Night of the Living Harma

Against all logic, on the afternoon of Eid Kbir, belly full of fat-wrapped sheep liver, I found myself feeling a little underwhelmed. The much-hyped slaughter and butcher of the sheep happened more quickly and with less fanfare than the Luby family can get up the Christmas tree.  I was under the impression that at some point I would stare into the sheep's eyes and thank the noble beast for laying down his life, but once the butcher arrived wearing his knee-high wellies, things progressed quickly. There was blood; but I saw more blood on TV when the royal sheep was killed (special effects?). There were guts: the butcher's most impressive maneuver involved pulling a length of intestine from the strung-up sheep, nicking the end with a knife and then flushing the contents of the sheep's stomach with water and air, applied by human mouth to sheep's rear. Little pellets of dung traveled up and around the translucent intestine before spilling out onto the ground, like boba pearls spit through a krazy straw. Actually, that part blew my mind. But after that it was all business, no razzle-dazzle.

It’s easy to guess what desensitized me to our up-close sheep autopsy: spoilers.  Peace Corps staff and Moroccans have been telling us about Eid for nine months with grisly precision; prepping us with “best-of” slaughter compilation videos so that we wouldn’t faint at the sight of blood. By now I’ve eaten mechoui and tangia in Marrakech; I no longer flinch when a gazzar’s cleaver hits a chicken breast and –oops a little blood flecks on my shirt. All that preparation worked a little too well, so that by the time lunch was through, all there was left to do was unbutton my pants and wonder about the Moroccan TV executives who had the sick sense of humor to program the adorable anthropomorphic sheep of Shaun Le Mouton during Eid.

That was when we heard an animalistic groan come from the street, and then the screams of children and a dozen tiny feet scattering on the pavement. The harma.

Suddenly, our town was a zombie movie come to life. The harma are young men dressed in sheep and goat skins who lumber through the streets, armed with switches made from olive branches and assorted hoofs and paws, threatening and glowering and demanding money from bystanders –and sometimes whacking them with a dead dog’s paw until they pay up.  In their costumes –sometimes amended with rubber Halloween masks- they look like a cross between Chewbacca and Frank the Rabbit from Donnie Darko. In other words, spooky as hell.

Nightmares.

Reports conflict on how the harma spend their earnings. Depending on who you ask they either throw the town a party, donate their money to the mosque or else blow it on hashuma bad habits. Their real purpose seems to be to torment and delight children, who spent the next four days running and hiding and screaming until they ran out of breath. And to entertain those of us hanging out windows and over rooftop banisters with their compelling, sometimes creepy, sometimes hilarious theater.

Super fun until they start hitting you.

Eid's been over for two weeks, but there are still little harma-in-training running around our street.

The harma –also called boujloud or bilmawen- are a strictly Amazight tradition with no ties to Islam. The practice isn’t found everywhere and seems to have a different manifestation in each town and village that puts it on. Maybe that’s why the harma got such a soft sell when people described Eid. But the timestamp on the camera tells me that the time from the knife across the sheep’s throat to its liver on the grill was less than 30 minutes. The 40-plus harma stalking up and down the streets lasted four days. With a full moon rising and ominous growls and playful screams hanging in the cool October evening, something about the harma felt awfully familiar and at the same time perfectly unspoiled.

 So for your viewing pleasure this Halloween, the best of our grainy, shaky glimpses of that elusive beast known as the harma.

 

Don't Go Breaking my Heart

Two years ago marks the debut of zombie royal couple performing a rousing cover of Elton John and Kiki Dee's Don't Go Breaking My Heart.  If if you missed it, or if you need another good laugh, take a look (remember, Pete is a skilled guitar player/musician.  I sang out of love, not talent):

Our wedding weekend was, without a doubt, the best weekend of my life.  We traded in a traditional rehearsal dinner for a costume party/talent show/bbq, and now I can't think about the night before our wedding without tearing up with happiness.  And our wedding day?  A profound display of love, support, and community that continues to fill me with gratitude.  Friends and family gathered over the wedding weekend to bake cupcakes, arrange flowers, decorate the venues, and clean-up the mess we left in our wake.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  

Two years in, and I'm the luckiest.  Here's to many, many more.

