It's been a while.
Forgive me for that, but a combination of a lot to do and no internet access have kept me from updating this space.
What I've been up to in the past few weeks has been nothing short of inspiring, exhilarating, perhaps even life-changing - call me cliche I care not.
Last Saturday morning, we left for Oulmes, a smaller town nestled at the base of the Middle Atlas Mountains. It was to be a quick stop before we hiked down into Ait Ouahi, the village we were to stay in for the next six days. To be sure, we had heard many things about the infamous village stay - how little there was to do, how awesome it was that there was so little to do - these were the elements that dominated conversation leading up to the moment we dropped off the bus onto a gravelly, stone covered path leading down into the village.
When I heard village, in my head I imagined a small conglomeration of little thatched houses nestled in a valley - close to each other, with smoke billowing from stone chimneys and small farms. Of course like everything else thus far, expectations were defied. The region is dry and mountainous, and the farms large, perched literally on the peaks of each mountain. The houses were literally hills away from one another, stone and cement dwellings lording over acres of land with flocks of grazing sheep and cows. Every walk required double the strength because of the elevation. It was as if we were all hobbits traversing the vast expanses of the (notably drier) Shire.
Fadma, our sister, came to pick us up from the bus and immediately became our best friend. The affection between us started with her warm smile and laughing eyes, her constant "it's good?" and the fact that despite we were all the same age, it still felt like she was our older sister and a reassuring presence in our village lives. The room we stayed in was separated from the rest of the house and Fadma was the link between the two. She ate with us, walked with us, sometimes just sat with us. Of course this was all in light of the fact that we had much more difficulty communicating - Fadma spoke singular words of French, English and Arabic, but was most fluent in Darija and her dialect of Tamazigh. For those unfamiliar, Tamazigh is a language spoken by the indigenous people of Morocco, the Amazigh. It encompasses many dialects that vary by region and is linguistically unrelated to Arabic - it has its own script. Thus, everyday, normally unimportant words became infused with meaning - "eat!"was more a piece of playful banter than a command, "it's good?" was more a communication of mutual happiness at our meeting than a check-up on how we were doing.
Our days were filled with a whole lot of nothing, the kind of nothing that feels like it was an unexpected gift, like receiving flowers on a day that's not your birthday. But also the kind of nothing that feels unfair, like it should really be filled with something useful. We slept ridiculously early and reached the climax of a book by lunch, finishing the denouement before tea. We went for aimless walks, scaled cliffs, perched on tree stumps, watching, waiting, thinking, wow now I'm making it sound like we were planning elaborate heists or murders or something - but really this was a trip full of introspection and appreciation.
I actually felt that I was physically closer to the sky the whole stay. There was absolutely no light pollution, no nearby towns for miles - Oulmes is a decent drive. The nights were completely pitch, inky black, you could see nothing but the looming, fuzzy dot that was the light from the mosque window - and even that went out after ten. Our only luminescence on the walk from our room to the bathroom shed was the glowing red orbs of our guard dogs' eyes - and of course, the stars.
Our attempt to stargaze was indeed successful, albeit a tad treacherous. We snuck out after our family had gone to sleep armed with thick blankets and flashlights, sliding and sputtering down the rocky hill of our farm into the valley below. And when we finished, we had to climb back up the farm with the guard dogs barking at us all the while, their red-eyed glares betraying any affection that had built between us during the day.
My notes on stargazing are simply this: there is nothing like the celestial intimacy one feels when the stars are so absurdly close and clear. A lot of people say they feel smaller when they watch the stars, they relay wistfully about being reminded that the world is so much bigger and they are merely blips in the universe as it cycles along for eons and eons. But I felt like the clusters were literally flirting with us, twinkling so clearly as if to bless us with their cosmic acknowledgment of our tiny existence, and this only convinced me that where I was and what I was doing was more important. I confess I've never up until this point, seen stars that clearly with my own eyes. And with each twinkle, with each passing shooting star (we saw four!) and each almost-constellation I could pick out, we became brighter, never mind that we could see nothing beyond the outlines of our own bodies, the whole world became brighter.
Moments like that made me really forget about other issues, such as the fact I hadn't showered in six days. For some, cleanliness is indeed next to godliness, but I also think cleanliness is a state of mind. Give yourself a few days and the brisk mountain air will really make you forget that you only have a half-pack of travel size wipes to un-dirty yourself the whole week.
