My She Iron Dwar

The first CBT (community based training) of four is done, and I’m back at base camp in Ouarzazate – showered, shaved, rested and surrounded by English speakers – surreal surroundings after a week in a remote village nestled in a river valley carved into the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains. The valley is a sea of green with fields of wheat bordered by almond, fig, walnut and peach trees. More then by trees the fields were defined by roses – for my CBT site is located in the Valley of The Roses. The roses (lord in Tamazight) have not yet begun to bloom, but with every field surrounded, when they do the imagery will be stunning.
What brings order and life to this oasis surrounded by jagged peaks, sudden mesas and distant snow covered ranges is an intricate system of irrigation troughs that channel the water from the river (asif in Tamazight) to the farthest fields more then a mile away from the entry point to the irrigation system and half mile inland from the river. The traditional irrigation system of the valley is managed by a figure known as the Ahlm, it is the Ahlm’s role to call for community workdays to maintain the irrigation system as well as arbitrate disputes over water rights, which may emerge in the use of the system. In my week at CBT I didn’t have time to meet the Ahlm, but I hope to in the coming weeks, I feel he’d be both a vast store of knowledge on the village as well as a useful community contact in working to investigate, discover and address the health issues of the village.
But enough setting of the scene, time for some anecdotes. The people of the village are just as wonderful as you would expect to find in such a setting. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t managed to be in some completely ridiculous situations among them. My first night in the village (douar in Tamazight and Moroccan Arabic) my family had couscous, which in Morocco is traditionally eaten with the hands. As a guest and as a foreigner, my family thoughtfully provided me with a spoon – believing that I wouldn’t be able to artfully make a couscous ball in my hand and then gracefully arc it into my mouth as they can. I of course was having none of that kind of treatment, so I dug right into the communal couscous (souksu in Tamazight) platter with my right hand and proceeded to attempt to mimic the actions of my host brothers and host father Mohammad. This course of action quickly led me to discover that not only does ones shirt become a piece of pop art if one doesn’t know how to roll a couscous ball but that, American hands are in no way prepared in day to day life for the steaming inferno that is a pile of couscous. I exited this situation in the only way I knew how with zero language skills: laughing at myself, getting the rest of the room to laugh at me and then saluting my host father and calling him “chief f souksu” (chief of the couscous) in honor of his perfect couscous ball making skills.
As for my host family, after that introductory anecdote I should probably describe them to you. As best as I can figure out 13 people live in my house, though numbers do very – from a high of 18 to a low of 8 during the five days I was at CBT. These people share the house with various animals, including: one mule, two cows, six cats, roughly a dozen hens and half dozen roosters, two goats and six sheep. The people though have names and identities, while the animals do not – so I’ll explain a little more about them to you:

Mohamed: My host father, a twinkle-eyed man, always to be found in a djillaba and white turban. He spends most of his time outside of the family hanout (store).

Mohl: My host mother, without a doubt the backbone of the house. She’s the president of the village tapestry association, and a mover and a shaker in the local community. She is always very concerned over my well-being and asks me many questions which I can only answer by saying: “ur fhmq” or I doubt understand. Which is my issue not hers.

Khadija: My host sister, she makes some great kahwa (coffee) in the morning.

Hadijia: My host sister-in-law, she’s from Casablanca so she speaks French and no Tamazight – whereas I’m from the United States and speak a little Tamazight and no French. We have a lot of very interesting, slightly exasperating and frequently hilarious moments.

Miriam: Hadijia’s four year old daughter. She’s a terror on two feet and is in love with me. I have a backpack pocket filled with seeds she kept on bringing me, enough said.

Hamid: My host brother, Hadijia’s husband and Miriam’s father. He disappears for long periods of time – I assume to work – my language isn’t their yet. He is crazy according to Hadijia and likes couscous – Hadijia doesn’t like couscous. I think that might be related to why he’s crazy.

Ahmed: My host brother, he teaches me Tamazight, I teach him English – it’s a good system. He can also roll a perfect couscous ball. Like his brother Hamid I have no idea what he does during the day. I think it involves Tea at the local café.

Ishmael: Either my host brother or nephew, he is the cool kid on the block – and is amazing because of it, for a variety of reasons too numerous to list here. He is also my shadow, meaning if the strange American wants to go for a walk he follows me to make sure I don’t get myself into trouble.

Rashid: My host brother, he’s a little shy and is somewhere into his teens. He humors me and my poor soccer skills by letting me play – at an altitude of a mile and a half – for about 15 minutes at a time, when my lungs and heart explodes.

And Naima, Ali, Mohammed the Younger, and two others with whom I am still working on names.

To be provided after my next CBT update…