey across his shoulders with a small boy following sheepishly behind him. No one says a word to either of them.

~ ~ ~

That is exactly how I felt carrying my eldest son in a baby sling in Brooklyn. It seemed as if crossing the imaginary border into every new neighborhood I would be met by some sagely mother from another culture or era who would either praise me or chastise me for carry my baby like that!

So, my sil and I kidded my son that next time he goes to the epicerie he should wear his shorts on top and top on bottom. This wouldn’t be too hard since he already does sometimes pull a sweater onto his waist—as in the neckhole around his waist!—also for prayer, to cover up. And now, of course, we have to pretty much beg him not to go out like that—-yes, he has figured out a way to wear shorts as a top.

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