The Agonies of Hospitality

12/29/2005 10:36 PM

I never dreamed the thing that would bother me the most in Morocco would be that which the Moroccans are most famous for: their warm hospitality. My outings today ended with a heated discussion with a good friend over just this issue. I had been sitting at a café with him and his friends who owned the café. They urged me to stay for dinner and I refused. I had already breached my frustration levels before going and was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening; but when they kept pressuring me to stay longer, eat more, drink more, have some "water of life", meet them on New Year’s Eve at the cafe before we went to a campground for a party, insisting I make a decision, I grew angrier and more frustrated. When they did not stop but kept begging another five minutes, I finally stood up and said I was leaving. My friend paid for me and we departed. I was visibly unhappy and he was certain I was angry with him but misunderstood why. You’re afraid, I can see it. No! I kept insisting, I am frustrated, do you understand frustrated? No. Okay… how do I explain this… when people here, you, your friends, your family, my family, all the people here keep insisting that I drink more, eat more, stay longer, do this, do that… sometimes it bothers me, it frustrates me. Sometimes I can’t handle it. He kept replying that we were friends and that I was a good, beautiful person and that all the people in Agdz liked me, because I would go to people’s houses and go to tea and greet to everyone. I explained that I knew everyone welcomed me and begged me to stay because they liked me and were being very nice. I understood that, but I begged him to understand that sometimes it was just too much, just overwhelming and I needed to go slowly, “Sometimes I need to rest, to be alone, to recuperate.” It was a clash of cultures. Him insisting that we were friends, that he was like my brother and wanted to acquaint me with the ways of Moroccans, to take me around and introduce me to everyone so that I could prosper here. I sincerely thanked him for that. However I kept trying to get him to understand that the very hospitality he proclaimed everyone was extending to me, at times, was the very thing that agonized my soul and made it scream for air.

I think in the end, if not in words, our looks and behavior finally got both his points across to me and mine to his. He still kept asking if I had time tomorrow so he could take me around and introduce me to people while I kept saying, maybe, maybe not. Just let me tell you tomorrow. Okay, I have a solution, he announced. I will send you a message: Are you free? You can send one back, yes or no. Okay, Raja. Okay, le la saida! (Good night!)

I stampeded into my host families' home realizing the dinner I had tried so valiantly to return for was well over. The family coolly greeted me. I decided any acts of independence combined with warm gestures toward my family would be beneficial and might still preserve my sanity which was hovering at the door of my soul, undecided whether to stay or go. I grabbed the bananas I had bought at the souq, and the two bags of milk I had bought in the afternoon, pulled down the blender from on top of the fridge, and proceeded to make a banana milk shake. Those few simple acts felt like I was shouting and kicking in rebellion like a little child, trying to prove I I wasn’t a baby any more. Baba Houssaine charged in to take control, his way of helping me. I asked where the sugar was. He presented the new cones of sugar and proceeded to break apart a few pieces with a glass cup. I almost took the pieces and put them in the blender, but he stopped me with a quick motion of the hand (which always arouses internal annoyance), and told me it had to be ground first. I helplessly stood by to watch while he located a mortor and pestle. He washed them, dried them with a towel, heated them over the butagas stove, dried them with paper and finally proclaimed them suitable for grinding. Still I could not wrest them from him. He took the sugar, placed everything on the floor and ground the sugar for me. He poured the contents in a saucer and placed it in front of me. Finally it was ready. The blender wouldn’t work. We had to use a knife to wedge the on-switch into the on position. I thought I might cry if I couldn’t even accomplish making a banana milk shake. It worked. I blended. We had banana milk shakes. I poured it evenly between five glasses and triumphantly entered the family room. Iman and Lakabira half grinned and thanked me. The thought entered my head that maybe they wouldn’t like it and would think I was rebelling by coming home too late to eat their food and then trying to force my own concoction on them. When I returned a second time, however, their cups were empty. Back in the kitchen I found Houssane already frying onions and tomatoes, having seen me make Huevos Rancheros before. He understood me better than the rest, I believe, and I sometimes find consolation in our times in the kitchen, hiding out, going against convention by making American tea or Mexican eggs. I brought the pan of eggs and a fork into the family room and the ladies quickly confirmed they wanted nothing to do with it. I ate with a fork, yet another act of defiance. By the time the pan was empty, my spirits had returned. I smiled and laid my head in Iman’s lap, contented, amazed what those little proceedings had done to mend my frame of mind.