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Village Life

April 12, 2009

On Saturday, March 21, I awoke early in the morning from a dream about a shower. In another context this would have been nothing more than a strange dream, but knowing what lie ahead I considered it a clear indication of the preoccupations of my unconscious mind. That day we left Rabat to spend a week in a rural village, where the only amenities granted to us by our academic directors were bottled water (to keep us healthy) and toilet paper (we hoped our academic director was joking when he said the alternative was a rock). Trying to ignore my nerves, I embraced the experience as a test of my own endurance. It was a test I was determined to pass.

The village was about a three and a half-hour drive southeast of Rabat, near the town of Bejaad in the foothills of the Middle Atlas. It was a pretty drive. Bright patches of wildflowers—ruby poppies, white and gold daisies, tangerine orange, sapphire blue—lay splashed across the emerald canvas of the hills. Arriving in the village, I couldn’t imagine a more picturesque place. Our host fathers met us wearing identical excited smiles. Mine was called Habib, a tall man with a thick black mustache and kind brown eyes. We rode home on the back of a mule to a small compound at the top of a hill, where Habib, his brother, and his cousin live with their families. I spent my first half-hour there meeting the various family members, and though I never could keep all the names of the extended family straight, especially because they all seemed to move around so much, my immediate family consisted of Habib’s wife, Sadia, and five children: Malika (20), Abderrazaq (16 and the only boy), Turia (12), Karima (7), and Hanane (16 months). Other students lived with the other two nuclear families.

Living conditions were very basic. The compound consisted of several adjoining mud-brick and cement buildings and courtyards. The floors were concrete, only the interior walls were painted, and there was very little furniture—I slept on a pile of rugs the entire time, and the one or two small, round wooden tables migrated from room to room depending on where people were eating. There was no indoor plumbing; Abderrazaq took the mule to the communal well every morning to get water. The women made their own bread, their own butter, and their own olive oil, there was a cow for milk, chickens for eggs, donkeys and mules for transport. Dogs guarded the premises, and a few scrawny cats patrolled for mice.

We spent Saturday evening and most of Sunday with our families, and my first challenge was wrestling with not having a schedule or task list. Though I’m probably an extreme example, I think Americans in general are very activity oriented—the idea of doing nothing scares us. I spent a lot of time just watching Sadia and Malika go about their daily tasks, helping where I could, which admittedly wasn’t very much. My ability to communicate with the rural family was even more limited than with my family in Rabat, since the majority of the family only spoke Darija (Moroccan Arabic), but two months of practice have made me more adept at using what limited vocabulary I possess. Still, it was a relief to meet with the other students on Sunday evening for a discussion with our fathers, in which our academic director acted as translator. Beyond being a break from linguistic isolation, it was also a great opportunity for us—students and fathers—to learn about each other. Habib and I again rode home on the back of the mule, who climbed winding path up the hill in the near-complete darkness. I would trust that mule with my life. The sky was filled with more stars than I knew existed, and the lights of the distant towns were like specks of golden dust on the horizon.

On Monday we hiked about ten miles up the hills, pausing at intervals to discuss deforestation, disputed land, and how rural communities use natural resources. As we walked I practiced Spanish with another student and was delighted to discover that I can still carry on a conversation. After lunch we had a discussion with rural women similar to the previous evening’s talk with our fathers. We returned late in the afternoon similarly sunburned with sunglass lines and farmer’s tans. In the evening I returned briefly to Bejaad to pre-register for next semester’s classes online. (Needless to say, there was no Internet in the village.) Riding on rough earthen roads through fields of young wheat and bright flowers, it struck me just how remote the village was. Out there, highways, the Internet, supermarkets, hospitals, universities—all the trappings of the modern world—might as well not exist at all. With this, I also realized that, despite the natural beauty, I’d rather have the modern world with all its problems.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed more or less the same. In the mornings we did service activities for the village—Tuesday we planted olive trees, Wednesday we plastered a building—and took twice as long as the village men would have. Still, the intention was there. In the afternoons small groups of us met at different houses to weave. The village women make rugs which they sell through an NGO, and though we were just as inept at weaving as at tree planting, it was fun.

By Thursday I had gone an entire week without showering and was counting the hours until I would be clean again. During the day it wasn’t so bad, though after climbing our hill at midday I felt sweaty and gross for a bit. The worst was at night, when I lay down and my sweat- and dirt-encrusted clothes and greasy hair pressed against skin coated in several days’ worth of sunscreen. Brushing my teeth became a blessing. I never realized how good a clean mouth can make you feel, even if the rest of you is filthy.

Thursday was a family day. In the afternoon Malika, her cousin Siham, the other female student living in the compound, and I wandered through the nearby flower fields, making wreathes and bouquets and enjoying the fresh air. That night, my last night with the family, I looked at them fondly as we sat watching the small black and white television before dinner and thought that they were very close. You could tell just from the way they interacted. The young girls snuggled with their father and their aunts, and all the children seemed to get along very well. This closeness reflected the village as a whole. Every family adopted its student as one of their own. Indeed, one of the first things Habib asked me was the names of my family members, and after learning my father’s name he told me I now had two fathers: my dad and himself. Moroccans are such hospitable people.

As we drove away from the village Friday morning I tried to reflect on what I’d experienced. I was looking forward to returning to the city. First on my list of things to do—for obvious reasons—was to take a trip to the hammam (public bath) for a long, hot shower. Next was to use the Internet. The isolation of the village was hard for me. In Rabat, though communication can be a pain, I do at least have access to e-mail and telephone and so feel connected to the rest of the world. I can call the states from several thousand miles away. Granted, it costs an arm and a leg, but hearing my family’s voices on the phone makes the distance seem inconsequential. Sometimes it’s nice to disconnect for a while, but my life and dreams are so intertwined with what’s happening in the rest of the world that it’s kind of unsettling for me to be cut off for too long.

It’s still early for me to digest the village stay, but I know I have benefited from the experience. It makes me appreciate what I have in Rabat and even more what I have in the United States. Moreover, after living in a rural village, albeit for a short time and in a controlled setting, I feel like I’ve walked in the proverbial other man’s shoes. You never know what you’ll learn from this until you actually do it. After all, isn’t that what the proverb is trying to say?

Photo 1: The view from the hill where my lived.
Photo 2: Habib on the mule.
Photo 3: Sadia churning butter.
Photo 4: Malika weaving.

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