Indeed when we were not doing nothing, our activities were so spontaneous and morphed into hilariously absurd experiences that the nothing was merely much-needed preparation. On Monday night we lumbered into Oulmes with Fadma where we were supposed to stay before visiting the souk (market) the next day. It was unclear to both Colleen and I where exactly we were staying as we traipsed around Oulmes running various errands with Fadma until we finally climbed a hill in the dark with only the light of a cellphone to guide us to her sister Khadija's house. Oulmes is a lovely, sleepy town flanked by the Atlas mountains, and though it's a pretty decent sized metropolis it still seemed so isolated. Maybe because it was freezing cold and chillingly rainy accompanied by a vengeful wind while thus far the only Morocco I've experienced has been blisteringly hot with a sunshine you can really rely on. In fact our day at the souk was epitomized by the sounds of mud squelching beneath our feet, the stiffness of almost frostbitten fingers, and a constant background score of sniffling noses, vegetable haggling, the balancing and unbalancing of scales, and the megaphoned voices of various merchants announcing their wares. By the end of the day, we were exhausted and our exhaustion was only augmented when we realized that Fadma actually didn't live in the village, but in Oulmes, and wasn't going to accompany us home. We exchanged numbers though, and every day after that, Fadma called one of us for what would be seemingly identical 25-second conversations:
"Salam!"
"Salam!"
"It's good?"
"It's good!"
"Mezziane?"
"Mezziane!"
"Yallah bye!"
"Bye!"
As much as they seem, these are not identical conversations. The Sunday after we left the village Fadma called me and my "it's good" was "I miss you" and her "yallah, bye!" was "hope to see you again soon."
One morning, Colleen and I my groggy post-sleep conversation turned to foods we kind of missed, silly foods that we really could only find in the US like bear claws and broccoli-cheddar soup. It was ironic, and a little sad, that in our little, glitter-walled room where we had drank what must have been gallons of delicious mint tea and a lot of yams, we were comparing the merits of different kinds of donut holes (we both like powdered ones, though I prefer mine not to be filled with anything). Now and again, things like this happen when my mind turns to to-go coffee cups that are three times the size of the small mugs here and how many different shades of orange fall leaves are before the drift to the ground. These occasional memories don't mean I would trade my drier Shire for home - quite the opposite. I'm just so experientially rich, I can't even grasp it yet.
Yesterday was Diwali, and I really don't think I celebrated with the same panache as my family and friends. I hunted around the medina with my friends for candles, finally finding one shop (thanks to Najwa) right before dinner. Three long candlesticks and my host-uncle's cigarette lighter later, I had some makeshift diyas. A departure from how I'm used to seeing the festival of lights go down, but it's alright. The lights from the stars we gazed at are still shining brightly in my mind so I really don't mind only having three candles to work with.
This weekend we head to the north for our last excursion. We're actually going to "Spain" to get our passports re-stamped. But I have a feeling that the light I've found will follow us even there.
Forgive me for that, but a combination of a lot to do and no internet access have kept me from updating this space.
What I've been up to in the past few weeks has been nothing short of inspiring, exhilarating, perhaps even life-changing - call me cliche I care not.
Last Saturday morning, we left for Oulmes, a smaller town nestled at the base of the Middle Atlas Mountains. It was to be a quick stop before we hiked down into Ait Ouahi, the village we were to stay in for the next six days. To be sure, we had heard many things about the infamous village stay - how little there was to do, how awesome it was that there was so little to do - these were the elements that dominated conversation leading up to the moment we dropped off the bus onto a gravelly, stone covered path leading down into the village.
When I heard village, in my head I imagined a small conglomeration of little thatched houses nestled in a valley - close to each other, with smoke billowing from stone chimneys and small farms. Of course like everything else thus far, expectations were defied. The region is dry and mountainous, and the farms large, perched literally on the peaks of each mountain. The houses were literally hills away from one another, stone and cement dwellings lording over acres of land with flocks of grazing sheep and cows. Every walk required double the strength because of the elevation. It was as if we were all hobbits traversing the vast expanses of the (notably drier) Shire.
Fadma, our sister, came to pick us up from the bus and immediately became our best friend. The affection between us started with her warm smile and laughing eyes, her constant "it's good?" and the fact that despite we were all the same age, it still felt like she was our older sister and a reassuring presence in our village lives. The room we stayed in was separated from the rest of the house and Fadma was the link between the two. She ate with us, walked with us, sometimes just sat with us. Of course this was all in light of the fact that we had much more difficulty communicating - Fadma spoke singular words of French, English and Arabic, but was most fluent in Darija and her dialect of Tamazigh. For those unfamiliar, Tamazigh is a language spoken by the indigenous people of Morocco, the Amazigh. It encompasses many dialects that vary by region and is linguistically unrelated to Arabic - it has its own script. Thus, everyday, normally unimportant words became infused with meaning - "eat!"was more a piece of playful banter than a command, "it's good?" was more a communication of mutual happiness at our meeting than a check-up on how we were doing.
Our days were filled with a whole lot of nothing, the kind of nothing that feels like it was an unexpected gift, like receiving flowers on a day that's not your birthday. But also the kind of nothing that feels unfair, like it should really be filled with something useful. We slept ridiculously early and reached the climax of a book by lunch, finishing the denouement before tea. We went for aimless walks, scaled cliffs, perched on tree stumps, watching, waiting, thinking, wow now I'm making it sound like we were planning elaborate heists or murders or something - but really this was a trip full of introspection and appreciation.
