Americans volunteers testimonial

Volunteering in Morocco: Two Americans Find Friendship in the Maghreb

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When we signed up for the Moroccan 15 day inter-cultural exchange program through Volunteers For Peace my husband and I were excited. The average age of volunteers is 18-25. That didn’t stop us from applying. 52 years old and climbing the Atlas Mountains! A week in Rabat (a city of about 1.7 million) living with a family and studying classical Arabic! It all seemed excessively demanding to our friends and family. “Wouldn’t you rather go lie on a beach?” “Absolutely not!” But why not?

We are both professors. I teach Spanish and my husband teaches International Relations and so we enjoy being with college-aged students. Our youngest child goes off to college herself this year and we thought we owed all four of our daughters the thrill of knowing that their parents could still look forward to adventure.  We also knew we had a lot to learn. About Morocco and the culture of North Africa. About Islam. About the perceptions Americans evoke.

So, after our acceptance from Volunteers For Peace we had our instructions. Having nothing more than a name to call from the Rabat train station and the fee in new dollars to hand over, we set off, backpacks borrowed from our daughters, new hiking boots and great droughts of nervousness and anticipation. The Rabat train station was elegant and rather European, dating from the days when France controlled the country. We emerged onto a wide boulevard.  Immediately we called Izzat Rachad, who told us to go across the street to the Café Italie and wait for him as he was running late.

 

Moroccan Lesson #1: Relax. Life does not have to run by the clock. Time is fluid.

 

Izzat’s family included his mother Saja who embraced us warmly and said we were, from that moment on, her children (in spite of the fact we were the same age!). His father is Hussein Rachad, a thin and dapper man who smiles with warmth and dignity. Three of Izzat’s sisters are still at home and they are Souad, Fatimazara, and Jaula. There were also two young boys Taja (son of Souad) and a seven-year-old nephew. Izzat’s young Berber bride, Saida, was also in residence along with two other volunteers, Tara from England, with roots in SriLanka and Gloria from Spain. “You see” marveled Hussein, “we represent here almost all the parts of the world. We all sit at my table and we are friends.” This, we would realize over and over, is what inspires the Volunteers For Peace experience.

Our week in Rabat with Izzat’s family was one of continual discovery. In the morning, upon awaking and at night, before bed, the children will kiss their parent’s palm as a sign of affection and respect. The nearby minaret began its first call to prayer at 4:30 in the morning. Many things required cultural adaptation such as how a typical Moroccan family eats. Everyone gathers around the kitchen table and a large platter of some delicious tangine  (a kind of Moroccan stew made up of vegetables and meat in a spicy sauce with rice or couscous) is set in the middle. With pieces of bread (which is made in the home with a semolina flour) each person serves himself by mouthfuls. Father Hussein can be heard cajoling us to “Coule, coule! (Eat! Eat!) A lone glass of water is available for anyone to drink from and refill.

 

Moroccan Lesson #2: Family unity is very important in Morocco as can be evidenced in eating and drinking.  Any guest is immediately made part of the family.

Our morning classes of classical Arabic (as opposed to Moroccan dialect Arabic) were from 9-12 and taught by the very patient Abdulhak who presented us with the basics of Arabic vowels and consonants. We attempted writing words and actual sentences. How humbling it is to return to the classroom, especially as the oldest students! We whispered hints to each other while translating a sentence. We cringed when called upon and tried to mimic Abdulhak. We printed Arabic letters over and over in our child-like workbooks in a script that was read right to left and looked like elegant calligraphy unraveled.

Some of us progressed more than others, but I am proud to read my workbook and remember how to say: palm tree: “na ja la tone” or fez: “torrr bu chun” or “Kaotharu is covered with a veil”: “ta la tha tom/ kao tha ro/bi il thaa mine.” It will take me a lifetime, but I want to learn. Language is the best way to begin to understand a culture and a people, something we Americans too often fail to try. At least I could greet any Moroccan and be assured of a response: “A Salam Aleikum” (Peace be with you). “Wa Aleikum Asalam” (And also with you.)

In the afternoons Izzat and his companions would take us all around the sights of Rabat  (a city whose ocean coast and fertile plains drew people to the area as early as the 8th century BC). Like a flock of sheep the volunteers would follow Izzat through the ancient walled medina or the souk full of spices, carpets, djellabas of every size and color, bright yellow pointed slippers, modern DVD’s, fruits and dates and nuts and sticky honeyed sweets.

