On Fridays,

the world outside my door is turned into a haphazard market.  Next to the Mosque there is a small space, with a small grove of olive trees, in the corner.  This is our town center.  Usually it is empty, but on some Fridays it plays hosts to a mini market.  

At nine o’clock in the morning, large vans arrive, carting a mobile market within the confines, of their backseats.  Makeshift tables are constructed and covered, with everything from tea pots, to wrenches, to horse shoes. It seems the only thing you can’t purchase is fresh fruits and vegetables. Underneath the olive trees,  livestock bleat and baa while they get inspected, by perspective customers.  Crates of sugar cones, animal feed and economy sized bags of flour are displayed, enticing those who walk by to stop and haggle prices. 

But much more happens at mini-souk than the purchasing of goods.   Men from Bouayach, as well as those from surrounding towns, sit against walls and, in the shade, waiting for the afternoon Call to Prayer.  While gathered, they share stories and news from nearby towns.  Crop prices, politics and the drought, affecting much of Morocco, is discussed.  As are the implications within the local economy.  Like its much larger counterpart in Midelt, souk is just as much a social occasion, as it is an opportunity to purchase goods.

Until a few months ago, vendors would set up piles of blankets and prayer mats, right outside my door.  Rolled up plastic rugs would lean against the walls, of my house.  The loud conversations between merchants and customers would come through my closed windows, making me feel as though I too was fighting, for the best price. 

As women do not attend the mini-souk, I am careful to avoid the town square.  This is no small feat, as my front door opens up directly, to its center. At the beginning, of my time here, my forays along the edge of souk were always noticed, by everyone.  Many pairs of eyes would follow me, as I walked quickly to the spring or my neighbors house.  On the rare occasion, I would venture into souk, the noise level would noticeably drop, until I made my purchases and left.  

Luckily, I have become more familiar to the vendors and customers, of this little souk.  My presence no longer stops commerce.  Fewer stares follow my every move.  Now,  men standing along the edge, will chat with me, when I pass by.  And no longer do vendors set up shop next to my house. 

While men are busy attending to chores in the fields and meandering through the souk, women are busy in their kitchens.  The Moroccan weekend is Saturday and Sunday.  But Friday is the Holy Day, of the Islamic calendar.  Instead of Sunday dinner, families gather for Friday lunch.  These long and traditional lunches are special.  Family is incredibly important here, but on Fridays, family is a gift. 

Women spend the mornings preparing couscous:  the traditional Friday meal.   As this is a meal without bread, women instead, make their own couscous.  Hours are spent, sitting on stools, sorting and sifting through large piles of wheat.  This homemade grain sits in states of various readiness, spread out on squares of cloth and safely within bowls. 

Kitchens are busy, with each woman, of the family, doing different tasks.  Large pots of water boil, until steam fills the entire kitchen.  Bowls of fresh lamb or raw chicken sit wherever there is an open space.  Vegetables, bought at souk or grown in the family garden, are washed, peeled and cored.  Mountains of onion, carrots, zucchini, fava beans and pumpkin cover counters waiting, to be cooked.  Slightly smaller piles of vegetable peels sit in the corner, soon the become the mid-day meal for any chickens, goats or sheep, residing in the courtyard. 

Tables are set with spoons, the only day of the week when cutlery is used.  The clay platter that, on every other day it is used to knead bread, is on Friday’s, used to serve the meal.  First, the grain is dished into the base of the platter.  If meat is included, it is then placed, in the center, of the couscous.  The well cooked and well spiced vegetables are arranged over top.  A thin gravy or thick homemade buttermilk tops off the dish. 

Families gather to eat, in the late afternoon, after men have attended prayer at the mosque.   Even weaning babies eat their own portion, of mashed up vegetables, from the meal.  Older women ignore the spoons in-front of them, preferring instead to shape mounds of couscous with  hands.  This is an art, that has never failed to leave me covered in food. These women, however, eat with expertly skilled hands. 

After everyone has eaten their fill, the man of the table, divides the share of meat into equal portions.  Once finished, the clay platter, with its contents depleted greatly, is removed and replaced, with a large plate of fruit.  The sweetness of oranges and bananas is a nice contrast, to the savory couscous.  Orange and banana peels are cleared from the table and the fruits sugary juice is washed from everyones hands. 

The only thing left to do, after the meal, is to nap.  And so everyone naps.  Not until early evening do schedules start to begin again.  Kids resume running around, playing soccer in the dusty school yard.  Men finish up chores in the fields and women, chores around the house.  Hanutes open back up, selling the necessary staples.  And neighbors visit each other, to share cups of tea.  

love,

grace 

Evenings are still.

