A Few Days in Tighza

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 the fans in the stadium maintain a steady cheer and the men 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, to resist the urge to swat it away, to have this man’s concentration.  Moroccan men are like this, this combination of serious devotion and good-natured socializing.  Moroccan men work.  They sweat.  They are industrious.  They begin at waking and work all day, in the field, in the shop, in the tannery.  Moroccan men cook.  They make tajine.  Their industrious hands slice potatoes, carrots, onions.  They serve food to guests.  They pour tea.  It makes them happy to do it.  It is a way to serve God.  Moroccan men pray.  Throughout the day.  They hear the call and set aside their work.  They go to the mosque.  Or they set out their prayer rug.  They fast at Ramadan.  They give to the poor.  They live their religion.  Moroccan men are gentle.  They speak with kindness.  They smile at strangers.  They love their children.  They use a gentle hand to caress their children’s faces.  Moroccan men love peace.  They greet one another with salam and a hug and kisses on the cheeks.  They put their hand on their heart when they say goodbye.  Moroccan men love to have a good time.  They play music together.  They gather on the sofa or the floor to eat, talk, drink tea.  They watch football in the café, cheering when their team scores, shrugging off the losses. 

July 3, Morning - Lying in bed, I strain my ears for any indication of human activity in the morning light.  Finding none, I rise and look out the window.  From here, I can see three villages, their mud-colored structures blending into the hills.  Birds are singing, roosters are crowing, and a single donkey is braying and swishing his tail in his owner’s yard. A black and white cat steps along the wall below. I see no movement in the green fields, irrigated last night by lamplight, or in the village streets.  I might as well be the last person in the world.  I see Omar walking up the hill from his home to begin making my breakfast.  Omar is the cook for this mountain guest house.  He is skilled and sweet.  He doesn’t have enough English and I don’t have enough Arabic for us to truly communicate, so we use hand gestures, facial expressions, and nods.  He looks up as he walks.  We wave to each other.

July 3, Evening - The sun is setting over the mountain, and the café is full now.  One-by-one, the men have arrived, slowly making their way up the hill in their jeans and tees or polo shirts, the older men in djellabas.  Two little boys have joined us tonight.  They are playing their own card game.  The smaller one, Ali, in his red football jacket with the Moroccan star, always speaks to me in French, for all the good that does either of us.  Sometimes we just smile and wave.  The tall young man in a gray shirt has stepped outside for a phone call, the noise level in here too high for him to hear.  On occasion, a man will walk over and pick up the common prayer rug and take it outside.  The café door stands open for the last of the day’s light to save on electricity, so faithfully conserved.  The café smells like cigarette smoke, coffee, and mint tea.  But not alcohol.  One elder wears a light brown djellaba and leather slippers.  His incongruous baseball cap covers a head of white hair.  He moves his chair in position right under the tv.  Another elder sports nondescript work pants and short-sleeved shirt and a porkpie hat.  He is so delighted when the players score that he dances up to the screen and motions a kiss thrown up to them with a toothless grin.  Ali leaps to his feet and cheers for the overtime score on penalty.  The whole café is cheering now.  It’s two for two on the penalties.  Each misses the third.  Each gets the fourth.  England blocks the fifth and scores the final one.  The café erupts, and men playfully chase each other around.  They settle to a card game, and we walk up the steps for dinner.

July 4, Morning - In the morning, I join the men downstairs.  We have mint tea and fresh bread with olive oil.  I talk with Mohammed about politics.  We discuss racism, war, drugs, guns, safety, immigration, and social welfare.  When more men arrive for tea and conversation, he repeats to them in his language what he and I have discussed.  I don’t know all the words, but for the first time I understand the general meaning of what I’m hearing.  It makes me happy.  I ask about the stringed instruments I see propped against the walls of the front room, and Isslam picks up the banjo.  As he starts to play folk music, I begin to drum a beat on the sofa’s armrest.  Another man does the same, and Isslam sings.  I recognize the music from what I've been listening to for the past four months, and it brings tears to my eyes.  

July 4, Afternoon - Today, I’m in the kitchen with Omar.  I sit at a small, round, brown-and-tan, tiled table and slice and peel and chop – green peppers, eggplants, onions, tomatoes.  We boil the eggplant in an old-fashioned pot with a screw-on, compressor lid.  The tomatoes, onions, and peppers are sautéed in a tajine with spices and a little water and covered.  The remaining tomatoes, onions, and peppers are mixed with diced oranges for a salad with just a little olive oil.  Meanwhile, we are boiling arz (rice) and shredding fresh beets, to which we add a little orange juice.  When the eggplants are cooked, we drain them, add coriander, turmeric, cumin, saffron, and harissa as well as honey and olive oil.  We stir and mash, stir and mash.  We begin the plating around the edges – a little of the salad, a little of the beets, a little of the eggplant – and set it aside, covered.  Omar tests the eggplant dish with a torn-off piece of bread and shares it with me.  We silently agree that it’s just right.  In a little while, he returns to test the rice, which has been boiling uncovered.  He spoons out a little and puts the spoon on the counter, pulls a few grains into his mouth and nods that it’s done.  He turns off the heat and indicates that we will let it cool.  Merci, shokran, tanamert – we alternate with these different forms of “Thank you.”  When I am dicing vegetables, I ask saghir or kabir (small or big), and I am understood (saghir).  I ask for a bigger knife (sekeen), and I am understood.  Omar and I make lunch in this way.  

July 4, Evening - This afternoon, all the guests were working together in the kitchen with Omar to prepare dinner.  We peeled, diced, and sliced.  Some worked on the couscous.  Before everyone joined us, it was just me and Omar, he and I working on picking out the rocks from the dried lentils.  It was a quiet and sweet task.  It was a lovely dinner tonight.  Between us, we spoke English, Spanish, German, French, Arabic, Darija, and Tamazight.  I couldn’t help but notice how easily people flow in and out of languages.   Mohammed might speak Tamazight to Omar and then French to Dephanie and English to me.  After dinner, I joined the men in the front room and listened to their conversation, straining to understand any part of it, but at least becoming accustomed to the sounds, rhythms, and cadences.