Touria's Wedding

Touria and I

I have been avoiding weddings whenever possible, after my last experience of being made to dance almost solo in front of three hundred women this past winter. However, my tutor, Touria, is getting married this week (notice I say "getting", as it is a week-long event). I put on a brave face and hopped in a taxi to Ouarzazate, arriving around 7pm last night.

Weddings here consist of 3-7 nights of partying, with everyone resuming most normal activities during the day. I really couldn't imagine people in the United States taking off a whole week of work to go to a wedding. In some ways, I like it... it extends the celebration... in America, we spend 6-12 months planning for one day.

Father-of-the-brides

Last night was day 2: younger girls/women partying inside the four-story home; men sitting outside in utter boredom on carpets under great tents. You can always tell who is having a wedding: spanning from the front door are walled-in tents covering an acre or so. I was immediately ushered into a stuffy room, ruffled with brightly-clothed wedding girls, either dancing in the center of the room, or seated around the edges/on the floor, trying not to get stepped on. Touria and her sister, (two brides is quite common here) were being decorated with henna hand and foot treatments, sitting utterly still with stiff smiles against a backdrop of gaudy gold and green... wearing matching bedecked kaftans, massive gold-plate jewelry about their necks, crowns on their heads.

Brides & Grooms before a dinner together

The Henna of a bride

I always feel sorry for the brides, because they have to sit on these thrones for a week straight and smile at everyone dancing in front of them, singing to them, doing things to them; helpless in their adornment. I slipped up beside them, assured them of their beauty, and was pulled into the gears of the shuffling, hand-waving dancers. Someone rushed me off to don a coffee-colored Kaftan.

(This lady was the ringleader... shouting and grabbing us, pulling us into the gyrating circle)

I'm not sure when the gathering began, but probably a good several hours earlier. It was seven PM. The next six hours were the same. Dancing, sitting, drinking mint tea, dancing sitting, drinking mint tea. Thankfully there were present 1) a well-to-do Moroccan from Boston, so I could chat freely in English when Arabic overwhelmed me and 2) Habiba, the mother of an Agdzian family whom I cherish.

Henna feet, slippered feet, nylon-covered feet.. covering every square inch.

I spent much of my time making new girlfriends, trading cell phone numbers, chatting away with them until a new one walked up and gasped upon discovering I was speaking Arabic. Every new conversation started with questions regarding to the facts that 1) I live in Morocco, 2) Agdz is very hot 3) I took an Arabic name, Raja 4) My American name is Rachel, (which comes out "watchel"), 5) I changed my name b/c it is hard to say, it is hard to say, isn't it? 6) I work with traditional handicrafts 7) Touria is my tutor 8) I've lived in Morocco 11 months, and yes, I've learned this much Arabic in that amount of time, etc. Again and again. I enjoy the enthusiasm, warm hospitality and friendliness of everyone I meet, but that itself, whenever put in a new situation, grows tiring quickly. After a while, a few of the girls started giving the whole introduction in rapid-fire Arabic before a girl could interrogate me. Then we could just laugh and have fun together.

Peeking out the windows

Whenever the hustle in the room drew volumes of sweat to my brow, I would wander out to the stairwells and stare out. The men in the tents below were suffering from an entirely different dynamic. Contrasting to the crowded, hyper, brightly-decorated women above, then men sat on carpets, spread far out across the gravel lawn, drinking mint tea, praying when the mosque rung out the call-to-prayer, and staring into space. They all wore white, and looked as if they were hardly even conversing. My first reaction to seeing girls staring out the windows at the men: ah, see, we women are trapped inside. Second reaction: girls have more fun. I felt quite sorry for the men, and guessed they all must be wondering what insanity was going on behind closed doors, the volume of screeches and chanting emanating from the windows.

(The men, below, all praying toward Mecca)

I compared this "bachelorette party" if you will, to one in the states, and an little smile grew on my face. Trying to imagine American girls dressed up in layer upon layer of shiny fabrics, the largest-buttoxed women flaunting all their glory (fat = beautiful here) with a dizzying rotation of their rears in a way, I'm still not quite sure is physically possible, if you weren't born into it. For maybe ten hours straight they do nothing but sit or dance on top of each other, a few cookies here or there, singing and shouting chants at the top of their lungs at the brides, while the brides smiled back... 10-hour old smiles. Compared to a quick mind-picture from a recent bachelorette party: fifteen girls sitting at the cheesecake factory, eating scrumptious dinners, making the bride-to-be open scandalous lingerie all tied up in ribbons; and then exiting to the streets, our thirty spiked-heels clacking against the cobblestone streets of Boulder, CO. Yes, this is not America.


At 10:30, I meekly requested a bit of food... and the ladies kindly scolded me for not having eaten before I came, rushing me off the the kitchen... the females' wedding dinners are served after the their male counterparts below... and ours wasn't served until 2:30AM. By that time, all the women were either engaging in some sort of rear-rotating marathon dance party or fallen all over the wall couches, sleeping whenever possible.. jerking awake as each new song started...at high decibles. I slept on Habiba's knee... feeling very emotionally attached to her at the moment and appreciating a mother's lap to rest in, in such a foreign, exhiliarating but exhausting environment.

At 2:30 small round tables were sqeezed between us. Out came massive plates of whole chickens, followed by piles of lamb stewed with figs, accompanied by Coca Cola and heaps of bread. When that was all cleared way, slices of melons and watermelon (fruit being the typical desert here) were distributed. I forced myself to eat, the tender meats and refreshing fruits to good to pass up, and the commands to partake, to overbearing to ignore.

Finally, at 3AM, the tables were cleared away and women disappeared in a shuffle. The remaining guests, all of us from out-of-town, changed from Kaftans to pyjamas, returned to the salons, lay down on the carpets in rows, rock-hard decor pillows under our heads. One of my new-found friends bid me to sleep next to her. She covered my arms with a corner of her soft shawl and I sighed in bliss... we could sleep! I thought.

The woman against the wall began chattering as if they were walking down a busy New York street and had to shout to make themselves heard. They kept chatting and laughing. I, though not finding it unusual here, am still always surprised at the utter lack of concern for sleeping individuals, or the expectation that they would sleep through the communication storm. But sleep they did ... I realized. I started counting the snores about me... got up to about seven, while they were still talking. Raja!? One of the chatterboxes called out. "Nam?" You speak Arabic? My girlfriend hurredly answered the list of imminent questions for me, and I leaned over to Habiba.. "you see, this is my life! :)" She laughed. The lady proceeded to interrogate me about work, and then turned to politics. Do you have some thoughts about Israel and Lebanon? I sighed softly, this time in misery. "Um... I'm sorry, but I'm really tired right now..." She got the hint. Somehow, eventually, we all drifted off to sleep.