I actually felt that I was physically closer to the sky the whole stay. There was absolutely no light pollution, no nearby towns for miles - Oulmes is a decent drive. The nights were completely pitch, inky black, you could see nothing but the looming, fuzzy dot that was the light from the mosque window - and even that went out after ten. Our only luminescence on the walk from our room to the bathroom shed was the glowing red orbs of our guard dogs' eyes - and of course, the stars.
Our attempt to stargaze was indeed successful, albeit a tad treacherous. We snuck out after our family had gone to sleep armed with thick blankets and flashlights, sliding and sputtering down the rocky hill of our farm into the valley below. And when we finished, we had to climb back up the farm with the guard dogs barking at us all the while, their red-eyed glares betraying any affection that had built between us during the day.
My notes on stargazing are simply this: there is nothing like the celestial intimacy one feels when the stars are so absurdly close and clear. A lot of people say they feel smaller when they watch the stars, they relay wistfully about being reminded that the world is so much bigger and they are merely blips in the universe as it cycles along for eons and eons. But I felt like the clusters were literally flirting with us, twinkling so clearly as if to bless us with their cosmic acknowledgment of our tiny existence, and this only convinced me that where I was and what I was doing was more important. I confess I've never up until this point, seen stars that clearly with my own eyes. And with each twinkle, with each passing shooting star (we saw four!) and each almost-constellation I could pick out, we became brighter, never mind that we could see nothing beyond the outlines of our own bodies, the whole world became brighter.
Moments like that made me really forget about other issues, such as the fact I hadn't showered in six days. For some, cleanliness is indeed next to godliness, but I also think cleanliness is a state of mind. Give yourself a few days and the brisk mountain air will really make you forget that you only have a half-pack of travel size wipes to un-dirty yourself the whole week.
Indeed when we were not doing nothing, our activities were so spontaneous and morphed into hilariously absurd experiences that the nothing was merely much-needed preparation. On Monday night we lumbered into Oulmes with Fadma where we were supposed to stay before visiting the souk (market) the next day. It was unclear to both Colleen and I where exactly we were staying as we traipsed around Oulmes running various errands with Fadma until we finally climbed a hill in the dark with only the light of a cellphone to guide us to her sister Khadija's house. Oulmes is a lovely, sleepy town flanked by the Atlas mountains, and though it's a pretty decent sized metropolis it still seemed so isolated. Maybe because it was freezing cold and chillingly rainy accompanied by a vengeful wind while thus far the only Morocco I've experienced has been blisteringly hot with a sunshine you can really rely on. In fact our day at the souk was epitomized by the sounds of mud squelching beneath our feet, the stiffness of almost frostbitten fingers, and a constant background score of sniffling noses, vegetable haggling, the balancing and unbalancing of scales, and the megaphoned voices of various merchants announcing their wares. By the end of the day, we were exhausted and our exhaustion was only augmented when we realized that Fadma actually didn't live in the village, but in Oulmes, and wasn't going to accompany us home. We exchanged numbers though, and every day after that, Fadma called one of us for what would be seemingly identical 25-second conversations:
"Salam!"
"Salam!"
"It's good?"
"It's good!"
"Mezziane?"
"Mezziane!"
"Yallah bye!"
"Bye!"
As much as they seem, these are not identical conversations. The Sunday after we left the village Fadma called me and my "it's good" was "I miss you" and her "yallah, bye!" was "hope to see you again soon."
One morning, Colleen and I my groggy post-sleep conversation turned to foods we kind of missed, silly foods that we really could only find in the US like bear claws and broccoli-cheddar soup. It was ironic, and a little sad, that in our little, glitter-walled room where we had drank what must have been gallons of delicious mint tea and a lot of yams, we were comparing the merits of different kinds of donut holes (we both like powdered ones, though I prefer mine not to be filled with anything). Now and again, things like this happen when my mind turns to to-go coffee cups that are three times the size of the small mugs here and how many different shades of orange fall leaves are before the drift to the ground. These occasional memories don't mean I would trade my drier Shire for home - quite the opposite. I'm just so experientially rich, I can't even grasp it yet.
Yesterday was Diwali, and I really don't think I celebrated with the same panache as my family and friends. I hunted around the medina with my friends for candles, finally finding one shop (thanks to Najwa) right before dinner. Three long candlesticks and my host-uncle's cigarette lighter later, I had some makeshift diyas. A departure from how I'm used to seeing the festival of lights go down, but it's alright. The lights from the stars we gazed at are still shining brightly in my mind so I really don't mind only having three candles to work with.
This weekend we head to the north for our last excursion. We're actually going to "Spain" to get our passports re-stamped. But I have a feeling that the light I've found will follow us even there.
असतो मा सद्गमय
तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय
मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्ति
From untruth lead us to truth
From darkness lead us to light
From death lead us to immortality
Om, peace, peace, peace
This post features a guest photographer, my roommate and better half during the village stay and the cutest leech in the world, Colleen. Please visit her blog for some hilarious insight and beautiful photography: colleencassingham.wordpress.com.
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| Our host-cousin, Matisha. Credit to Colleen. |
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Credit to Colleen. |
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