Call Me Samir; May I Scrub You?

I neglected to mention in my previous entry that I’ve been given a new name. Within minutes of meeting my host family two weeks ago I was dubbed “Samir”. “Nathaniel” was perhaps too long or awkward to bother pronouncing-- a common problem even in America. “Samir”, meaning “gentle summer breeze”, has grown on me. In our group we refer to each other by our Moroccan names even now, back at our Seminar Site in Azrou, having just finished our first phase of CBT.

Since completing our work (for the moment) with the artisans in Pantsville, we’ve relocated back to Azrou for five days writing reports and giving presentations about our experience thus far. We’ll be receiving yet more vaccinations, as well as lots of technical training and preparation for CBT phase two. Three weeks long next time, we’ll be implementing projects on site, living with our host families, and continuing daily language sessions.

A lot has changed in the past weeks with our host families; we’ve grown accustomed to one another. I really feel like part of the family and my host mom told me that I am no longer a guest, but another son. The awkward niceties of the first few days have long since faded away and interaction has become much more casual, especially as my language (slowly) improves. Strolling through town is no big thing these days.

I’ve discovered the solution to the bathing problem. As I mentioned previously, my house has no showering facilities; even bucket bathing wasn’t an option (CBT = Can’t Bathe Twice… Chronic Bowel Trauma, etc.). The hmmam, or public bath, is the place to go. Most Moroccans visit about once a week. It’s quite a thing. Consisting of three main rooms, each hotter than the last, the hmmam in Pantsville has arched concrete ceilings and is heated by wood fires burning behind the tiled walls. It’s like a giant sauna in which you bathe in addition to sweat. The process involves stripping down to one’s underwear, filling two buckets with hot water, and finding a spot on the floor. You rinse off an area and sit or lie down to stretch out or relax. Using a thing like a rough oven mitt, you scrub yourself down, rinse off, and that’s about it. It takes around thirty minutes, but you can stay basically as long as you like; it costs five Dirhams ($1 = approx. 7.7 D’s). Moroccan men, however, utilize the hmmam in a manner that would appear well….a bit unusual to most Americans. They pair up, scrubbing and stretching each other almost violently. It looks like some kind of high-energy, mostly-nude doubles yoga, but with soap. It’s apparently pretty dangerous and certainly appears so. My LCF offered to give me a scrubdown; I figured I should at least try it out, provided he promise not to snap any of my ribs or dislocate a shoulder. It was ok, though I think I’ll stick to my oven mitt and water buckets.

It’s interesting to observe and participate in Moroccan home life. I have the only private room in the house (it’s a PC requirement that I have one). The other eight members of the family sleep on the small couches lining the walls of the other rooms. This isn’t a result of my presence in the home; it’s just how they live. There is no personal space really. Everything is shared…rooms, clothes, food, drinking glasses. People don’t seem to have any “stuff”-- no personal belongings. It’s natural, after dinner, to want to head to one’s room, having spent eight hours studying language earlier in the day. This however, is a completely foreign concept to them-- you don’t go to your room to be alone-- you sit with everyone, talk with everyone, eat with everyone, and sleep in the same room as everyone. Personal time is hard to come by, which can be frustrating when one needs to study or just unwind. It’s as though you’re constantly on call. My family has been pretty cool though, letting me off the hook when I say xssni nes (I need to sleep) or bgit nqra (I want to study). Sometimes, just to get away, I have to tell them I’m going to bed, only to lock myself in my room and study or read by the light of my laptop screen.

Ramadan is over; our families dressed us up for l’Aid, the celebration on the first day after the month of fasting ends. My host mom and sister gave me woolen maroon djellaba as a gift… pretty sweet. We visited with families around town, ate tons of food, drank what seemed like gallons of hot tea, and enjoyed the cheerful mood in the Pantsville air.

Last Sunday we were given a self-directed learning day, during which we ventured out on what ended up being a twelve mile hike through the mountains and valleys outside of town. We refilled our water bottles from a natural spring-- straight outta tha earth. On our way back to town we encountered a group of workers in an apple orchard crating boxes of the fruit, and asked if we could buy a few from them. They motioned for us to follow them, and so we did, walking in among the trees. We picked apples with them, joking around in broken Darija and English-- one of those spontaneous, amazing moments. After making it back to town, we decided to continue our hike up the plateau (seen in my previous blog post). Reaching the top was quite exhilarating….the lunar expanse of the landscape, the view of our humble town below…the feeling of being there… I sat on the edge and bit into one of the best apples I’ve ever tasted.