No longer are children running around, playing soccer in the school yard.  Or men gathering outside the mosque, talking together.  Women stay inside, no longer doing chores in courtyards or in the fields.  Winter has fallen and residents have taken refuge indoors.

From rooftop stovepipes, smoke curls up mingling with the brisk evening air. Inside homes, families gather around stoves enjoying the warmth and comfort emitting, from the fires within.  Outside the world is still, undisturbed by those who occupy its days.  Farmers, students and mothers alike, converge together around glowing stoves, hiding from the night, that seems to have settled inside their bones.   

Set up in sitting rooms or kitchens, these stoves are the primary source of heat for entire families.  While many layers of clothing adorn each man, woman and child in town, it is not enough.  Blankets and sweaters are important, but stoves are essential for the winter months.  These once shiny stoves, now darkened with soot from years of use, are welcomed winter editions to homes.

Children comb fields of apple and apricot trees, now barren, searching for fallen branches.   Men  prune large branches off trees and chop trunks into logs.  The melancholy family donkey is then, heavily laden with timber and led away.  These little donkeys, often barely visible under the burden of branches, slowly trek towards home. 

Homes are rearranged to accommodate for winters cold.  The room that holds the stove,  becomes the primary sleeping place for the family.  Blankets, pillows and sheep skins are arranged near the stove, ready for slumber.  Tidy piles of wood sit neatly, in the corner, waiting to keep families in relative degrees of comfort, throughout the night. 

Once fires are roaring within, kettles of water or cast iron skillets are warmed on top.  Pots of tea are brewed, for the family and the rare, visiting neighbor.  Fresh bread dough often sits, in a clay bowl, rising in the warmth near the stove.  Once ready, the dough will be fried and served hot, with honey or jam.  The sweet smell of fire and new bread fills the nighttime air, making it the signature scent of winter. 

Men spend the evenings, finishing chores.  Cows are brought it from the fields.  Wood piles are replenished.  Brothers, uncles and cousins get together to drink cups of coffee and offering advice on work and family.  Young people pass the time playing card games and watching television before dinnertime. 

Women spend the evenings visiting their neighbors, gathering near stoves, enjoying each others company.  Women swap stories and advice.  Men discuss crops, cows and home construction. Always, a metal tray of tea cups and a pot of herbal infused tea sit on the nearby table. 

Siblings sit on the floor playing games, waiting for dinnertime. Their laughter and yells are mingled with their mothers cries to be quiet and behave.  As an occasional treat, handfuls of almonds are given out, to be then roasted on top of the stove.  School books sit in the corner, undisturbed until the morning, when children finally seek them out.

While the days fade away, so does the snow atop the nearby mountains.  Soon enough winter will melt its way into spring.  Until then, snow will fall and the fields will frost.  But luckily, the home fires will continue to burn, warming all those who sit before it. 

love.

grace

Grace,

In Morocco there are three calendars:

the Roman, the Islamic and the agricultural.  Each serves its own purpose.  With Islam being the foundation of life, the Islamic calendar is followed closely.   But the others are dependent on location and employment.  

In Bouayach, time is not measured by crossing days off a calendar, Islamic or Roman..  Rather, time is measured by the seasons and crops.  Here, agriculture dictates everything.  It decided when children go to school and when they stay home, to help with the harvest.  When families earn their income and then, how much of that income is disposable.  When weddings are thrown and when babies are born.  It decides the rhythm of life.

In Ohio, there are few crops to harvest in January.  In Bouayach, there are olives.  And with those olives comes olive oil.

Each family has their own supply of olive trees.  Groves, of pale green trees, adorn families courtyards, gardens and fields.    These trees, of constant green, are a perpetual reminder of life, against a backdrop of red desert.

In January, the trees hang heavy, with the full black fruit.  Harvesting is a tiring chore that demands the time of the entire family.

Women and kids kneel at the base of lush green trees, filling their buckets with the deep purple fruit destined to become rich oils and delicious additions to meals.    Their hands move quickly, sorting olives by ripeness and placing them in the corresponding bowl. 

A man or a small child takes refuge from the gathering work and climbs the tree.  There, he takes a bamboo shoot and hits the branches until a shower of twigs, leaves and olives falls below.  Those gathering don’t even look up.  This baptism is all too familiar to them. 

