One Wild and Precious Life

Some thoughts from the past few weeks... 7 July Yesterday was my first full day on my own without a translator.   It was harder than I thought it would be.   As it was Friday, most shops were closed from 12-3 for the sabbath.   In the afternoon, I went up to the avenue to buy an onion for dinner and some toilet paper and paper towels and bottled water.   I asked for papier toilette and got what I needed, but the word I had for napkin was wrong.   I then tried papier macula and made a mouth-wiping motion.   He understood, my local grocer, a kind man maybe in his 40s.   After depositing my items at home, I went back out and found a taxi.   The driver was kind and helpful.   I showed him the name and address of the shop.   I’m in a residential area, so I had to walk a bit to find and flag down a yellow petit taxi.   I asked him to use the meter, which he did, no problem – mashi mushkilah .   He picked up another passenger al...

Day 1: I lock Apartment 9 in Building C40 at Residence Najd.   I walk down the four flights, two flats on each floor, and out the front entrance.   I remember to turn right and walk out to the street, greeting the complex guard with, “ Marhaban .”   In the street, I’m unsure whether to cross or turn and the guard – a middle-aged man with a bit of a belly stretching his short-sleeved, white, button-down shirt – rises from his seat under a shady tree and approaches me with a quizzical expression.   I say, “ Makula ?” and he motions his hand to his mouth, thinking I am looking for a restaurant.   I say, “ La (no) …um … farmacie ?” thinking that I don’t know the word for grocery but if I add the French for pharmacy, he will send me where I remember I need to get to.   He points to the blue gate across the street and I say, “ Shukran .”   Happily, I walk in that direction and along a walkway, past some motorbikes, and out onto the main street.   ...

Two weeks ago, I was in the mountains, in Tighza.  What follows are some observations from that time. July 2, Afternoon -  I am in the café, the only woman here.  I do not wear a  hijab .  There are orange walls and a cement floor, with plastic white chairs set to face the tv screen mounted on one wall.  Seven men and one boy are watching Brazil play Mexico in the World Cup this afternoon.  Some men wear  djellabas; some are smoking, some drink coffee, some check their phones, and some play cards.   Outside the café, a man is praying.    The announcer calls the football plays on the tv while t he fans in the stadium maintain a steady cheer and the m en in the café comment.    Outside, in the sun, on a prayer rug laid on the ground, the man’s head dips, forehead to rug, over and over.    He returns to the café.  A fly lands on a glass of coffee.    I try to be still, t...

Today, I am a traveler, not a lodger.   I took a very crowded bus (Saturdays are market days, after all) to the Ben Tbib stop in the Rouidate area.  I had to stand the whole way, but, no matter.  I find that I use a mix of French, English, and Arabic as I try to navigate my way.  To my neighbors, I say salaam alaykoum if they look Arabic, but bonjour if they look like they are from Niger.   I have gone to the Jardin Majorelle, a tourist attraction in the city of Marrakech.  At the ticket booth, I say “combined ticket” in English, and the clerk understands.  I use a credit card, and he asks where I’m from.  He says, “Welcome,” and I say, “ Shukran. Mae alsalaama ” ( thank you, goodbye – literally, go with safety ).  The greeter at the entrance sees my tattoo of the Tamazight letter yaz (also the ethnic flag of the indigenous Imazighen people and symbol of the struggle for Amazigh rights) and tells me that he is Amazig...

I have started Arabic lessons at a language school in Marrakech.  I walk to school.  It is thirty minutes.  I walk down the four flights of steps in my stairwell, through the courtyard between the buildings of the residence, past the stray cats and the playing children, past the guard who waves hello and the motorbike repair shop, onto Ave. Asharaf, past Les 2 Freres bistro and Cafe R&M, across the street and along the barren dirt path to the light at the N7.  I walk along the busy boulevard, past the men with their carts of melons and plums for the market, along the lots of construction equipment, broken glass, and plastic bottle caps.  I pass the women in their hijabs and caftans, with their children in their arms and their eyes cast down walking in the opposite direction; past the cars, taxis, motorbikes, and bicycles, without shade of any kind except my straw hat, until I turn onto the N9 at the roundabout by the McDonalds.  I pass the patiss...

     Dust came into the car through the open windows, covering our bags, our clothes, our hair.  Even with the air conditioning, the mountain breeze was needed, so we kept the windows down.  We wound in and around these villages on unpaved roads around hairpin curves and through narrow alleyways to this remote guest house in Tighza.  My turret room is on the top floor through the terrace of this riad.  I stand at the open window, the breeze lightly blowing the lilac curtains as the flies buzz in and out.  The men are all in the cafe down the hill watching the World Cup match between Spain and Russia.  I took my afternoon mint tea there, but feeling strangely in the way and invisible at the same time decided to retreat.  Now, in my room, the doors and windows open against the stifling heat, playing children's voices rise from afar, and I feel the dust still on my skin.  I don't want to wash it off.  I want to absorb it, have th...