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.