Families harvest their crops and cart it home, on the backs, of melancholy donkeys.  In the days to follow, the crop will be sorted again.  Upwards of ten kilos will be placed in plastic buckets with salt water, lemon and spices.  Lids will be sealed and these buckets will be placed in the sun, until the brine is set.  The process takes several weeks. The remainder of the crop, will be taken to mills and pressed into olive oil. Families will store enough oil to last them until the next year.

In Winter, olive mills are busy with business.  Communities rely on these few mills for seasonal incomes and oil production.

The olive mill was at one point, a living room.  The family moved out and built a mill where they once drank tea.  The Press Room contains two large stone basins.  Each basin holds a stone wheel, used to grind the contents of the basin.  Much like a mortar and pestle, this unsophisticated equipment is ideal for oil production.  In each corner, was a metal crank presses, each of which has a drain into a subsurface storage tank. 

After olives are picked and sorted, they are put in the large stone basin.  Then, either the mule is harnessed to the grinding stone or four men take its place.  The olives are crushed until there is a substantial purple paste.

The paste is shoveled into grass woven baskets and placed under a crank press.  Each basket is filled with a specific amount.  As they are very heavy, it takes two men to carry just one basket.   Their placement under the press is crucial to productivity. Therefore, they are tweaked and adjusted until just right.  About ten to fifteen of these baskets are stacked, one on top the other. 

When ready, the press is cranked down and oil begins to flow from the baskets.  It seeps down to the drain the floor.  It is funneled into a white tile subsurface storage tank. Throughout the day, the press is tightened  In the beginning this process is relatively easy and can be done by one man alone.  As the process continues, it can take the strength of three men. 

When all of the baskets are placed, they extend over the heads of all workers. By the time they finished pressing, which takes about two days, the baskets barely rise to a workman's knees. 

When pressed and settled, the oil is abstracted from the tank and strained.  The remaining byproduct is deposited into the drain, which leads outside to a collecting pool.  Every week, the byproduct is burned. This process is essential, as the byproduct is incredibly harmful to the soil and other crops.

The finished product is placed in large plastic vats.  There it waits to be made into dishes, to be served at every table in Bouayach.

Wishing you all a bright and beautiful start to 2012!

All of my love

As today is

(three days after) thanksgiving, I wanted to share my thanks, with each of you, my dear readers.  Without your unending love and support, I would not be here.  I am grateful that I can share this experience, this new world, with such understanding, encouraging and interested people.  I am thankful for you all.  

Happy Thanksgiving!

love love love

grace

God called the prophet

Abraham, to sacrifice his son, on top of the mountain.  Abraham, unable to follow the command, slaughtered a sheep instead.   Each year, on the tenth day, of the twelfth month of the Islamic calendar, a sheep is slaughtered. Thus, the week of l3id l-kbir begins.

l3id l-kbir, or the Big Feast, is celebrated three months after l3id-sgir, the Little Feast.  As you may remember, the Little Feast celebrates the close, of Ramadan.  Both feast days, are highly significant holidays, in the Islamic world. 

Each region, celebrates these feast days differently.  In Bouayache, the Big Feast is a grand celebration.  Families prepare for months, beforehand.  A lamb is purchased and raised into maturity.  Often, this animal, compared to its barnyard companions, will be given superior rations, to insure a finer quality.

Days before, women are busy preparing the home.  Every bit, of each day, is used. As the celebrations often brings family to visit, women must get everything, in order.  Houses, in their entirety, are cleaned. Rooms are prepared and double, as sitting rooms and extra bedrooms. Dozens of cookies and family favorites are baked and stored, to be served later.

Formal dish ware, carpets and blankets are brought out of storage.  This finery is passed down from generation, to generation and used, for holidays and weddings.  As a special occasion,  feast days allow families to celebrate, but also show off a bit. 

It is common, for women and girls, to wear beautifully intricate henna, on their hands and feet.  Boys oftentimes have henna induced orange circles, on their palms.  Some women even use henna, to mark the barnyard animals, particularly the sacrificial sheep.  This art acts, as a protection, warding off evil spirits and safeguarding the family, for the holiday.

Men finish work, in the fields.  Extra hours are put in, guaranteeing less to be managed, during the holiday. On feast days, men play an important social role, as well as an important role, in food preparation.  These roles demand their time therefore, fieldwork is waylaid.

On the day l3id l-kbir begins, families rise early, in anticipation.  Women prepare pots of teas and plates of cookies.  The communities children, dressed in nice clothes, go house, to house wishing families a happy feast day.  The children get a cookie and proceed, to the next house. 

Men go to the Mosque in the morning.  Tradition states that men must pray and be cleansed before the sacrifice.  Also, the King of Morocco, must sacrifice his sheep first.  Women, while passing out cookies, watch television broadcasts showing traditional concerts and the Kings sacrifice.  Its similar, in a way, to watching the Macy’s day parade.

