here's a picture from my recent excursion to the little town of tarmilat, which lies just beyond the freshly painted roads and neatly manicured lawns of ifrane.here, the community survives in houses built of stones, wrestled from the earth, and neatly stacked, one on the other, with rusted sheets of corrugated tin weighted down by used tires for a roof.
as the sun set and the cold, icy wind began to whip up from the north, i ruefully re-wrapped my arms around myself, and wondered why i had decided against that second sweater, now obliviously enjoying its snug home at the end of my bed. but then i look around me once again, and i see the weather-beated faces of the men, women, and children of tarmilat that never really get to leave the cold and who may not have the luxury of a second sweater they can choose to leave at home.
laughter rings out from somewhere, and we are ushered down to one of the stone buildings at the base of the rocky outcrop of a hill where we had been watching the sun set. before it gets too late, the women want to show us their looms, the ancient set-ups which produce the lifeblood of this small but stubbornly thriving community. a dimly lit room, warmed by a charcoal brazier - the workshop smells of sheep and sheeps' wool, and one look at the works in progress there tells the story of the hurculean effort that goes into a single rug or carpet.
stepping out again into the growing dusk, i stop for a moment and watch the daily happenings which continue around me, the work that has to be done whether or not twelve or so white foreigners have descended upon tarmilat. cows appear out of nowhere, and grudgingly - with much protestation - make their way into their byre for the night. minutes later, a crowd of sheep follow suit. as the last light fades, the women around me, with their multi-colored aprons and veils, seem more like hardy desert flowers, buffetted by the breeze, rather than young mothers and old grandmothers whose lives have been marked by the tell-tale pain and suffering that are the cousins of poverty.
but things are looking up for this little village. a relationship with the little church community at al akhawayn and other support has given them a market for their beautiful handiwork, and as we sat, eating our ftour meal of spiced coffee, dates, boiled eggs, shbekia (a honeyed pastry-like knot of deliciousness), and harira (a thick chickpea, tomato, lentil soup), we were told that the lights overhead (which were flickering a bit toward the end) were powered by the solar panel that the community bought together with their first proceeds. a small school has also been built, and there are plans galore of future uses for their growing profits.
at the end of the evening, as we navigated our way down the rocky hill under the light of a nearly full moon, i was relieved to see the university van and it's promise of warmth. climbing quickly inside, i said a quick "thank you and goodbye" to our gracious hosts and set about getting feeling back into my toes. a few minutes later, after arriving back to the university and making my way to my room, i sat on my bed with my second sweater around my shoulders, more than a little bit aware of my many blessings, and more than a little bit guilty to have allowed myself to forget them before.
