The basics: Food

Over the past few weeks I have had many notable experiences—a wedding that lasted until seven in the morning, a baby naming ceremony (Mostafa, in case you’re wondering), and local elections, complete with post-election celebrations for those who, in the great tradition of politicians in the developing world, skillfully out-bribed their competitors. But I am not going to write about any of those right now, perhaps later insha’allah, because I am going to borrow a better idea from a fellow PCV. He suggested I start writing about “the basics”—the things that I do every day, and have done every day since I arrived here, to the point that I have taken them for granted and completely forgotten to tell you about them. I hope you find them as interesting as I find them commonplace.

Today’s “basic” element of my Moroccan life: Food (AKA Tea, bread, and other things that may be occasionally be served provided there is also tea and bread)

 While my dentist would surely disagree, I think I lucked out with Moroccan food. That’s not to say my town is the New York Times culinary destination of the year, but it’s definitely better than many Peace Corps horror stories. For the most part, all the food I have had is at least decent if not very good, and I have only had one “woah! This is gonna be interesting” moment (elicited in response to a very complete sheep’s head served steaming and without garnish or side dishes in the middle of the table—it was chewy and I can’t say I enjoyed looking into it’s eyes, but it was basically just meat, making me wonder: what do we do with all the heads of animals we eat in the states?). Considering I’ve been here for almost four months, and the sheep’s head was somewhat shocking but by no means bad, I think I can safely say the food is pretty good.

Generally, the day starts with tea and bread with honey and udi, butter made from buttermilk (no, I don’t really know how that works. I feel like the “butters” should cancel each other out and we should just be left with milk). Also, I say “generally,” not because it usually happens—the day always begins this way– “generally” because my host Dad will order me like a General to attend breakfast and will look personally dejected if I try to leave without drinking tea (honestly, as if I told him I decided to terminate my service immediately and leave Morocco forever, he’ll look at me with pouting eyes and say, pleadingly, “why???”). Everything is homemade except the tea—green tea imported from China—although we often add different kinds of mint to the tea that my host Mom grows in the fields. We have a cow out back, two “boxes of pain” where my host Dad grows killer African bees (possibly just normal bees, but they are in Africa and every time I see them I have flashbacks of My Girl so that must mean something, right?), and nearly everyone in the town has plots of land to grow wheat, apricots, apples, figs, mint, tuya and lfsa (feed for cows and donkeys). Many people sell their produce in the weekly souk, but with the exception of the honey (very valuable), my host family eats everything they grow.

The tea is generally served in little glasses (think double-shot glass, not that I know what those are used for…), and you can always expect to have at least two. Tea is always served when you go to someone’s house, and almost always served with every meal. There are also two additional “tea times”—one between breakfast and lunch, and the other between lunch and dinner—that are usually served before the mid-morning and afternoon calls to prayer. Also, whether you are a Moroccan, an American or Kim Jong Il, if you walk down the street in my town or any nearby you will inevitably be called in to have tea at numerous houses, and if you want to meet people you should accept. So all told, as a Peace Corps volunteer, you can expect to have tea at least five separate times/day, probably more, and it is quite literally part of what I consider “work” every day. I swear though, it’s not as easy as it sounds, especially when every conversation inevitably includes either ur tsint waaalu Tamazight! “you don’t know any Tamazight!” or waaa Moha! Laromi isin Tamazight bzaff! “hey Moha! This foreigner speaks a lot of Tamazight!” As simple as they sound, when you have one job and that is to master a foreign language and get to know people in your town, any PCV will tell you that those two statements can make or break a day. So in addition to making me somewhat obsessed with brushing my teeth (lest I lose them to the man who pulls teeth at a table in souk, like everyone in my town over thirty), teatimes dictate my mood(s) for the day and ultimately they are how I will form my relationship with my community.

Key phrases if you are ever invited in for tea:

Yatfut—Sweet, delicious. The tea should always be sweet, to Moroccan’s taste, not to yours, and considering the ratio of sugar to water seems to be one million sugar cubes : one drop, the tea is always yatfut.

llay ja labaraka—I’ve had enough, or literally, “allah has provided enough.”

Jeungh—I’m full.

Shbgh—I’m full.

Safi—Enough.

Baraka—Enough.

Meakol, jeungh, llay ja labaraka, lhamdullah—Really, I’m full, allah has provided me with enough, thanks be to allah.

Fkkrgh da tsfladgh yut tamusht affla n isklu, ixssayi ad qllbgh msh ymkyn ixssas adas eawngh—I think I hear a small cat up in the tree, I should go check if it needs my help.

OK, baraka. Perhaps next time I will describe lunch and dinner… For now, I will leave you with the much anticipated Moroccable Moment of the week, another commonplace in my Moroccan life:

Moroccable Moment: Bed Bugs!

While I am mortally afraid of camel spiders and scorpions (I have yet to see the former and accidentally killed the latter a week ago), bed bugs are the Kim Jong Il of my bedroom (which is to say, they are not life threatening, really not threatening at all, but they are really annoying). People say washing the sheets in hot water and then leaving them out in the sun gets rid of them, but there are at least 3 problems with that method:

1) My host family adamantly refuses to believe there are bed bugs in my house. I point to Exhibit A: My arms which are always covered in tiny bites. Presented with the evidence, my host Dad pauses for a second, then says “Well I don’t know, maybe you got them outside?” Yes, of course. I’m sure I was oblivious as a thousand bugs were feeding on my flesh all at once while I was wide awake and outside in the middle of the day.

2) I don’t have sheets. I sleep on a mattress covered by a wool blanket with a frightening picture of Bambi’s mom on it. The wool blanket not only makes it difficult to see when it is clean and free of bed bugs, but I believe the bugs have established some sort of civilization in the mattress so washing the blanket would only give them an even nicer place to inhabit when I put it back.

3) These are no ordinary bed bugs. My host mom walks around the house every day spraying the walls, lights and mostly the air with a giant aerosol Raid-knockoff that has what appears to be the eagle of the Third Reich on the front of it. So you can imagine that the mutant bugs that survive her nightly blitzkrieg are a highly evolved breed, and since this is real life and not an episode of Captain Planet, they cannot be vanquished by way of mere exposure to natural elements like sun and water.

So, I have adopted a new strategery (borrowed from President Bush’s strategery in Afghanistan): if you can’t beat them, ignore them. I put a sheet over the Bambi blanket and go to sleep, pretending the bugs aren’t there. Surprisingly, it has worked magnificently. Of course, I still get bitten nearly every night, although not as much (who knows, really?), but the important thing is I don’t care anymore. I have worked out a nice agreement with the bed bugs—they bite me, and I deal with it. Mission Accomplished.

Llay 3awn,

M’barek