midelt

wow. where do you even begin? do you start with the four hour bus ride/adventure from azrou to midelt? or do you describe the absolutely breathtaking image of the eastern atlas colored hues of purple and gold by the setting sun as you pulled into town? or how about the feeling of being accosted as you stepped off of the bus into the frigid night air - "please, please! english? francais? i know a verry nice 'otel - fameelee run!" - and the overwhelming relief of encountering a lovely police officer/angel in uniform.

how about how we whiled away the hours of the night sitting in the parlor/restaurant of the little pension we found with our berber family-proprietors and played endless rounds of scum (the card game) over a grand thiere full to the top with steaming mint tea goodness. or perhaps i should describe the little hostel itself, tiled from floor to ceiling in various shades of blue - cheerful, clean, cool, and best of all, very cheap - a mental note for future expiditions.

or should i start with our saturday adventure. the morning spent with the trappist monks who inhabit the only contemplative monastery in all of north africa, how we met one of the two monks that survived the abduction and killing of seven brothers from a now-closed monastery of the same order in algeria in 1996 - the most precious of old men, with stunning blue eyes, a thick, grey wool sweater covering his cassock and giving him a positively grandpa-like appearance. frere jean-pierre is his name, and perhaps it is enough to say that i feel as though i have spent a few moments in the company of a living saint.

or maybe you would be more interested to hear about the french sisters whose company we graced for several hours as we waited for the taxi to take us to tatouine. sisters monique (the veiled one who was full of life and funny quips about herself and those around her), theresa (the quite one who came in last and simply smiled), marie (the one who lives in tatouine and gave us the names of hassna and cherif who we should meet), and lucille (who welcomed us in, and particularly encouraged me on my profession of nurse - being one herself in past years). showing up at their door unannounced, these little ones of god welcomed us in with open arms, providing tea and coffee and cookies, a clean restroom, a comfortable place to sit and talk, and endless perspective about morocco (all in french - quite good practice for my comprehension), given the fact that the majority of them had been in the country for twenty years or more. needless to say, i didn't want to leave...

or perhaps the best bit of all is the stories of haddu and hassna - the berber women who welcomed us with open arms and showed us the meaning of true berber hospitality.

haddu was, for all intents and purposes, a mistake. our driver didn't exactly know where tatouine was, so he ended up dropping us off quite in the middle of nowhere. we noticed a small earthen home not too far away, so we headed in that direction to get directions. it seemed to be deserted, but after standing outside for a little bit, wondering (outloud) what we were to do, a woman surrounded by four little children, suddenly appeared. 'aji, 'aji! "come, come!" she called out, waving us into her dimly lit home. we found ourselves being led down an open corridor of sorts connected on both ends to the bright outdoors with several rooms attached forming the square building we had noted from outside. ushering us into one of the rooms, we found a cookpot, a squat, round table, and several flat woven carpets on the floor. before we knew it (literally) we were face to face with the family meal - honestly, probably their only meal for the day - and we were guests. i think we all reddened simultaneously, as we were floored by the generosity of this little housewife. it didn't matter that the tagine was mostly broth, or that the little bits of meat that she picked out and offered to us were mostly fat - i was utterly overwhelmed by the generosity of the woman across from me. we could barely communicate, by the way. she spoke berber, only a little bit of derija arabic (the moroccan colloquial dialect), and essentially no french. but her smile said a thousand words, and hopefully our offerings of bread, cheese, and clementines (our picnic lunch) sufficed to tell of our endless gratitude.

not much further down the road, we encountered hassna, the woman sister marie had told us about. in her home, too, we were keeled over by the warmth extended to us. we shared a second lunch of sorts: mint tea, bread, peanuts, almonds, cookies, and fried egg. i couldn't believe it, and was more than embarrassed to be taking so much from someone who obviously had so little. but in morocco, personal pride and dignity - especially among the berbers - is not something to be toyed with. so we dug-in, and hopefully ate enough not to offend while still leaving plenty for the rest of the household.

hassna spoke french, so we communicated mostly through camille (one of the exchange students here who is french herself). hassna regaled us with stories about the sisters, their contribution to the village, the dam, and their hope for electricity to power the little tv that they had set up in the corner as well as the bare light bulb that hung by a thin wire from the center of the ceiling. her small, ruddy face had the appearance of tanned leather, with several well-worn creases - laugh lines which fanned out from the corners of her eyes, creating a stunning appearance of both wisdom and beauty. when it came time for us to leave, she walked with us awhile (on her way to collect the cow for the evening), and demanded to know why in the world we had thought to get a hotel room in midelt for the weekend, when we should have known that we were more than welcome at her home. we smiled and thanked her profusely, appeasing her maternal nature with promises of le prochain - next time. i certainly hope that there will be...

after a few weekends of bumming about big and semi-big cities, wandering through markets and feeling as though money was simply draining out of my pocket with no real purpose and with no real enriching return, i treasure my jewel of a weekend. several students, when hearing about my plans to go to midelt, turned up their noses a bit at the prospect. "there's nothing in midelt," was their reply. i agree - the town itself is merely a crossroads and a pit stop for buses on their way south to er-rachidia or marrekesh. but just outside the city there are gorgeous mountains, and the heart of morocco - its beautiful people, both by adoption and by birth.