We saw the magnificent esplanade, which contains the Hassan Tower, an enormous minaret of 44 meters, begun in 1195 by the Almohad Sultan Al-Mansour. The broken pillars of the Mosque, which was destroyed in the earthquake of 1755, allow everyone to walk in hushed reverie and wonder how it all had looked. What draws the constant crowds is the sacred Mausoleum of Mohammad V where the present king’s father and grandfather have been laid to rest. We entered amid mostly Moroccan tourists and looked down from the mosaic upper chamber upon the tombs. Listening to the Imam’s constant chant of Koranic verse the sacred nature of Islam is made palpable.

All those long afternoons of walking were slowly helping us trekkers to build up endurance for the mountains that would be our next destination. The other volunteers looked upon the three of us in admiration and I began to reconsider.  Could I really climb through high arid Atlas mountains for 6 days?  Were my daughters right to laugh and say “Mama, you haven’t exercised enough! You need months of training!” If I had learned anything so far in Morocco, it was not to worry. All I could think was, “Inshallah, I’ll make it!”  And if not, it isn’t meant to be.  I like that way of thinking.

One afternoon when we saw both the ancient Roman city of Sala Colonia and the Merenid necropolis of Chellah, we walked at least 5 hours past tombs of Muslim saints, the miraculous eel pool, the stork topped ruins and finally stopped for tea and Moroccan sweets at the café overlooking the ocean. I was tired but not exhausted. I sat with young people discussing college studies or exchanging e-mail addresses in whatever language they had in common. I felt both older and wiser, but still excited and eager. When I realized one or two of the younger volunteers had petered out I felt triumphant. The next day we walked even more as we entered the royal city and saw King Mohammad VI’s gardens and workers’ apartments and the immense palace where we could only imagine what lay behind the guards and through that royal doorway.

 

Moroccan Lesson # 3: All Moroccans love their King. Do not make any disparaging remarks or try to question his integrity and goodness.

By day seven we three trekkers were well acclimated and ready for the Atlas mountains. Izzat and his whole family, minus father Hussein who had important government work to do, set off northward on the Marrakech train for six hours of animated travel. In our last goodbye embrace with Hussein he had tears in his eyes and we, too, felt the sadness of a relative departing. “You are always welcome in my home. And your daughters too” he told us solemnly. By then, with a henna decorated palm and well cleaned by the neighborhood hammam (public bath), I felt completely at ease with Mama Saja and her brood.

 

Moroccan Lesson #4: The bonds of affection run deep in Moroccan people and with sincerity and an open mind and heart you will be accepted as a dear and lasting friend.

We arrived in Marrakech at sunset and the reddish glow helped to soften the intensity of extreme heat and the cacophony of people going every which way in scooters, cars, and horse drawn buggies. We found our simple riyad (traditional town house with central courtyard), unloaded luggage and set off for dinner in the center of the riotous plaza of Jemaa el F’na where snake charmers, jugglers, fortune tellers, henna artists, musicians, and more all vie for your attention and your dirhams.

We slept well, despite the 110-degree heat and set off early via taxi for the Berber village of Imlil where we would begin our trek. All of us would spend the night at Izzat’s brother in law’s house and thus our Moroccan family grew. This was Izzat’s wife; Saida’s, hometown and her brothers were mountain guides. We stayed in the home of her brother, Lahsan, his wife and three children. Our Berber introduction had begun and though they spoke a different language, most understood some French.

 

Moroccan Rule # 5: In Morocco language is less important than demeanor. Whether Berber or Arab, the Moroccan communicates more with the heart and a smile is often language enough.

When setting off for a trek through the Atlas Mountains it is best to think little of the daily itinerary and just enjoy the scenery. Our Berber guide and Saida’s other brother, Brahim Alahian, who is 23, knows every trail in these mountains. He has led groups for years and has the agility and endurance of a panther and the patience of a saint. His helpers were there to cook our meals and load the mules, but Brahim was there for us.  When Gloria’s shoes began to hurt painfully he exchanged them for Aziz’s. When Clark needed a slower downward pace, he stayed beside him. And when, the group’s weakling ended up in tears at the end of 6 hours on day one, I was given mule Omar, my heroe and my savior.

 

 Moroccan Rule #6: Have mule will travel! A mule is a perfectly respectable way to travel, even though some people think it’s cheating!

Omar was a white mule that was produced on the morning of day two and for the next six days was my constant companion. One learns to ride a mule instantly when the need is greater than the challenge. Going uphill was easier than down but I never fell. The hair bending trails that could plunge down into a 200-foot abyss did not frighten me. Omar was sure-footed and painstaking, picking his way through loose scree and large chunks of rock as if it were soft grass. Omar allowed me to climb up through mountain passes of 3555 meters and down into verdant villages such as Amsouzert where we stayed in a Berber family’s Inn and had tea with friends of Brahim.