This is our The Graduate moment.  We did it!

Eid Al-Kabir : Time to Celebrate

This past week we celebrated the most important holiday on the Islamic calendar.  One of the reasons I wanted to live abroad was to fully experience a new culture, and this holiday was the pinnacle of cultural experiences.  Before you read too far, please take note that there will be a handful of graphic photos below.  If you are uncomfortable seeing a sheep being slaughtered, this blog post might be one for you to skip.

The weeks leading up to Eid al-Kabir in our town sort of felt like the weeks leading up to Christmas back in the US.  Shops were much busier, relatives came home for the holiday, and there was a special sort of energy in the air.  One major difference?  Every family had a sheep up on their roof, and the sound of the sheep bleating all day and night sounds a little different than holiday music at the mall.

Our family's sheep.  Baaaa-utiful.

And then, as each family commemorates the story of Abraham, Ismail, God, and the sheep, the soundtrack suddenly stops.  After watching morning prayers from our roof, we hurried over to our host family’s house.  There, we waited for the butcher.  Each family in town has their own sheep to slaughter for this holy day, and so the butcher is a busy man.  Us gals passed the time by cleaning and dancing.  The boys watched TV. 

When the butcher arrived, we headed up to the roof and said our last words to the sheep.  Our host mom filled his mouth with spices, a quick prayer was offered, and the butcher got to work.  Perhaps it is because we’ve grown accustomed to seeing our chicken killed in front of us before we take it home to cook it, but the actual slaughter was not too difficult to watch.  The butcher, skilled in his craft, completed the deed in under 20 minutes.  The sheep was mercifully killed, skinned, and cleaned before I could fully process what was going on around me. Its liver was thrown on the grill, its blood cleaned off the ground, and its internal organs removed and rinsed while we played with settings on our camera.

Slipping spices into the sheep's mouth. Distraction technique?

Our host brother and the sheep.

Looking a bit like lace, a sheet of fat was hung up on the clothesline to dry while the liver was grilled.  Before I could protest, the sheet of fat was placed in my hands so that I could begin the work of crafting boulfaf, kebabs made of liver wrapped in fat and coated with spices.  The kebabs, perhaps the closest thing to bacon we’ve had in a long time, were delicious.  As was the lamb tagine we had for dinner that night. And the lamb tagine we had for lunch the next day. As, I’m sure, will be the lamb tagine we eat for lunch today.

Host cousin and I making the kebabs.

It's much more fun to bbq inside the house.

Pete and our host brother enjoying the first bites of the sheep.

The rest of the day was spent much like any big holiday in the US.  We passed the afternoon by eating lots of food, watching TV that we were not particularly interested in, wondering how we could help our hostess.  Oh, and looking out the windows to see the Harma chasing kids in the street.  But that’s a whole other story.

Eid al-Kabir was a good day.  Our host family treated us with such kindness and generosity, and we felt grateful to be part of their intimate holiday celebration.  Morocco is a lot of things; most notably for me, Morocco is a constant lesson in hospitality. When we return to the US, I hope to invite people to our roof to watch us slaughter an animal and then share all the various parts with them.  Wait, no.  I just want to be a kinder, more generous person, in whatever form that might take. 

Eid Al-Kabir: From the Roof

In a few minutes, we'll head over to our host family's house to celebrate Eid with them.  But before the craziness of the day commences, we had a cup of coffee on the roof and watched our community gather for prayer.  The soccer field turned into sacred grounds this morning as people in our town gathered to sing and pray.  It's hard to see in this video, but here's a 360 view from our roof so you can get a sense of how lovely the morning looked.  In addition to chanting, you can also hear all the sheep in town singing their last song.  Eid Mubarak!

Countdown to Eid Al-Kabir!

