The Sculpting of an Infant

(Journal Entry from Benin 2007)

The sculpting of an infant. He called it an art. Get a stool and go watch them in the next room. You should know how to do it. I walked over to the curtain of the bedroom and peered inside. There sat the grandmother with her frail grandchild on her knees. The old woman wore a wrap up to her chest, her calves resting on the edge of a large basin set under her bare thighs. The tiny, transparent-colored infant lay splayed on her smooth dark skin, about to receive her first bath. I sat next to the baby’s mother to watch. Watch and learn.

The grandmother worked with firm, experienced hands. She didn’t handle the newborn with that touch of someone afraid to break the delicate creature just out of the womb. At her side were three buckets of water. One steamed, one stood quiet, and one held a mixture of both. The woman dipped a piece of fabric into the lukewarm water and squeezed it onto the baby’s skin. She lay the tiny girl on her belly and spread her buttocks to allow a trickle of water to clean the crevice. This was done repeatedly. As her right hand dipped the rag back in the water, her left hand squeezed the two buttocks cheeks together. She re-opened them for the trickle. She turned the baby on her back and repeated the process from that side. Water ran through the baby’s genitals and her minute arms reached out with stretched fingers at the sensation. It is to render them more sensitive she said.

Next was the head. After wetting the soft skull with the rag, the grandmother took a fishnet sponge sopping with soap suds and rubbed it in circles around the baby’s cranium. Soap covered the entire head. It must be getting in her eyes. The baby cried at the sting; the rubbing continued. I looked up to the grandmother’s beautifully shaped head. She was well-sculpted. Her hair was cut short to a simple black fuzz. I marveled at her smoothness; her bare shoulders and jutting collarbones. She was a strong woman, making a strong baby. Every part of the infant was lathered and scrubbed with the fish net. Contact with the gritty texture forms a tough layer of smooth skin.

With amazing confidence, she took the baby by one arm and dangled her whole weight on it. One arm, and then the next. The infant with puffed up eyelids gave little shrieks of high-pitched surprise, per perhaps pain. The grandmother held the two feet together in one hand and dangled her upside down. Before another sound of shock could emit the baby’s mouth, she’d taken her by the head and was dangling her by the neck. Setting the infant back on her thighs, the woman turned the baby’s head so that the chin touched the shoulders. One side, then the other. I held my breath, thinking it would surely crack that tiny neck in two. But the head held on to the body. The motion was fluid, natural, easy.

Then came the body shaping. She squeezed warm water onto the tiny chest, pressing hard, one hand supporting her back. Then she turned her over and squeezed hard on the back, running her forefinger straight down the spine and rubbing in circles at the tailbone. She ran her hands down her back and up her thighs to the buttocks, cupping firmly to form a round rump. The grandmother looked up at me and flashed her white-gapped teeth. She must have nice round butt cheeks. She did the same to the calves, pressing the flesh upwards from the ankles to the knee-caps. I thought of the people’s legs here, how I’d always wondered at their shape; long and thin with such high-set calf muscles. They are a well-sculpted people.

Thus concluded the first bath. Lotion and baby powder was applied generously. The baby had the rest of the day to sleep, suckle and grow.

The following day, I watched the second bath, eager to memorize the steps. At the end, the baby girl suffered her first feminine sacrifice. Her grandmother pierced the shaking and sobbing newborn’s ears with her bare hands. Now you are a beautiful girl.

The Boa's Den

(An old journal entry from Peace Corps Benin)

Friday, June 8, 2007.

I just went on a simply memorable adventure with two village hunters. Caitlin and I got up at dawn this morning to hike up the Shakaloke hill. We sipped on warm cups of mocha out of my thermos and drank in the scenery. Upon our return, Caitlin hastily left for Adourekouman, her village, in a government vehicle with her university colleagues. Once the excitement of the fancy automobile driving through the village had died down, I was called over by one of the town drunks sitting by my neighbor’s new little shop. I usually avoid any conversation with this drunk, because he tends to ramble in Idaatcha until I become so confused he finally explains in slurred French that he wants me to either have a drink with him or buy a round for him and his friends.

Today, seeing as I’d just refused sodabi from a bunch of women up the road and was then informed that my refusal meant that I had to buy them a bottle of the drink, I decided I should at least go and tell him hello and that my name is in fact Felicie and not Sylvie. He was sitting with a hunter named Richard. We exchanged words, and the conversation developed into something much more interesting than I had imagined. They asked me when I was planning on leaving the village to return to my foreign land and stated that I should never leave. I told them I would be replaced, and they replied no replacement would ever be as athletic and mobile as me. Apparently, over the two years I’d lived in Camate, this drunk whose name I’d never bothered to learn, had never ceased marveling at how much I run, bike, and hike. In his opinion, this was a good enough reason for me never to leave Camate. Or, he added, I should at least stay another ten years.

