Movin' on Over: Adventures in Nesting

After nearly four months of playing house guests with two radically different, but equally wonderful Moroccan families, Amber and I are finally seeing the end of the tunnel. We have signed the rental agreement on our own house, which we move into in the beginning of July! A short jaunt across the street and up the hill from our current resting place, the house stands in an open foothill surrounded by sparsely planted adolescent fruit trees. Neighboring houses are a comfortable distance away, the closest belonging to our studious tutor, Samira and the rest of her quiet and lovable family. The one-story, adobe house is laid out in a square shape surrounding a large, open courtyard shaded by two mature olive trees and trellised grapevines hanging from bamboo latticework. In addition to a modest kitchen, bathroom, and two long skinny rooms (for living-room and bedroom), there are also three smaller nondescript rooms and a traditional “rocket-ship” hammam for bathing. Unaccustomed to having so much space, we are hoping to use one of our free rooms for housing a modest band of chickens, which we have been advised should not be kept outside because of the feral dogs. We would also like to get a cat, but assuming the cat doesn’t need his/her own room, we are still stuck with deciding what to do with the other two empty rooms. Inspired by the Moroccan style of furniture use, we are largely planning to own portable furniture which can be picked up, modified, and relocated to fit the activity, weather, and number of people of any situation. For example, depending on the time of day and the weather, I have eaten meals in at least 6 different locations in my host families house. Most people in Morocco do not even have a designated bedroom, choosing instead to sleep wherever it is most comfortable, which in the summer is often outside in the courtyard or on the roof (Oh and by the way, there is a stairway up to the roof in case we decide to sleep under the moon on hot summer nights). As a result, it is likely that we will buy enough furniture to comfortably furnish one room and then just move that stuff around with us as needed. Of course, that isn’t as easy as driving down to the nearest IKEA. We have been doing all our shopping in the excitement and bustle of the weekly souq.
Upon seeing the beautiful rental house, we quickly realized that we would have to repaint many of the walls, which had been uniquely decorated by the previous tenant. We also wanted to start pricing things to see what was available and what we could afford. This meant a trip to the next slightly larger town for its Monday souq. After a two-hour tutoring session in the morning on the following Monday, we walked out of class just in time to catch a taxi headed in the right direction. “Are you going to the next town?”, I asked in TashlHite. “Yella”(come on then), the driver replied with a smile and an intonation that seemed to say “where have you been, I‘ve been waiting?”. We joined the rest of the passengers for the dusty trip that crisscrosses the river down the valley. As we neared the center of the next town, there was no mistaking that it was souq day, traffic slowing to a crawl behind donkeys, and vegetable-laden handcarts. This slow, taxi creep through a souq town is what I call “Moroccan window shopping”. While most of the souq exists within the walls of a large designated plaza, venders spill out onto the main streets showing off there goods to the passersby. Finally at the taxi stand, we got out, paid our fare, and found a friend, who lives nearby and offered to help us shop. Darting into the souq plaza, she introduced us to some her family that work in the souq selling carpets, blankets and pillows. From there we wondered the souq inquiring about the prices of everything from mattresses to stoves, dutifully writing down prices for later comparison. The price we were quoted on a pair of short wooden tables was just too good to pass up (talked down to 180DH for both), and soon we found ourselves hauling tables through the congested souq arteries. Satisfied with our price finding and table purchases, we snaked our way out of souq and headed to the hardware t’Hanut(store) in order to buy some paint.
Painting in Morocco, as it turns out, is nothing like painting in America. This is because in Morocco, the only color of house paint that you can buy is white. Instead of buying the color of paint that you want, you buy white paint and mix it with small bottles of tint which are available in a few expected colors. Although it is possible to use multiple tints and get creative with your mixing, the major quirk with this approach is that everything ends up pastel. I mean think about it; it doesn’t matter how many tubes of red you mix with white paint, your just going to end up with a brighter shade of pink! Originally planning to paint out salon (living room) a deep red color, after seeing the pepto-bizmal color that another volunteer created while attempting to make red, we relegated ourselves to colors of lighter saturation. With the knowledge of this new cruel reality, I suddenly saw Morocco with new eyes. Everywhere I looked, I saw pastels; walls, doors, signs; it was everywhere. Darker colors can be acquired in small quantities, but they are expensive and are used only for detailing to offset the excessive use of pastel. In fact all paint in Morocco is expensive. As a result, it is common practice for painters to dilute their paint with water in order to stretch its coverage, the result of which (partially translucent coats of paint) can be witnessed all over Morocco. It is particularly common to see one wall, in a room of four, with a much thinner grade of paint. This, you can be sure, was the last wall to be painted. Wanting to avoid this visual effect and not knowing how much surface the paint would cover, we apprehensively asked the hardware store attendant for a 30 kilo (about 65lbs) can of white paint. Then we went to work trying to order the right 5 colors of tint without any language (they speak Darija Arabic instead of TashlHite in this town) by leaning over the counter and pointing to things that were roughly the color we wanted. Meanwhile 6ft away, out of cover of the awning above us, the dirt on the ground began to sputter and darken with heavy rain drops. By the time we paid the exorbitant fee for our paint, sheets of rain were pouring from the clouds and muddy pools had formed in the streets and dips all over town. With Amber carrying the two tables and me carrying the 30kilo paint bucket and other painting accoutrements, we stumbled through the heavy rain and splashing mud to the taxi stand. Leaving Amber and the paint under a nearby awning, I ran, soaking wet, to find a taxi heading back home. I quickly found one with two seats available and rushed back for Amber. Under pouring rain, the driver strapped the tables to the roof of the cab and made room in the trunk for the paint. From there we maneuvered our way through the busy streets to a nearby Bufrron (bread bakery) where one of the passengers-a talkative and excitable middle aged women sitting in middle of the cab-needed to pick up fresh bread for her family. The driver, who wore a pink towel on his head hanging off his shoulders like a cape, got out of his seat, retrieved the bread and spent a few minutes under the hood of the taxi before wiping off the windshield one last time with his sleeves and getting back in. His wiping didn’t help for long, and with no working windshield wipers and the rain getting worse, visibility was poor. His resulting caution, however, made for an unusually relaxing ride and soon the women in the center seat was tearing off fresh steaming pieces of bread and passing them around to the soggy passengers, who in turn commenced jovial conversation and mutual appreciation all around. Though we had set out that morning to begin building a home for ourselves with paint and furniture, on this unusual and saturated day, we had found ourselves feeling at home in the warmth and comfort of a sodden taxi cab, in the company of loving strangers.