Fall is slowly arriving here.  Too slowly.  But we are grateful for the cool nights that lead to brisk mornings, and we savor the fall feeling with cups of pumpkin spice coffee (thank you Jen!) and wait in dread for the sun to shine and make our lives hot and sweaty.

Enough complaining about the sun, though.  I wanted to show you what fall in our town looks like.  More specifically, what this week in our town looks like.  We are in the final countdown to a very large holiday, and our town is brimming with energy.

If you'd like a soundtrack to accompany you as you continue reading, be sure and click this link and you'll hear what the weekly souk (market) in our town sounds like.  

Why are market sounds so important?  Imagine it's a few days before Thanksgiving, and you have to run out to the grocery store to buy everything you need for the big feast.  The store is crowded, of course, as it always is before a big holiday.  Then imagine that your grocery store is outside.  So there are cars driving through it while people chitchat and argue over prices.  And then, imagine that you actually have to buy a live turkey, bring it home, care for it for a few days, and then slaughter it yourself.  Now, imagine that every other family is doing that, too.

Except, swap out the turkey for a live sheep.  Because it's Eid Al-Kabir, y'all, and our town is almost ready to celebrate.  So, when you see this outside:

It's safe to assume that this hay is not actually going to a hay ride.  Instead, it's going to feed the sheep until it's time for the sheep to meet his maker.  In fact, this sheep and his goat friend are actually right on top of the van, too.

And when you see something like this:

Rest assured that these boys aren't going to the local petting zoo.  They are making their way to families eager to grill some boulfaf.

And, lastly, when you see something like this:

Know that it's not as innocent as it looks.  I'm scoping out Wednesday's lunch.  Am I heartless?  Maybe.  Am I protein-deprived?  That's more likely.

Every Monday, our town has an animal souk.  People from the small villages surrounding our town come down to sell and purchase livestock.  Today's animal souk was the largest I've ever seen, and the animal exchanging spread into the streets. How many sheep can you spot?

Every Moroccan we ask claims that Eid Al-Kabir is their favorite holiday.  The excitement in the air is palpable, and our friends keep asking if we are going to buy our own sheep (the answer is "no."  I thought the giant hook placed precisely over the floor drain in our courtyard was for flowers).  Our host family is excited for us to spend the day with them, and we're grateful to be spending this special holiday with people who have cared for us so kindly.  

We'll be sure to share more stories and photos once the big day passes.  In the meantime, know that we miss you.  A lot.

Guide for climbing Mt. Toubkal for those who are reasonably fit and reasonably motivated but not extremely fit or extremely prepared.

I know it’s a long title, but I wanted to make it very clear: this is not a guide for pros.  This is a guide for regular people, people who go on walks from time to time, people who like trail mix, people who think, “Yeah! Maybe I could give climbing Mt. Toubkal a go!”

Mt. Toubkal is, allegedly, the tallest mountain in North Africa.  Our little town is in the foothills of the same mountain range as Mt. Toubkal, and so it isn’t too far from where we live.  It is a popular place for trekkers, both foreign and domestic.  Before beginning our ascent, Pete and I read a lot of articles online claiming that anyone who is “reasonably fit” and “reasonably motivated” can tackle Mt. Toubkal.  So when our friend Kate came to visit, we thought it was the perfect opportunity to explore the mountain.  Online articles reported pleasant climbing weather in September, and we have hiking shoes and backpacks and Cliff Bars.  Perfect!

On day one, we hiked from the charming town of Imlil (where the trail begins) to the Toubkal Refuge.  According to the interweb, this walk should have taken us between 4.5-7 hours.  It took us every minute of those seven hours, and altitude sickness made the last few hours fairly miserable.  We spent the night at the refuge and hit the trail to the summit at 6:30 the next morning.  Nine hours later (again, much, much longer than it takes the average hiker), exhausted and frustrated but also proud, we returned to the Toubkal Refuge.  We spent the night there again.  Not everyone does this, but we just couldn’t imagine walking all the way back down to Imlil.  I’m glad we rested because our early morning hike back to Imlil the next day was cool, quiet, and beautiful.  Because we weren’t exhausted and cranky, we were really able to enjoy the beauty of the mountains.