Conversation moved on to the wildlife in the hills around the village. Richard the hunter talked about what he hunts. He informed me there was a big boa constrictor near the village of Ekpa that recently laid 26 eggs! Seeing my curiosity and excitement at this bit of news, he offered to take me to see the newly hatched babies. I said “ok”, I was ready. He looked at me in surprise. Really? Are you sure? I nodded with a big smile and he got up to go change into his hunting clothes as I went home to put on mine.

Soon after, I heard his hunting dogs at the door. We set off in the company of one of my neighbors, Apolinaire the hunter. Fortunately, Apolinaire speaks adequate French, compared to Richard. We hiked to Ekpa, about two kilometers, and then climbed up the hill behind the Ifa Fetish house guarding the village entrance. Somewhere up there, the boa had her den. Hunters had been after her the past four months because she was reportedly feasting on villagers’ guinea fowl flocks. She had fled and sought refuge in a cave. We arrived to the mouth of the cave and Richard crawled in on his belly. The opening was barely two feet high. Apolinaire asked me if I was capable of going in. I was nervous, but decided that if they believed there was no danger, I was ready.

Bush rat droppings and moist, rich dirt blanketed the entrance. Richard was armed with various snake sticks and a rifle. He’d brought his flashlight, and I had my headlamp and camera. Apolinaire went in next, and I followed. The crawl space went upwards and became more and more narrow. I saw three iron traps set with open jaws, waiting for their slithering victim. There suddenly seemed to be little oxygen in that cramped space. Richard invited me to crawl up to the hole where I could see the babies he’d been trying to coax out. They explained the mother lay deeper in the hole and was not about to come out. I nevertheless imagined her storming out of the hole, mouth gaping, ready to bite our heads off. There was no hope of a quick retreat. The hunters urged me to go as deeply as possible and to shine my lamp down to the right. Light attracts them. I finally shimmied up past the hunters to the mouth of the hole and did as they told. I strained to see movement. Finally, I saw one. A shiny whitish head was peeking out from the rock, a hesitant tongue flickered. The men asked if I wanted them to try and get one of the babies out. They found my seeming anxiety humorous, so I figured there really was no danger. Try as he might, no boa came out, so Richard withdrew from the cave and Apolinaire helped me bring my camera back up to the hole to blindly photograph the vague area where I’d seen the baby’s head poke out.

Back out in the sunlight, we all looked at one another and laughed. We were plastered and encrusted in dirt. Richard went back in to re-set the traps while Apolinaire and I chatted amidst the rodent droppings and sleeping dogs. He asked if my stay here was almost over. It seems to be on everyone’s mind. They want to know when I plan to leave them, and they all say I should never go. He too said that if I get replaced it is not likely that this person would be so ready to be with the people. It is rare that someone would want to crawl way up a cave to see baby boas, and get so dirty in the process. You are as courageous as a man, he said. If I were God, I’d make it so you stayed.…

We walked back to Camate via the hilltop ridge. There was a phenomenal view of Camate at an angle I’d not yet seen. I grinned all the way home, very satisfied with the excursion. We sure turned heads, walking back; the three of us covered in dirt, one with a rifle, one barefoot, and well, me…

Amzmiz-Anougel Hike

Soon after ringing in the New Year in Essaouira, Jacy, Margie, and I headed to the mountains for some hiking. We took the bus from my site south to Amzmiz, an almost-city sprawled at the foot of the High Atlas. We first roamed the large Tuesday market, ducking into a dank kebab vendor’s stall for a cup of mint tea among a crowd of weathered mountain men huddled over steaming plates of bean stew. The quarters were so tight and the ceiling so low, Margie and I felt like Alice in Wonderland. We met up with Donniell, my sitemate in Amzmiz, and spent a languid afternoon at Maroc Lodge, playing cards and sipping beverages poolside. That night, Donniell made us a delectable dinner of steamed artichokes and garlic mayo, curry pumpkin soup, and a dessert of movie snacks fresh from America as we drooled over the film Julie and Julia.

