Shut down
I just experienced some of my first real cultural struggles tonight ... I kinda shut down.
My friends and I were over at Nicole's house (the current volunteer who works in Khenifra) to hang out and enjoy another round of Peace Corps gossip. My family had said that we would be eating couscous (my favorite meal here) for L-Eshiya (the 11PMish dinner). I said I would be home before 11PM.
I arrived at 10:30ish and found the house empty, save little Sara (11). She instantly whisked me away to another home around the corner. I fretted that the meal was already in progress and "the American" was being rude and showing up late when a lot of people were expecting me. It turned out that I was the first, not last guest to arrive. Sara left me there with some unintelligible explanation of the whereabouts of our family. There I sat with a vaguely familier man on the floor cushions while his wife flurried about in preparation. We chatted ... or stumbled through Diresia, as best I could speak.
One by one the crowd called my family piled in, and subltely the men sifted themselves to a room further back to celebrate the holiday. (CULTURE POINT: This night is called the Night of Power, the night near the end of Ramadan when the Qu'ran supposedly was given from Heaven and everyone stays up all night praying. Whatever you pray for this night is supposed to come true.) Even Anis, my little brother of 15, was eventually chided to remove himself to the men's table. For some reason this all bothered me a bit (it never had before much, but maybe that was because it had not really occurred much before). I looked around at the dozen women and children crowded together around the low, round table. They were all chatting and using guestures, trying to speak to me. Suddenly I grew tired of diciphering tid bits of language and pulling verbs out of my head, trying to conjugate them, and then ending up that I completely misunderstood what they were saying. A dozen heads peering at me, laughing at me, and demanding "Kuli! Kuli!" (eat! eat!).
It got worse. They brought out the main entree .. it wasn't the couscous I'd been promised but a tagine of vegetables and turkey .. turkey! It was THE turkey that had stared and clucked at me, his legs bound together, and startled me when I was walking down the stairs in our home that afternoon. Now I had to eat him. They took his biggest leg (blatantly a leg, skin, bones and all) and shoved it at me while they proceeded to divide up the rest by lottery. No one was eating but I was supposed to dive in. My stomach churned. All I could see was his pitiful face looking up at me from the floor. I slowly broke off some bread and peeled back his skin and ate.
I supposed my mental anguish was somewhat apparent as they asked if I was sick or needed to sleep. I assured them I was fine and tried to melt into the background. The couscous eventually arrived, but I was full and wanted to crawl in a hle. I forced myself up again (it was now midnight) and stuffed more food down my esophogas. My stomach hurt. I refused more meat and sufficed with a mandarin to finish. FInally Mama Amina suggested that Hajar take me home to bed. I fled with pleasure.
Nothing about the situation seemed too tramatizing, but maybe just a cumulation of similar circumstances provoked my strange reactions.
My friends and I were over at Nicole's house (the current volunteer who works in Khenifra) to hang out and enjoy another round of Peace Corps gossip. My family had said that we would be eating couscous (my favorite meal here) for L-Eshiya (the 11PMish dinner). I said I would be home before 11PM.
I arrived at 10:30ish and found the house empty, save little Sara (11). She instantly whisked me away to another home around the corner. I fretted that the meal was already in progress and "the American" was being rude and showing up late when a lot of people were expecting me. It turned out that I was the first, not last guest to arrive. Sara left me there with some unintelligible explanation of the whereabouts of our family. There I sat with a vaguely familier man on the floor cushions while his wife flurried about in preparation. We chatted ... or stumbled through Diresia, as best I could speak.
One by one the crowd called my family piled in, and subltely the men sifted themselves to a room further back to celebrate the holiday. (CULTURE POINT: This night is called the Night of Power, the night near the end of Ramadan when the Qu'ran supposedly was given from Heaven and everyone stays up all night praying. Whatever you pray for this night is supposed to come true.) Even Anis, my little brother of 15, was eventually chided to remove himself to the men's table. For some reason this all bothered me a bit (it never had before much, but maybe that was because it had not really occurred much before). I looked around at the dozen women and children crowded together around the low, round table. They were all chatting and using guestures, trying to speak to me. Suddenly I grew tired of diciphering tid bits of language and pulling verbs out of my head, trying to conjugate them, and then ending up that I completely misunderstood what they were saying. A dozen heads peering at me, laughing at me, and demanding "Kuli! Kuli!" (eat! eat!).
It got worse. They brought out the main entree .. it wasn't the couscous I'd been promised but a tagine of vegetables and turkey .. turkey! It was THE turkey that had stared and clucked at me, his legs bound together, and startled me when I was walking down the stairs in our home that afternoon. Now I had to eat him. They took his biggest leg (blatantly a leg, skin, bones and all) and shoved it at me while they proceeded to divide up the rest by lottery. No one was eating but I was supposed to dive in. My stomach churned. All I could see was his pitiful face looking up at me from the floor. I slowly broke off some bread and peeled back his skin and ate.
I supposed my mental anguish was somewhat apparent as they asked if I was sick or needed to sleep. I assured them I was fine and tried to melt into the background. The couscous eventually arrived, but I was full and wanted to crawl in a hle. I forced myself up again (it was now midnight) and stuffed more food down my esophogas. My stomach hurt. I refused more meat and sufficed with a mandarin to finish. FInally Mama Amina suggested that Hajar take me home to bed. I fled with pleasure.
Nothing about the situation seemed too tramatizing, but maybe just a cumulation of similar circumstances provoked my strange reactions.
posted by Rachel Beach | 11:47 AM
2 Comments:
oh, Rachel. you have to have some bad days so you know when you have good ones. "And surely I am with you always, even to the end of the ages". Matthew 28:20.
it was so funny to hear about the turkey dinner. i can just imagine your "tender" stomach churning. You look good and healthy. We are here with Dawn, hoping to help her heal from "mono" with a week of parent care, beach, sun, movies, and S4ing. Dawn, says, don't forget the car. Had lots of deep, interesting conversations, wish you were here. We have a huge house right on the beach. Final assignment (town) Agdez sounds like comfortable temperature. What else sounds like fun for your package? Love and miss you, Mom, Dad and Dawn
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