First Day of Fasting

The first day of Ramadan technically started Saturday night at the dinner call to prayer around 9:30 p.m., but the crowds in the streets and people’s attitudes all day on Saturday made it clear that the following day would not be a normal Sunday. Upon entering the grocery store in Errachidia, you would have thought you were in Florida before a category 5 hurricane was set to move through. Everyone was sipping water and snacking on doughnuts and milawi (Moroccan fried bread) in the streets. For the next month, any consumption of food or beverages during the day – approximately 3:30 a.m. until 7:30 p.m. would be forbidden for Muslims in public.

It was a calm evening in general, and I had decided to spend it at my dar chebab chatting with the assistant director, since all the kids were out enjoying the last evening before fasting began. Suddenly, a group of about 100 people started trickling into the dar chebab to have a party for group of teenage runners at a local association – an event my assistant director seemed to be surprised about but still allowed to take place, even though he would have to stay quite late and clearly did not want to. It’s a little hard to say no here. I happened to have met two of the guys working with a running association at a café before, so they invited me into their awards ceremony. I agreed, figuring that it was a situation I could escape from easily if need be, since I was on my home turf at the dar chebab. The MC spoke mostly in standard Arabic, so I was a little lost, but the pain didn’t last too long, before one of the guys invited me to have dinner at his house with him, his friends, and four Spanish volunteers on a two-week trip to Morocco. It was 8:00 p.m., and I had no idea when dinner would be, since the next day fasting would begin, but I agreed again, hoping that I could escape if there were too much of a delay.

I ended up being sardined into a huge SUV, making a pit stop at the grocery store again to endure the painfully long lines and slow cashiers, and then arriving at one of the guys’ house to have tea and snacks and to learn how to play a type of drum that I hope to never have to play again. By 11:00 p.m. we made it to the other friend’s house to have dinner, but dinner didn’t come. By 1:45 a.m., the streets were getting quiet, and I was contemplating just going home and eating something before the sunrise prayer sounded around 3:30 a.m. signaling the end of eating, but the conversations were good, and there were cute, little, entertaining kids running around. I figured I should keep practicing Darija, so I stuck it out, and two tajines were displayed for our consumption just before 2:00 a.m. I ate the bread and salad and avoided the meaty, fatty tajines, knowing that I had leftover pasta at home. I scurried home through the deserted streets around 2:30, chugged three liters of water, and fell into bed, exhausted and ready to sweat my way through the night.

I had enough energy to get out of bed around 10:30 a.m., but I didn’t know what to do with my time, since I usually spend quite a bit of my day cooking my meals. There is very little pre-cooked food available in Morocco other than bread and snacks, so any decent meal must be made completely from scratch. I already understood within the first few hours of Ramadan why people say they have so much free time to do other hobbies. The problem is that I already felt thirsty and tired when I woke up! By 1:00, I knew I had to leave the house to avoid the temptation of eating, so I walked lethargically through the once more deserted streets to the dar chebab. Luckily, it was a mere 106 degrees. I figured I sweated out at least two of the three liters I had chugged the night before during the 30 minute walk.

I spent the afternoon chatting idly with the assistant director again. After a long search, we found batteries for the remote control for the aging air conditioning unit in the office at the youth center, and got it to blow air that was at least cooler than the outside temperature. One of the guys who usually comes to my English and Spanish classes showed up, so we all ended up chatting for about four hours, and then I headed to my Errachidia host family’s house, as I had told them the day before that I’d join them to break fast with them for the first day of Ramadan. There was still about an hour and a half before the sunset when I arrived, so I went on a quest for bread with my host brother, but it seemed like the bakers hadn’t yet quite gotten their Ramadan rhythm down pat, so most hanuts were sold out of bread or only had the few pieces left that everyone had clearly already picked through.

