Excited. Nervous. Unsure. Oddly relaxed. These were the main
emotions I was feeling as I rode the shared taxi to my next destination—a rural
Berber village in the High Atlas Mountains about 60 km south of Marrkech, a
major hub for tourists. I was past ready to leave the tourist trail of cities,
souks, and snake charmers and veer off into the local, village life that I have
become so accustomed to in Malawi.
Visible ahead of the car were layers of blue, hazy mountains
with snow-capped ones peeking out from behind them. I felt like I was in the
Himalayas, not in southern Morocco. As we approached the village of Marigha,
which means “salt” in Berber and where I would be staying for the next week or
so, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The road was twisty and full of turns like
it’d been designed to make carsick people throw up, but the view was
incredible. Being back in the mountains, I could feel my heart swell with
happiness. There’s just something about those layers of mysteriousness, not
knowing what lies behind each mountain, that creates a craving for adventure
and exploring within me.
I was dropped off at a small building full of kids. I wasn’t
sure where my host, Youssef, was or what I was to do. I hauled my massive
backpack, which is probably about the same size as me, out of the trunk of the
car and onto my back and walked inside (laughing to myself as I got a little
stuck in the narrow doorway because my bag was so wide). I caught sight of
Youssef, or who I assumed was Youssef because he was the only adult in the
room. The 20 x 20 foot building was full of tables, chairs, children, and
schoolbooks—they were doing their homework and Youssef was tutoring them, as I
learned later. The kids stared wildly and excitedly at me as I sat down amongst
them. Despite them and I both knowing three languages, we couldn’t communicate
in any of them because they weren’t the same languages. These 12-year-olds were
speaking Arabic, Berber, and French, while I know English, Chichewa, and the bit
of Spanish I remember back from my pre-Chichewa days when I used to be almost
fluent.
After an hour or two of staring, gesturing, and some of the
older girls trying to teach me how to write Arabic on the whiteboard, the sun
had long gone down and it was time to head home. I walked with Youssef to his
family’s farmhouse, expecting nothing and having an open mind. I was first
surprised to find that they had electricity and a TV with cable. That evening I
did a lot of sitting on the couch wondering how/if I could help and trying to
figure out a way to possibly break the silence with any of the few words I knew
in Arabic.
The first two days were tough as I felt so uncomfortable and
awkward—the language barrier, the cultural barrier, a new space, new rules, and
lots of staring and gesturing. It was seriously JUST like my first few days in
the village in Malawi with not being able to communicate to anyone, wandering
around confusedly, and not being sure what to do at all times. It’s always a rough transition with these types of
experiences, but at first I was second-guessing my decision to come here. Why
did I want to put myself through this again?
However, by the end of day 3, I had remembered how rewarding
experiences like these are. I had figured out how to use the squat toilet
that’s somehow a mix between a pit latrine and a flush toilet, I understood
where and how I could take a bucket bath, I knew that the tap water was “okay”
to drink (so far so good anyway!), and I knew where I should and shouldn’t wear
my shoes in the house.
Youssef and I visited the nearby market in the town of Asni
yesterday, which, again, reminded me so
much of market day in Malawi. Row after row of informal shops divided up by
what they were selling—produce, tagines, grains, bread, spices, herbs, donkeys,
live chickens, second-hand clothes, meats, and random niks naks. We wandered
the aisles crowded with people and carts pushing through the chaos. I bought
snacks from the endless amount of carts selling sweets and dates, some
ingredients to cook one or two of my best meals for the family, and yarn to
make hats and scarves for them.
When we returned home, we rested for a bit before Youssef
and I went out for a run. How lucky I am to continue meeting fellow runners
with whom to share these active outings.
The run was what I would consider nothing short of magical. I’ve
had a lot of incredible runs during my life—from jogging in the Kathmandu
countryside at dawn to trekking up steep dirt roads in my village in Malawi
watching the morning light slowly drip down the mountains to “exploring runs”
in Mozambique trying to learn my way around my surroundings to the plethora of
amazing views and trails I’ve run on in the mountains of Asheville. I can’t say
that any one is the best, but the one
that I did yesterday with Youssef will definitely go down as one of my top ten
most memorable ones.
It wasn’t that I felt exceptionally great or anything, but
the scenery was just so special and different that I don’t think I’ll ever
forget it.
It didn’t begin well with me trying to keep up with
Youssef’s quick pace as we exited the fields of the village, but I eventually
found my rhythm. We ventured further into the mountains and away from the
countryside, climbing rolling hills along the way. Following a paved road going
around one mountain range in particular, we played peek-a-boo with the almost
full moon as it would disappear behind the mountain then pop back into view
around every other turn.
Eventually we ended up on a road carved into the side of the
hill that rewarded us with amazing views of the orange-ish pink villages in the
valley below, the panoramic mountain ranges dwarfing them, and the hazy pink
sky telling us the day was coming to an end. Just when I thought it couldn’t
get any better, the sound of the call to prayer from various minarets across
these villages echoed through the valley, the words and songs intertwining. I
pulled out my one headphone blasting my familiar hip hops songs and soaked up
the feeling of that moment, wishing I could bottle up the essence of it to open
whenever I was feeling stressed. Instead, I appreciated it, all of it—the sound
of my feet on the pavement and the call to prayer, the view of the green
mountains and geometric, earthy homes in the villages, and the feeling of the
cool air in my lungs and the sweat on my forehead.
The last fifteen minutes of our run were all downhill, and
we arrived home right after dark. After a wonderful bucket bath (I forgot how
much I love them) and an incredibly delicious tagine of beef, prunes, and some
sort of amazing spiced sauce, I was a very happy traveller.
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| Outside the house |
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| Mint tea <3 |
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| A pano of the village |
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| Lots of olive tree lined roads... |
Now on day #4 in the rural Berber village, and I finally
feel like I’m not completely floundering anymore. I’ve begun to learn the
routines, a little bit (shwiya)
anyway, and to form relationships with the family. They’re slowly warming up to
me, they aren’t quite as outwardly friendly as Malawians, and I’m trying my
best to find work around the house and farm so that they understand that I’m
trying to pull my weight and also that I appreciate all they’re providing for
me.
There’s much to see and do around the home from watching the
uncle bake traditional breads in his bakery next to the house to assisting the
women with washing dishes or feeding the animals to visiting the wheat field
and seeing/assisting them with preparing it for seeding. I’m so glad I decided
to come here and experience this way of life and learn from the real, traditional way of doing things.
The food is delicious, the people are authentic, and the work is hard. I love
it.