It’s an incredible trip, really, but tonight I am frustrated. We had an amazing day today, but I’m starved for a way to share it. I was unable to charge my camera’s battery because we had no electricity yesterday (due to high winds) and I simply do not have the language skills to share what I saw…in any language, honestly. The gorges, that narrow winding corridor, is beyond my capacity to express! I was overwhelmed by the beauty much of the day. As I set out on this hike with my sister, Khadisa, and father, Mbarek, I had no clue what lay ahead. I only smirked as I reflected on previous hikes – never before had I packed a bag with bread we had baked, meat we had slaughtered, vegetables we had grown, a pan to cook it all in, and, of course, plenty of tea, sugar, and a teapot for a day’s hike.
We began ascending one of the red mountains protecting our village, braving the blustering wind and I assumed that the aerial outlook of our village and its neighboring “duwars” was the pinnacle of view, but it was only the start. I wished my friends were there with me, and my family, as we wound around to the backside of the mountain. My father pointed out caves, “ifri”, where the nomads stay during the summer, grazing their sheep and goats for a few weeks at a time, traveling from place to place. And eventually we began to gather brush, little by little, for what I assumed to be our lunch’s fire.
Last night on TV, we had watched a segment on rock climbing in Morocco. Shear cliffs were scaled by tourists with harnesses and rope. A Moroccan man was making a good living as a guide and we watched as he hammered a web of supports into the mountainside. This was another instance where I was kept quiet by my lack of words, and so I was quite relived by this mountain that we had to climb. No words were needed. Our task was apparent. Together we navigated the steep walls of the gorge, one arm reaching out for the next rock to hold while the other held onto the scraps of wood we had gathered.
Eventually we came upon this “ifri”, a wide cave-like overhang, huge and protective from the wind. Set deep towards the back, a few old water jugs sat in a nook. My sister grabbed one to take a drink. The jugs were collecting water as it dripped steadily from the rock. I watched as my sister put her mouth right up to the rock and let the water drip in. A perfect photo-op. Camera-less, I engrained the image in my brain. A drink of the clearest, purest of water. We used it to wash the vegetables and prepare our tea. My sister set to work right away, peeling the tomatoes as my father gathered more wood. I sat and watched, dumbfounded, as usual.
To interject, I’m exhausted by these days and it’s not due to over activity. Honestly, for all we hiked today, it’s probably still less clicks on my pedometer than an average day dancing and navigating the streets of New York City. Still, what’s exhausting is the constant inability to talk coherently, to understand what’s being said, and what’s happening in the present tense. It’s frustrating to want to contribute – and have the skills to do so, such as peeling a tomato or starting a fire – but not have the means to know when or how to offer help. It puts me to bed early and I sleep late!
As our lunch simmered in the fire, Khadisa and I explored an ifri above us, where a nomad had stayed, evident by the overhang, blackened by his fire. And we continued to page through the English to Moroccan Arabic Phrasebook that my father referenced often throughout the day. It’s Arabic, not Tashelheit, and he knows much more French than English, so many words like “cloudy” or “windy” go through this equation of langages before we arrive at a familiar word on each end. It occurs to me that he wants to talk to me, too. He wants to learn English, and has things about our hike and about his village that he wants to tell me, but can’t.
Khadisa grabs some leaves from a familiar plant and we add it to our tea. Mbarek calls it our “nomad tea” and we all say it’s “delicious”, Khadisa’s new and favorite English word. We keep the fire going as we eat our “dwas”. I sit on a rock that’s been warmed by the fire and Khadisa cooks the jaw of the ram we had killed for Leid. It’s like some extra snack that –thankfully – they didn’t insist that I eat. We left the most insistent family members at home. Today we were free!
The hike back was a different route and while it seemed familiar to Mbarek and Khadisa, it occurs to me know that it may’ve been a route they hadn’t taken before, or had, but was one of many. There were incredible photo opportunities – archways created by fallen rocks, perched like keystones between the walls of the gorge, inlets and ifris, rocks leveled off like tables and chairs.
Khadisa and I wandered and explored while Mbarek stopped to pray. I’d say that one day I’d take pictures of this place, and their culturally appropriate response, “Inshalleh” (If God wills), was as expected. But as we continued to wind along the path of the riverbed, then up and around and over, I laughed at my naivety. To think that I could expect to retrace our path and find this hidden treasure again another day…Inshalleh!
We found a white rock along the way and Khadisa was using it to write her name with the English alphabet on the rocks as we ascended up the backside of the mountain that faced our village. I helped her spell out her name and mine. I showed her that her numbers were the same as mine, hiding my surprise that she didn’t know. But why would she? She’s 15-years-old and I’m showing her how to write her name…in English, duh. Yesterday, she had written my name and hers in Arabic script on my hand. That maze of arcs and dots were foreign to me. Even score.
From above, we saw the hotels belonging to the families I had had dinner with over the course of Leid and also the source of our tap water. My father explained why no electricity meant no water and I asked myself again why they’re not using more wind and solar energy here…
Naturally, we were greeted at home with hot coffee, bread and warm soup. Everyone there tasted the clear spring water we had brought back in our water bottles. Then my mother, father and I went to another home for another holiday meal of cookies, kebabs, and dwas. Here I was stranded with the ladies to chat. Mbarek was with the men in another room and Khadisa had stayed home with the boys.