Knives are sharpened and dishes are readied.  If the family has an outdoor courtyard, the act is performed there.  If they do not, a place. in front of the home, is chosen.  The sheep is brought forth and the sacrifice begins.

A sharp knife slits the animals throat.  It is done quickly, efficiently and respectfully. The head and feet are removed and set aside.  Men expertly skin the animal, in one piece.  The pelt is removed and laid in the sun, to dry. 

The carcass is then hung, by its hind legs.  The butchering continues, and the organs and intestinal matter is removed.  Each organ is valuable and all, but the large intestine is consumed.  Once cleaned and ready, the carcass is moved in the home.  Often, it is hung in the kitchen.  There it stays, until the holiday is over and all has been utilized.

In local tradition, the liver is eaten first.  It is boiled and cut into pieces.  Each piece, is then wrapped in a strip of fat and placed on a skewer.  These kabobs are grilled and served to all guests.  This delicacy is the true start, to the celebrations. 

The remaining organs are served, over the next several days.  Traditionally, on day two it is the brain and the feet. Day three is the stomach and small intestine.  Day four is the kidney and lungs.  A portion of the heart is served on various days.  The remainder is cut into strips, wrapped in pieces of the stomach and hung to dry.  Throughout the year, this dried collection often tops meals of couscous, served on special occasions.

Entire lambs are consumed, in days.  Sitting rooms play host to extended families and neighbors.  It is there, that substantial meals, of spiced lamb, are served and enjoyed by all. These plates rarely, if ever, have a vegetable on them.  Dishes, of lamb, are provided to all who enter the home, until a families supplies are depleted.

In keeping with tradition, women and men are separated.  Rooms are designated to segregate the sexes.  This act of modesty, allows men and women, to socialize undisturbed.  With family members and visitors, these rooms were full of laughter and festivities.  Men took up their unconventional role of host and catered, to the needs of their guests.  While women, very familiar in their roles, served family and friends, with ease. 

Globally, food brings people, to the table.  l3id l-kbir is no different.  It brought family, friends, neighbors and communities together, to celebrate life's blessings.  One of which, is abundance.  On this feast day, everyone had, not only plenty of food, but plenty of protein.  In this society, protein is placed at a premium.  Sacrificing a sheep is a gift and a blessing.  It literally, fills people with strength.  Symbolically, the strength to do Allah’s will.  Physically, a bodily strength to continue onward.

Abundance is meant to be shared.  Gifts are meant to be shared.  Charity is a significant part of the Big Feast.  Each family gifts a portion of their bounty, to those in need.  Need is a broad term, used to incorporate physical, emotional and spiritual deprivation.  This feast day demands you see the needs, in all people.

As a single women, with no family here, people recognized my need, for family.  Throughout the week, I received many invitations to peoples homes.  Over platters of lamb and kebobs, I was welcomed in, not as a visitor, but as a daughter and a sister.  I drank cups of tea, ate cookies and learned about family members.  I practiced family traditions, received kisses and hugs.  It was nothing short, of an honor, to be a witness, at so many family celebrations.

The holiday season is over now and a lull has set it.  Visiting family members have returned, each to their respective cities and towns.  Finery has been re-packed and stored for next year.  Meals have returned, to the common and reasonably portioned tagine.  Children went back to school.  Henna has faded off hands and feet.  Work has picked up and preparations, for the upcoming olive crop, are underway. 

While the feast day is over, it has changed how I see my town.  We are a little closer now.  A little more like family.    

love love love,

grace

Before school starts,

kids gather to play in the parched and vacant school yard.  The boys run around chasing each other.  The girls gather in clumps talking and playing little games.  At 9:00am the teachers arrive and open their classroom doors.  In single file lines, the children enter and find their seats, ready to learn. 

Like in Bouayache, it is common for rural villages to have an elementary school.  But for students to continue on to Middle or High School they must travel to a city.  Depending on the region, children may have a far distance to go.  For the students of Bouayache, this means traveling to Midelt.  

If attending Middle or High School, students from rural towns must live in dormitories. Many families qualify for free student housing based on household income level.  To be approved for this, the town’s Prayer Leader must approve the official paperwork. Without this subsidy, many students would be unable to afford schooling. 

In some areas, it is still common to have dormitories for boys, but not for girls.  WIthout these dorms, in many cases, girls must give up their educations.  However, new government initiatives are working to make female education a priority.  Building new girl’s dormitories is a large part of that.  Luckily, in Midelt, there are dormitories for girls and boys, at the middle and the high schools.