I had never been so happy to hear the call to prayer go off, and I promptly chugged nearly two liters of water. What followed was a little smorgasbord of sweet and savory delights: fried bread, white bread, jam, olive oil, moist dates, crushed dates, zameta or salew (a delicious peanut, flour, and oil combination), sweet scalding hot tea, fresh peach juice made from the kilo of dates I brought as a gift (even in Morocco one should never go empty handed, although I don’t think any family would be offended if I didn’t bring anything), and harira (a tomato based soup with chickpeas, pasta, rice, and lima beans). There wasn’t too much talking before the family retired to rest, and I went on my way home to prepare dinner and drink more water.

I probably never in my life had gone 17 hours without drinking water, especially in weather over 100 degrees. Many of you in the United States are probably wondering why I would be crazy enough to do such a thing. Perhaps most surprisingly though, many Moroccans ask me why I’m fasting and tell me that I shouldn’t do it since I’m not Muslim. However, even after doing it for only one day, I’m glad that I made the choice. Those 17 hours made me hope that I never again take water for granted or disregard someone who is in need of the basic necessities in life – food and water – which is the main premise of fasting at Ramadan. I don’t expect to get any spiritual return for my efforts, but I certainly feel that my mind and body will be stronger after completing this challenge. Also, despite the few Moroccans who have scoffed at my desire to partake in the country’s most significant cultural and religious period, most Moroccans are tremendously surprised and happy when they ask me, “nta syyam?” and I respond “daori.” “Are you fasting?” – “Of course.” Also, everyone fasts – at least in public. I won’t speculate as to what happens when people are alone, but during the day, the city is deserted. Day becomes night, and night becomes day. I have the slight impression that just by going out during the day I have been judged by passersby that imagine I am not fasting. I do have to say though that people have never been nicer to me than they have been in Errachidia in the days immediately before Ramadan. I left for a two week training in Marrakech and was nervous that people would forget about me, but I came back feeling extremely welcomed. I thoroughly believe that joining them for fasting has and will continue to strengthen my bond with my community, which is, after all, what I’m here to do.  

PS - I promise I'm not exaggerating that troupes of drummers and kids with pots and pans run around the streets at 2:00 a.m. to wake everyone up, so they can eat their last meal before the sunrise call to prayer!  

Ride to Ramadan

The iman turned as looked at me inquisitively, perplexed by my suggestion of providing some sort of free training or activity for the youth from his mountainside village in central Morocco.

“We really don’t have the money to pay for organizations to come to our village to do projects.”

“Don’t worry. Peace Corps volunteers aren’t allowed to collect any money for the work we do.”

“Well then, how do you have money to live?” he asked rightfully.

“My organization pays for my food and housing.”

“Then how are you really a volunteer? Will they pay for others to work with them?”

Again, as it so often does, my mental dictionary failed me, but I stammered through a repetitive explanation of why I chose to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer and my commitment to respect Moroccan culture and live at a level comparable to average Moroccan citizens. I motioned around the crowded, sweat-filled bus air conditioning vents that only breathed taunting laughter and went on to say that a typical tourist may rent a car or take a private taxi, but one of my most important goals is to meet Moroccans and share American culture with them.

He added, “you know, my village really needs an irrigation canal more than anything.”

I apologized for not knowing anything about how to ameliorate this obstacle, and my mind raced through dozens of Peace Corps trainings about how to respond to these tough statements and questions. Again, I found myself stumbling through the Peace Corps goals in Arabic, and again, I found myself looking into eyes that didn’t quite grasp the concept. The words were registering but the ideas of volunteerism and intangible charity were not quite – a predicament I encounter more than I would like. Examples are the best solutions.

This was all more than an hour into the trek from Tinjedad to my site, Errachidia – an almost two hour trip I had made twice in as many days. Our first interaction was my inquiry about whether or not the seat next to him was “hawiya” (empty). After an unpleased look and a prolonged pause, he yielded to let me pass to the window seat. My clumsy rush to slide into the seat resulted in my bag strap catching the armrest and entangling itself – unrelenting to my flustered attempts to free it until two men across the aisle came to my aid. My phone, of course, chose to ring ceaselessly during my struggle, and the ticket man demanded politely 20 Dirham ($2.50) for my ticket.