Looking back, here are ten-tips for hiking Mt. Toubkal that I wish I had known:

1.  Nothing is as close as you think it is in Morocco.  As the crow flies, our town is practically in Toubkal’s backyard.  And yet, we still have to trek into Marrakech and then back out via a different road to get to the city closest to the trailhead.  Hours and hours of uncomfortable rides in squished taxis and bargaining with taxi drivers can make one grumpy.  And that summit?  MUCH further away than you think.  MUCH.

2. Mt. Toubkal is actually located in a national park.  But it’s not Yosemite, y’all.  Directional signs are impossible to find, and the trails are poorly maintained.  Bring a map and brush up on your Darija vocab for “lost” and “please help me.”

Excuse me, but can you tell us where the mountain is?

3. People might not help you.  Part of the local economy stems from foreigners who hire guides to help them navigate the mountain.  And some people even hire a donkey to take their supplies up.  So, if you don’t, if you are trekking alone and ask for directions, it’s possible that a local will simply refuse to help you.  We tried our best to charm everyone we met with both Darija and Tashelhit, but a few people just said “no.”  Or, they may say, “Give me 50 dirhams” and you will scoff at the injustice but eventually hand over 20 just to avoid dying in the cold, alone.

4. Plan to spend more money than you expect.  Carrying water is hard work, and they do sell it at the Toubkal Refuge.  You have to decide if it’s worth it to shell out twice the normal cost for a giant bottle of water or if you’d prefer to lug up several gallons on your back.  Want coffee in the morning?  It’ll cost you 10 dirhams for a glass of hot water, instant coffee, and powdered milk.  Keep in mind that all the refuge goodies have to be carried up by donkey.  But, still.  It stings a little bit.

Grateful for water, no mater how expensive.

4   5. Dress appropriately.  It gets really, really cold out there.  I ended up tying an extra tank top across my face to block the wind.  I wore a baseball hat to block the sun on day one, and I wore a wool cap to prevent frostbite on day two. It’s been said before, and I’ll say it again: wear layers.

Layers!!

     6. Altitude sickness is real.  And it’s awful.  Symptoms we experienced included fatigue, lack of appetite, headaches, shortness of breath, and (my favorite) general malaise.  My hands also swelled quite a bit, making my fingers look like little sausages.  Luckily, our symptoms were not too severe.  We made it to the summit, but you need to listen to your body and be gentle with yourself if altitude sickness rears its ugly head.

     7. Other people are going to be a lot faster than you.  We encountered people who flew from across the world JUST to climb Toubkal.  We met a man who was hiking Toubkal as training for an upcoming hiking trip in Nepal. There are some serious people on that mountain.  It doesn’t matter how slow you climb as long as you are safe and having a reasonable amount of fun.  Stop comparing yourself to other people and just do what you can.

A pace that works for us.

     8. Bring what you need to get a good night’s sleep in a room full of 25 bunk beds.  Its kind of fun to go to bed at 7:30pm at the Toubkal Refuge the night before you climb the summit.  It made me feel like I was sleeping at Everest Base Camp.  With lots of strangers who snore and have altitude-induced flatulence.   You may need earplugs and a pill to help you sleep soundly.   I did.

     9. Mountain climbing is not the same as hiking.  And I now know that I prefer just regular hiking.  Maybe that’s common sense, but it didn’t really sink in for me until we were gripping steep slopes with white-knuckles and then sliding back down on our bottoms.

     10. An unreasonable amount of determination can get you very, very far.

13,671 feet, fueled by the power of love.

Whether or not you make it to the top, spending time in Toubkal National Park will provide you with stunning views of Morocco’s landscape.  While these tips would have been helpful for me, they are by no means an official guide.  Do you research, be prepared for anything and everything, and trust yourself.  Trek Salama!