Sheep Shearing

It’s been a bit since my last update, and that means a lot has happened: last days in CBT, lightning storms, language proficiency exams, hours spent in seedy Moroccan bars (which do exist), karaoke, hunts for ice cream, a talent show (including fire dancing and musical comedy), swear in (in Ouarzazates only 5 star hotel, the Berber Palace), host family members stuffing plastic bags full of food, pool games, tearful goodbyes to now old friends, the meeting and making of new friends, the invention of card games, the sacrifice of watermelons to bu-itran (bu, means owner, while itran means stars– so that particular god phrase literally translates as owner of the stars) and the slow process of integrating into a community that has almost no idea why I’m here and even less of an idea what I do; But then for that matter some days neither do I.
That will have to suffice for this posts update because instead of rehashing old events I want to jump right into the events of last Sunday. Now, Tamazight, is for me, far from the easiest language in the world – that said I’m not known for my grasp of languages other than English. This means that a lot of the time in my conversations I’m grasping at straws or carrying water one thimble at a time; which has led to some interesting situations in the past and this time led to me spending a day, mostly watching, occasionally helping, shear 180 sheep in the mountains above my community.
I involved myself in this expedition to the heart of the Middle Atlas through a conversation with a twelve-year old boy in my village, Said, who invited me to accompany him and his family into the mountains to possibly see an alpine lake and possibly go fishing. Somewhere along the line I also got the impression that sheep might be involved, but on that point I was unsure. All I knew for certain when our business was concluded was that I was going to the mountains and that going to the mountains involved leaving the village at 5 am.
A 5 am departure was complicated though as that very morning when we were to depart at 5 am coincided with Morocco’s inaugural use of daylight savings time. This meant that I, in my desire to not be left behind or complicate matters arose at the new 4:30 am, which had previously been 3:30 am – while the reminder of those involved choose not to be concerned by anything as technical as adding an hour and arose at what was now 5:45 am or what had previously been 4:45 am. This confusion of time continued on and off for the reminder of the day, and the next day when government offices were open; was even more interesting to observe.
Precisely at 5:30 am, Said came and collected myself, and my 29-year-old host brother Ismail (who had likely been roped into watching me, foreigners can’t be trusted to guide or watch over themselves after all) and led us to the bitterly cold road to wait for the transit to arrive. I might sound like I minded this, I didn’t, because I had another lightning bolt, or an “I’m in Morocco” moment, as I call them; while watching the sun paint the sky above the plains at the edge of Atlas Mountains surrounded by some of the most welcoming people I have ever spent time with.
Soon 12 others and myself were piled into a Transit, a topic for another time, traveling into the mountains. We took the road to Itzer, turned up the road to Timhadit and Azrou, before turning off of the main road onto a tiny dirt track, a track that was soon eaten by the rolling hills and endless grass meadows of the Middle Atlas. A landscape whose bleak beauty, was given life and warmth through the patches of red and purple wild flowers which dotted the hills upon which one could see distant Shepard’s flocks. Into this transplanted Scottish or Irish moor we traveled along increasingly erratic tracks, the only reminder of my location the occasional mud brick house and the dozen Moroccans slumbering by my side. The men slumbering by my sides were themselves a cross section of modern Morocco: the older men dressed in traditional djilbas, the younger generation in either Italian designer or addidas tracksuit knockoffs, and those in between dressed in a purely Moroccan syncrinistic fashion: djilbas mixing with baseball caps, three piece suits with turbans, and the footwear anything from a pair of crocs to combat boots.
After an hour of travel our carriage came to a halt in a remote mountain hillock, with a house distantly sheltered by the alternately smooth and craggy hilltops. This was our days destination, this house nowhere near anything that could claim to be a pool, let alone a lake – I was suspicious. My suspicions were soon confirmed by the 180 sheep clustered tightly in a corral around the front of the mud brick house. Rather then feeling disappointment at the lack of a lake, I was exhilarated by the presence of so many sheep, as with my limited knowledge of all things related to sheep and to Morocco I deduced could mean only one thing: a sheep shearing party!
What is a sheep shearing party? Why it’s exactly what you would expect it to be: men working hard and singing work songs praising allah as they manhandle sheep from as near to dawn to as close to dusk as it takes to shear 180 sheep. All the while, as the men work in the stuffy, low ceilinged rock barn the women keep the mens stomachs full by feeding them delicious, mouthwateringly greasy fry bread while keeping their energy up with enough tea to drown the Persian army – but only after giving it diabetes (this is because Moroccan tea, while wonderful and offering a window into the Moroccan way of life, is still more parts sugar than tea).

TO BE CONTINUED...