Y’know, it’s fine. They’re impressed by every word that I utter in Tashelheit, and the attention soon drifts away from me and onto other gossip of the day, but it’s tough. I feel more akin to Hamza, my baby brother who’s finding his first sounds and pushing around, eager to crawl. There was a girl, partially blind, at dinner too. She was perfectly capable of conversing and all the rest, but they were careful to hand her her tea or to help her grab a cookie…There’s a great start to some off-color joke…A blind girl, a baby and a foreigner are in a bar in South Milwaukee...
We began ascending one of the red mountains protecting our village, braving the blustering wind and I assumed that the aerial outlook of our village and its neighboring “duwars” was the pinnacle of view, but it was only the start. I wished my friends were there with me, and my family, as we wound around to the backside of the mountain. My father pointed out caves, “ifri”, where the nomads stay during the summer, grazing their sheep and goats for a few weeks at a time, traveling from place to place. And eventually we began to gather brush, little by little, for what I assumed to be our lunch’s fire.
Last night on TV, we had watched a segment on rock climbing in Morocco. Shear cliffs were scaled by tourists with harnesses and rope. A Moroccan man was making a good living as a guide and we watched as he hammered a web of supports into the mountainside. This was another instance where I was kept quiet by my lack of words, and so I was quite relived by this mountain that we had to climb. No words were needed. Our task was apparent. Together we navigated the steep walls of the gorge, one arm reaching out for the next rock to hold while the other held onto the scraps of wood we had gathered.
Eventually we came upon this “ifri”, a wide cave-like overhang, huge and protective from the wind. Set deep towards the back, a few old water jugs sat in a nook. My sister grabbed one to take a drink. The jugs were collecting water as it dripped steadily from the rock. I watched as my sister put her mouth right up to the rock and let the water drip in. A perfect photo-op. Camera-less, I engrained the image in my brain. A drink of the clearest, purest of water. We used it to wash the vegetables and prepare our tea. My sister set to work right away, peeling the tomatoes as my father gathered more wood. I sat and watched, dumbfounded, as usual.
To interject, I’m exhausted by these days and it’s not due to over activity. Honestly, for all we hiked today, it’s probably still less clicks on my pedometer than an average day dancing and navigating the streets of New York City. Still, what’s exhausting is the constant inability to talk coherently, to understand what’s being said, and what’s happening in the present tense. It’s frustrating to want to contribute – and have the skills to do so, such as peeling a tomato or starting a fire – but not have the means to know when or how to offer help. It puts me to bed early and I sleep late!
As our lunch simmered in the fire, Khadisa and I explored an ifri above us, where a nomad had stayed, evident by the overhang, blackened by his fire. And we continued to page through the English to Moroccan Arabic Phrasebook that my father referenced often throughout the day. It’s Arabic, not Tashelheit, and he knows much more French than English, so many words like “cloudy” or “windy” go through this equation of langages before we arrive at a familiar word on each end. It occurs to me that he wants to talk to me, too. He wants to learn English, and has things about our hike and about his village that he wants to tell me, but can’t.
Khadisa grabs some leaves from a familiar plant and we add it to our tea. Mbarek calls it our “nomad tea” and we all say it’s “delicious”, Khadisa’s new and favorite English word. We keep the fire going as we eat our “dwas”. I sit on a rock that’s been warmed by the fire and Khadisa cooks the jaw of the ram we had killed for Leid. It’s like some extra snack that –thankfully – they didn’t insist that I eat. We left the most insistent family members at home. Today we were free!
The hike back was a different route and while it seemed familiar to Mbarek and Khadisa, it occurs to me know that it may’ve been a route they hadn’t taken before, or had, but was one of many. There were incredible photo opportunities – archways created by fallen rocks, perched like keystones between the walls of the gorge, inlets and ifris, rocks leveled off like tables and chairs.
Khadisa and I wandered and explored while Mbarek stopped to pray. I’d say that one day I’d take pictures of this place, and their culturally appropriate response, “Inshalleh” (If God wills), was as expected. But as we continued to wind along the path of the riverbed, then up and around and over, I laughed at my naivety. To think that I could expect to retrace our path and find this hidden treasure again another day…Inshalleh!
We found a white rock along the way and Khadisa was using it to write her name with the English alphabet on the rocks as we ascended up the backside of the mountain that faced our village. I helped her spell out her name and mine. I showed her that her numbers were the same as mine, hiding my surprise that she didn’t know. But why would she? She’s 15-years-old and I’m showing her how to write her name…in English, duh. Yesterday, she had written my name and hers in Arabic script on my hand. That maze of arcs and dots were foreign to me. Even score.
From above, we saw the hotels belonging to the families I had had dinner with over the course of Leid and also the source of our tap water. My father explained why no electricity meant no water and I asked myself again why they’re not using more wind and solar energy here…
Naturally, we were greeted at home with hot coffee, bread and warm soup. Everyone there tasted the clear spring water we had brought back in our water bottles. Then my mother, father and I went to another home for another holiday meal of cookies, kebabs, and dwas. Here I was stranded with the ladies to chat. Mbarek was with the men in another room and Khadisa had stayed home with the boys.
Y’know, it’s fine. They’re impressed by every word that I utter in Tashelheit, and the attention soon drifts away from me and onto other gossip of the day, but it’s tough. I feel more akin to Hamza, my baby brother who’s finding his first sounds and pushing around, eager to crawl. There was a girl, partially blind, at dinner too. She was perfectly capable of conversing and all the rest, but they were careful to hand her her tea or to help her grab a cookie…There’s a great start to some off-color joke…A blind girl, a baby and a foreigner are in a bar in South Milwaukee...