The Berbers are an ancient, indigenous people who roamed North Africa as early as 2500 BC. They live in villages where electricity is just beginning to arrive and where subsistence farming is the way of life. We saw bread made by a strong, brightly veiled Berber woman in the house we stayed. The bread is round and flat, and bakes on the warm slab of a small stone pit of burning brush, the hole in the kitchen ceiling allowing smoke to exit.

We passed shepherds caring for goats and sheep in long tunics and strong sticks on steep mountainsides.  We learned quickly how to say thank-you in Berber (Barakalaufik) as we were so often welcomed and offered tea.  And every evening when the day’s trek was finished we settled into the big tent for a hot meal of soup and rice and vegetables or couscous with lamb and repeated wearily, “Hamdulilah” (Thanks be to God) for we could rest under the dark sky studded with bright stars.

 

Moroccan Rule #7: Learn from the Berbers. You will never imitate their physical endurance, but their gentleness, good humor, and patience can be contagious.

After the hubbub of Marrakech, the Atlas Mountains were an peaceful expanse of sensual contrast: sunbaked rock and meandering streams, silence interspersed with the bleating of sheep and goats, aromas of manure and mint, the relief of resting on carpet floors after the unrelenting rigors of walking on jagged rock. And since we did not go the tourist route, we had the mountains to ourselves, for the most part, and could imagine the days of caravans and camels, of Middle Ages and abject simplicity, and especially of the camaraderie of hot peppermint tea, which forges bonds out of strangers and makes everyone a companion.

On the last day of our trek we reached the base of Toubkal, the highest peak in northern Africa. We encountered crowds of foreign trekkers with their sleek hiking clothes and their raw ambition. The majority had come directly from Imlil in one day to do the climb. They were not there for meeting Berbers or seeing sights. It was fun to talk to them, but really, we were different. Many of them collected mountain peaks like trophies, ready to move on to the next high climb.

Toubkal, at 4167 meters, can be climbed, they say, in two or three hours. It is steep and the volcanic scree is slippery, but it is not impossible. We, in spite of all our best intentions, decided to forgo the ascent. Gloria’s sprained ankle was swollen, Clark’s feet had excruciating blisters, and, as for me, mules cannot make it. So, we skipped the grand culmination and stood admiring the sight from below, bits of snow draped like sheep wool here and there. And then we headed back to civilization, passing a major shrine and all those trekkers and pilgrims.

We returned to Imlil and to Brahim’s extended family.  We all but staggered down the lane. Mama Saja was there to greet us with hugs of relief and admiration. Our dusty clothes, our blistered feet, and sunburned faces were the visual evidence of our journey. Warm showers, clean clothes, and more tea restored us and we shared our memories of the trek.  The whole family gathered to listen.

Gloria and my husband were duly lauded for their endurance. Souad and Saja admitted they never had nor ever would make that trek. When mule Omar was praised effusively Brahim bent double with his laughter. The family’s rapid exchange in Berber alerted me to some kind of amusement. Actually, Saja told us, the mule was not named Omar. “Not Omar?” I asked in amazement. Hadn’t I called him, admired him, and even embraced him with the continuously repeated “Omar”? “Well, yes” Brahim admitted with a grin. But actually, he explained, no mules, no animals whatsoever are given human names in Berber culture.  I had misunderstood that the mule belonged to a man named “Omar” and so they let me think it was his name.

Now we all broke out in laughter.  How many more little mistakes had we unknowingly made making the Berbers smile? The trail had been excruciatingly long and rocky, but there had been humor. Hadn’t we tried to sing along to the Berber music that Mohammad continuously played on his tape deck? Hadn’t it been funny that mule “Omar” actually preferred those prickly “hedgehog” plants when he was hungry?

Brahim even admitted with glee his special strategy. Ever time one of us would ask, “How much further till the pass or the lunch stop or the village? How many minutes exactly?” he would always say, “Soon. About 20 minutes”, knowing wisely it was best not to say an hour or two or three.

It would be impossible to summarize and do justice in a few paragraphs to the 15 day Inter-Cultural Exchange and Trekking Program with Chantiers Sociaux Morocains, but if I could say just one thing it would be: “Go!” Go to learn about this complex, ancient, and important culture. 15 days will just scratch the surface of Morocco’s compelling culture.

Like the colorful mosaic tiles ones sees on mosque minarets and household décor, there is no way to count the varied delights that await the traveler in every souk and Kasbah and friendly doorway.  To be a volunteer and not a tourist brings you face to face with the people who live and work and make up the rich tapestry of the Maghreb. I now have a family in Rabat and friends in the Atlas.  I hope to return next summer and teach English to the children. And for those contemplating the Atlas mountain trek I challenge you. Can you make it to the top of Toubkal, North Africa’s highest peak? Try and see and while you’re there, look around you. There’s a whole country waiting to be known.

Cynthia Torroella Merrill—August 2007

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