This is another post about a celebration. Unsurprisingly, many of the noteworthy events have to do with family milestones (weddings, births, etc), since life revolves around family ties. This one was of the baby shower variety, for lack of a better term. Instead of celebrating during a pregnancy, like in the States, here the party comes a week to a month after the birth, with a little tiny ugly wrinkly baby that generally doesn't look ready to be fussed over.
A few weeks ago, I went with my host mom and sister at about 10 pm on a Sunday up the hill to a very small village called Tichoute that's perched on a hill overlooking Ain Leuh. Tichoute reminds me of Idelsane (our training village) in that all the houses are in one clump, and everyone is extraordinarily friendly.
The initial part of the festivities was no surprise: waiting for hours to start dinner, then more courses than anyone could possibly actually eat. This time it was three entire roast chickens for our table of six or seven adults, followed by a huge plate of beef with eggs and prunes, followed by sffa, which is a traditional Moroccan dish consisting of angel hair pasta with powdered sugar, cinnamon, and usually some kind of nuts on top. This time it had what was more or less peanut butter on top (which does not exist here--I was SO EXCITED. Small pleasures.)
When my host sister finally gestured to me that it was time to go, I figured 1 am was practically early for something like this to end. I was sadly mistaken. Instead of leaving, we went up onto the roof of the house and sat on folding chairs for another 30 or 40 minutes waiting for everyone to come up. The women of the family were busy cleaning and bringing plates of leftover food to neighbors. Finally, two men with a violin and a drum, and two women dressed up in traditional Berber garb come up onto the roof, and the music starts.
On a chilly, totally silent June night on the roof of a house in a tiny village, it is very quiet. During the day, you can hear all sorts of animals (sheep, goats, donkeys, chickens, dogs), TVs, music from cell phones, and kids playing in the street, but at night, there's no ambient noise. That made the violin, steel frame drum, and (occasionally sort of screechy, sorry) singing seem incredibly loud, at 1:30 am, in this tiny but densely populated village where cement and dirt walls are always thinner than they seem.
I cringed a little, and thought back to the time I came this close to calling in a noise complaint when our neighbor's music at 4 am in Flatbush was rattling the change off my shelf last winter. I wondered if it was socially acceptable to be annoyed at your neighbors for being loud in the middle of the night. I also wondered if staying up all night and listening to loud music in a large group of people were the most soothing activities for a newborn and her (doubtless exhausted) parents.
But then, to my amazement, over the course of the 40-minute first song, people started to materialize out of the nearby houses. Instead of sitting inside fuming, like I probably would have done, they came out to enjoy the music. Teenagers, adults, grandparents, mostly men but some women, too, all dragged out plastic stools to their front stoops or perched on the edges of their own roofs and sat silently watching the dancing. I have no idea if they were actually happy to have some music, or just making the best out of a sleepless hour or so, but it struck me that I can't imagine a similar situation in any place in the United States that I've ever visited.
We left early, after 2 am, when the musicians were only taking a break between songs, and the young children present were finally starting to fade. The night left me wondering if I would feel differently the next time music from next door kept me up late, and if the increased tolerance would transfer back to Brooklyn. Even though the music itself wasn't my favorite, I do love a community that appreciates and gathers around music, and it made me miss my many musically-inclined friends from back home (though our late-night singing was usually of a different sort).
Keep the emails coming! It's really nice to hear from people. And I have a mailing address now, so email me if you would like it. Love from the Maghreb.
A few weeks ago, I went with my host mom and sister at about 10 pm on a Sunday up the hill to a very small village called Tichoute that's perched on a hill overlooking Ain Leuh. Tichoute reminds me of Idelsane (our training village) in that all the houses are in one clump, and everyone is extraordinarily friendly.
The initial part of the festivities was no surprise: waiting for hours to start dinner, then more courses than anyone could possibly actually eat. This time it was three entire roast chickens for our table of six or seven adults, followed by a huge plate of beef with eggs and prunes, followed by sffa, which is a traditional Moroccan dish consisting of angel hair pasta with powdered sugar, cinnamon, and usually some kind of nuts on top. This time it had what was more or less peanut butter on top (which does not exist here--I was SO EXCITED. Small pleasures.)
When my host sister finally gestured to me that it was time to go, I figured 1 am was practically early for something like this to end. I was sadly mistaken. Instead of leaving, we went up onto the roof of the house and sat on folding chairs for another 30 or 40 minutes waiting for everyone to come up. The women of the family were busy cleaning and bringing plates of leftover food to neighbors. Finally, two men with a violin and a drum, and two women dressed up in traditional Berber garb come up onto the roof, and the music starts.
On a chilly, totally silent June night on the roof of a house in a tiny village, it is very quiet. During the day, you can hear all sorts of animals (sheep, goats, donkeys, chickens, dogs), TVs, music from cell phones, and kids playing in the street, but at night, there's no ambient noise. That made the violin, steel frame drum, and (occasionally sort of screechy, sorry) singing seem incredibly loud, at 1:30 am, in this tiny but densely populated village where cement and dirt walls are always thinner than they seem.
I cringed a little, and thought back to the time I came this close to calling in a noise complaint when our neighbor's music at 4 am in Flatbush was rattling the change off my shelf last winter. I wondered if it was socially acceptable to be annoyed at your neighbors for being loud in the middle of the night. I also wondered if staying up all night and listening to loud music in a large group of people were the most soothing activities for a newborn and her (doubtless exhausted) parents.
But then, to my amazement, over the course of the 40-minute first song, people started to materialize out of the nearby houses. Instead of sitting inside fuming, like I probably would have done, they came out to enjoy the music. Teenagers, adults, grandparents, mostly men but some women, too, all dragged out plastic stools to their front stoops or perched on the edges of their own roofs and sat silently watching the dancing. I have no idea if they were actually happy to have some music, or just making the best out of a sleepless hour or so, but it struck me that I can't imagine a similar situation in any place in the United States that I've ever visited.
We left early, after 2 am, when the musicians were only taking a break between songs, and the young children present were finally starting to fade. The night left me wondering if I would feel differently the next time music from next door kept me up late, and if the increased tolerance would transfer back to Brooklyn. Even though the music itself wasn't my favorite, I do love a community that appreciates and gathers around music, and it made me miss my many musically-inclined friends from back home (though our late-night singing was usually of a different sort).
Keep the emails coming! It's really nice to hear from people. And I have a mailing address now, so email me if you would like it. Love from the Maghreb.
No comments:
Post a Comment