While it may be available, it does not necessarily guarantee students will continue on after elementary school.  Children are often seen as more valuable in the home. Even with financial assistance, it is expensive to have a child, or children, living away from home.  While schooling is seen as a benefit, it does not necessarily guarantee a job outside of farming or family business.  Therefore, some families elect to discontinue education after elementary school. 

In Bouayach, the elementary school is in the middle of town, right next to the Mosque.  Like all government buildings, it is a dark pink color.  Five small rooms stand in a row, looking out on the grey school yard.  The walls are made of cement bricks and the roofs are sheets of galvanized iron.  There are four small windows at the top of the front wall. Each of these buildings acts as a classroom.  However, only four are currently in use.  At the end of the school yard is another building, similar in construction, but with a small walled in compound at the entrance.  This is the principals office. 

Monday through Saturday the school is open from 9am until noon.  The teachers and principal live in Midelt.  Every morning, they carpool to Bouayache and park under the only tree near the school.  If a teacher is sick or takes the day off, then the students of that grade take the day off too.  There are no substitutes.

While there are only four teachers, the school accepts students from first through fifth grade.  Fourth and fifth grade is taught together.  Each classroom is equipped with a chalk board, tables, benches, a limited set of classroom textbooks and a computer.  There is no internet, but it is a great tool for the teachers and the kids.

For schools that qualify, there is a government program that provides a free lunch for students.  This is a tool to encourage and improve attendance.  It also acts as an incentive for parents to send their kids to school.  The school is able to employ one woman to make the lunch.  

Every morning she bakes 20 loaves of Moroccan bread.  Each loaf is large, round and baked until it is perfectly crisp.  After it cools, it is cut into triangular slices, much like a pie or a pizza.  Traditionally, bread is baked, every morning, outside in clay ovens.    However, with so much bread needed for the school, a large propane fueled oven is used.  This allows four loaves to bake at once, rather than just one at a time. 

Three days a week, she makes a large pot of lentils, white beans in red sauce or fava beans. Those mornings, she sorts and sifts through those legumes, picking out troublesome little stones.  On days without hot food, the kids get a wedge of laughing cow cheese to go with their bread. 

Every morning, I go to the house of the woman in charge of lunch.  I sit on a stool and watch her make loaf after loaf.  Sometimes she makes special fry bread for her and I, which we eat while keeping watch over the oven.  Mid-morning, a neighbor comes to make bread in the clay oven outside.  Her two year old son and I play while she is busy tending to the bread.  Last week we made drums out of laughing cow cheese containers and had a dance party.

At noon, I get sent to the school with the loaves.  There, I cut the bread and straighten up the tables and benches.  While I work, a group of four little girls play around the classroom.  Sometimes, I take a break and we play hide and go seek.  Soon after, the woman arrives with the pot of legumes and a supply of aluminums plates and spoons.  After she shoos the girls outside, we get set up and wait for the students to arrive.

The students pile into the room, cramming themselves onto the wooden benches.  The littlest kids yell and wave their hands, fighting for extra attention.  Their little plastic backpacks are so large on their shoulders, the little ones seem to disappear!  The older kids whisper and stare, trying to be cool.  By this time, all of the staff persons have left, but one.  The remaining teacher helps keep order outside and organizes students into lines by grade.  There they stand, anxiously awaiting their turn.

Most days, three older girls help give out snack.  They ladle a scoop of lentils or beans onto an aluminum plate to give each child, along with a triangle of bread.  Sometimes kids will make sandwiches out of their snacks.  Others use the spoons and eat the bread separately. 

Each grade has about five minutes to get a plate, a slice of bread, eat and get out the door.  There has to be a fast turn around because there are many kids and only 20 plates.  As soon as a child has finished, his or her plate is scooped up and refilled to be passed onto another child.  Sanitary, it is not, but it does keep the lunch line moving quickly.  Once finished, kids file outside where some kids stay and play soccer or tag in the school yard.  Most walk onwards, in small groups, towards their homes. 

By the time all 100 plus kids have eaten and left, everything is covered in remnants of that days meal. Tables are washed and the floor is swept.  Any legumes or bread crumbs from the tables and floor are brushed into a bowl.  Later, this will be fed to the chickens.  The plates and spoons are collected in a green plastic tub and washed.  If there are any leftovers, they are distributed to nearby families.

I usually leave the school with food stains down my front and an entourage of kids escorting me home.  It is not a bad way to spend the day!   

all of my lunch lady love love love,

grace