My companion looked around nervously, and in Arabic with a slightly less thick accent asked me if the bus would continue on to Errachidia. I assured him it would and that I was also getting off there. I obviously did not assess him initially to be a tourist, wearing his stained, long, white jellaba, so I blurted out, “Where are you from?”

He was from a small village – he later told me it has 100 houses – two hours north of Ourzazate, which is six hours west of Errachidia. Just the day before, I had returned to Errachidia from Marrakech, which was a 12 hour trip. I sat next to someone travelling about eight hours from his home. It was the longest trip he had ever made, and he couldn’t hide the slight fear in his eyes. I couldn’t think of much other than my privilege and how cold I had become to taking six, eight, 12, or 20 hours trips, always admiring the beauty of the world around me but annoyed by the menial delays in plans and the perceived languor of others.

My first attempt at rationalizing my stay in Morocco to him allowed me to ask him about the reason for his travels, and his long robe suddenly made more sense. He was travelling to Errachidia to spend the holy month of Ramadan, which will start Sunday, leading prayers at a mosque. This apparently caught my unrestrained interest, and I pummeled him with innumerable, different questions about “why wouldn’t he be an iman in his own town,” “is it normal to travel to a new mosque for Ramadan,” “where will you sleep/eat/pray,” and so on.

I was delighted that he brought up the subject of pay, because I obviously would never have done so. I hope I hid my shock when he said he hoped to use the approximately $250 he would earn in a month working essentially all day and night to save to buy a laptop. Books about the Quran were his other priority. My mind wandered, and I questioned myself about his intentions for talking at length about how hard it is to find work and earn a decent living. I hoped our conversation wouldn’t be tainted with a request for assistance and then scolded myself for always being so quick to judge. He showed me his Quran at some point. He had two years left to study to be a full-fleged iman, but I think leading a mosque alone for Ramadan should count, so he’s an iman in my mind.

After hearing about the irrigation canal, I said that Peace Corps volunteers want to do more work in small towns to show kids American culture, healthy lifetstyles, and work and life skills. Something I said raised a red flag, and he asked about female volunteers – perhaps worried about the women in his town being around foreign men. I prodded him – maybe for the first time in his life – about women’s rights. After an, in my American mind, unsatisfactory response, I reminded myself of the context and changed the subject.

He had already mentioned that I was welcome to visit his family’s home in the mountains in August if I would like, but he repeated his offer and added that I had to go to the town of Skoura and ask for Mohammed who drives a Mercedes at 11:00 a.m. to make sure that I could get one of the six spots for passengers in and out of his town each day. We talked about his family, what his town is like, the food that is available and the food he likes. I tried to explain what oatmeal is without success and left it at a mix between couscous and corn, which it’s really not.

We laughed together a little, and I saw that he didn’t know how to laugh well or was maybe just too scared to at the time. I asked him, “shal fammerik?” and I know I didn’t hide my shock when he responded “hamsa u ashrin” (25). “You’re almost three years younger than I,” I blurted out. He was aged beyond his years, and my mind was filled with images of the children I see far too often doing labor that would be probably beyond my capabilities. We spent a long time trying to write the name of his village in French letters on my phone so I could Google it. Google hasn’t found it yet.

He tried to save my soul, and I thanked him for his effort. I reassured him twice that we had arrived in Errachidia and that his whoever-picks-up-travelling-imans-at-bus-stations would be waiting for him inside the green metal gates in front of the bus. I waved goodbye as he nervously paced the back of the bus waiting for his bag.

I hope I’ll have a chance to ask for Mohammed’s Mercedes someday and bring some oatmeal with me.