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won
in poker game played with other volunteers who gathered in Errachidia
for the occasion. Said, Mostafa, and I will sit on the cushions in my
living room and watch the smoke curl upward into the sunbeams shafting
from my skylight. We talk about mundane things: school, girls we have
known, families, and various traditions from our discrete cultures.
They dream of going to America one day, but with visas notoriously
expensive and difficult to obtain here, it is unlikely they will ever
make it. But I hope they do.
Said
woke me a 6:00 one morning by pounding on my door. I had been
expecting and dreading his arrival; he wanted me to go running with
him. I trudged down the stairs, brushing the sleep from my eyes, and
opened the door. He was outside in short pants and a sweatshirt,
trotting in place like an overly energetic pony. I yawned heavily—I
have never been a morning person—and bade him wait a few minutes while
I bolted a cup of coffee.
The
village was quiet so early; store owners were unlocking their shops,
and cafe owners were setting out and wiping down their white plastic
tables and chairs. They waved at me as I passed, and I heard my Berber
name "Hassan" being called repeatedly, followed by congratulations and
wishes of good health.
We
left the village trotting north, Said running ahead like a gazelle and
me following behind like a kicked shepherd's dog. We turned onto a
dirt road that parallels the village on the other side of the fields
and stopped to look at the village. It is situated on a hill above the
river and the pink and brown buildings glowed with the rich, honeyed
light of sunrise. The dewy wheat fields sparkled in the still air, and
snatches of birdsong drifted by on a wind that smelled of apple
blossoms. Men in their jelabas and women in their woolen cloaks made
their way out to their plots with picks and shovels. Most of the women
held a serrated scythe called an "amouger" that they would use to cut
fresh alfalfa for their donkeys and mules back home.
We
regained the main road by the middle school and turned back toward my
house. Said left me there, panting by my door, and ran off to get ready
for school. I turned and climbed the stairs for more coffee. Later, I
stood in the sun on my rooftop, cup of coffee in hand, and watched Said
and Mostafa walking arm and arm toward the school. Said turned back
toward my house, saw me, and waved. I smiled. It is good to have
friends.
pairs
among the flowers, before being borne past our heads like soft
snowflakes, their scaly wings brushing our faces as they passed.
It
made me smile, and gave me joy to witness such a display of quiet
beauty far away up here in the middle of nothingness and shattered
rock. By the time we reached the summit the butterflies had gone.
Death
comes as no surprise to the people here; the harshness of this
destroyed place is not lost on the Berbers of the Ait Haddidou. Death
is a constant companion that shadows the children as they play
There
is so much more I could tell you; of the quiet conversations shared
over tea with wise old men, of the quiet hours spent watching the
fields grow and change, and of so many sights and experiences that are
impossible to express on the written page.
I
could tell you how, in a neighboring village at sundown, as the call to
prayer echoes through the streets, the mules and donkeys come streaming
in from the fields running, kicking, and cavorting like wild things,
before stopping before the doors of their owner's homes.
I
could tell of the stars that shine at night, of crimson sun and icy
moon. So much to say, but all I will end with this; another year lies
before me and I welcome it with open arms.
"The
views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the
author and do not refect the views or opinions of the U.S. Government"
CHARLIE KOLB is
almost a native Coloradan,and has worked as a seasonal ranger for the
National Park Service, but will be working with the Peace Corps until
2012.
The Zephyr looks forward to sharing-regular reports from Charlie.
You can also follow him via his blogs:
A
Fulbright scholar came to my village one day last week. The Fulbright
program is a nine-month term in a foreign country, and its scholars
teach English or do research while they are here. They have a cut and
dry project ready for them when they arrive, and they are paid almost
10 times my salary each month. This one I had met in Errachidia at a
friend's home and he followed me back to my village. He stayed for
several days, watching as I spoke Berber with my friends and reacting
politely to the fact that none of them would speak to him in Arabic, a
language he knows well. I tried to convince them to speak to him, but
Arabic is not well-liked on the mountain and Berber pride runs deep and
strong in this valley. Instead, I acted as translator and we got along
alright.
On
the third day of his stay in the village, we started out early to climb
the folded mountain that I watch from my roof in the evenings. The
climb is steep and rugged—there is no trail—so we surmised that it
would take the better part of a day to summit and return.
The
initial climb is in a dark canyon of slate and limestone, the floor
littered with smoothed stones and flood debris. A trickle of water
flowed down its center, following the path of least resistance to the
River Melloul far below. Rounding a bend in the canyon, I found the
source of the water, a gushing seep where the limestone met the shale.
It flowed lazily down the rocks, coated with a film of dark algae and
fringed with cushions of moss. I placed my palm on the damp face of the
rock and closed my eyes. I could feel the coolness of the water as it
trickled between my fingers, the sun beat down overhead, and a hawk
cried faintly as it rode on a thermal high above. Caught up in the
moment, I felt that I could feel the pulse of the earth itself, weak
and thready in these desiccated foothills, but, despite all the harm
done to this place, it still lived. I stepped back and we walked on; as
I climbed I could feel the water drying on my palm like a crust of
blood.
We
began the laborious ascent of the mountains flanks, following faint
wa-tertrails and picking our way amongst blooming and fragrant "ifssi"
plants. On a false summit, we stopped to rest and drink some of the
water we had brought in our packs. A warm breeze drifted over us,
blowing away up the mountain and following its twisted contours. Borne
upon the wind were hundreds of tiny butterflies. All pure white and
nearly translucent in the sunlight, they fluttered in
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