The following morning, the three of us set off on our hike. We climbed the quiet little road to Anougel, a mountain commune I’d visited once by car with Batoul from Lalla Takerkouste. As to be expected, the views were magnificent. It took us a solid four hours to reach our destination, passing a few picturesque Berber villages along the way. We walked straight to the hikers’ guesthouse I’d seen before. It had been open and seemingly busy back in June, and I’d even talked to one of the managers about costs for a bed. Now, in chilly January, the door was firmly locked and there was no sign indicating it even was a guesthouse. We were tired and quite hungry. The prospect of hiking another 4 hours back down to Amzmiz loomed dreadfully. A young man walked by and gave me a questioning look as I hesitantly knocked on the door. I explained in Tash that we were looking for a place to sleep. He said the guesthouse was closed. They must only operate through Moroccan tour guides, with advance notice. I told him I’d come in June, and I knew Batoul, who works at the Commune down the road. I also added in Tash that we were hungry or “dying of hunger” as they say in Berber. The young man seemed quite amused and said “ok”. He retrieved the key for the guesthouse, let us in, and agreed to 30dh/person for the night. The house was basic but full of charm; the walls painted a bright pink, with stripes of blue on some of the pillars. I repeated that we were “dying of hunger” and he eagerly invited us to eat at his family’s house. We met his grandmother, a short, stout woman who loved the fact that we could communicate in Tashlheet. She apparently was accustomed to seeing French hikers come through because she’d adopted the classic “ouai” when she spoke. We drank tea and ate chicken tagine with the grandmother and a group of young women in another charming pink and blue sitting room. All the houses were built against the mountain side. The floors slanted noticeably downhill and the low ceilings all had skylights.

After lunch, the grandmother invited us to visit the rest of their house. There were a series of narrow staircases and winding hallways joining several houses together. The livestock was kept somewhere at the top of the houses, interestingly enough. We sat on one of the rooftop terraces and drank in the view; snowcapped mountains and green river valleys. The women instructed us to go explore the natural spring in the canyon down the road while they heated up the hammam for us. We gladly did as we were told. As darkness fell and the biting mountain air set in, the steamy little hammam felt like heaven. Feeling clean and exhausted, we happily sat down for another tagine dinner with grandmother. We chattered aimlessly in Tashleheet until they brought out a basket of mandarins and bananas for dessert. She encouraged us to eat as many as possible then lowered her voice and whispered to me that she can’t eat bananas. I gave her a questioning look, so she glanced uneasily at her grandson watching a soccer game a couple meters away before telling me through a mix of Berber and explicit charades that they made her privates itch. I quickly muttered a translation in English to the girls and they stopped eating. I wasn’t sure I’d understood correctly, but she repeated the charades several times, adding that if her granddaughter ate them, she had no problems, it was just her. I nodded sympathetically and we eventually bid everyone goodnight before hurrying back to the guesthouse. It was unbelievably cold. We dove under a minimum of 4 heavy wool blankets each and fell fast asleep. I smiled to myself as I realized I wouldn’t be able to look at a banana quite the same for a while.

New Year’s in Essaouira

At the end of December 2010, I received a visit from Margie and Jacy, friends who’d served in Peace Corps Benin with me. We hadn’t seen each other since 2007, when we were all still in Africa. Now both of them are in law school and had come to Morocco for their winter break. After they braved the blizzards on the East Coast and waited out the painful 48 hours of chaotic delays at JFK, we reunited with a seemingly endless stream of reminiscent stories from Benin plus three years of catching up. After a day in my village, we headed for Essaouira to spend New Years with a group of Volunteers. About a dozen of us PCVs and our holiday visitors rented out a Riad in the heart of the medina for a couple nights.

On the 31^st, Margie, Jacy, and I walked across the beach to the horses and kite surfers with the aim to go riding. I go there each time I visit this city, and I’ve dragged my friend Martin out horseback riding a couple times. I’ve learned a bit how the horse guides operate and managed to track down the one named Grek to get a good deal. I made sure to tell him we all knew how to ride and wanted good horses. Grek gave me his horse Silver, a beautiful grey. Jacy got Djambo, a young chestnut, and Margie got a big bay that looked an awful lot like Martin’s last horse, who the guides had affectionately nicknamed “son of a whore” for his apparent lack of spark. As we got moving though, it became clear he was a much different steed. He was spunky and rather jittery, and we later realized he didn’t have a traditional bridle on. He wore a glorified halter because as Grek explained, the horse otherwise tends to grab the bit in his mouth and run away.

We had a pleasant ride out, crossing Igrounzar River towards Diabat village and meandering through dune trails and the old palace ruins Jimi Hendrix is said to have visited in the late 60s. On the way back, the four stallions were rearing to run. As soon as we stepped onto the beach, Margie’s horse took off at a full gallop as she leaned back on the reins in a vain effort to stop him. This is when the non-bridle detail became especially noteworthy. It’s not nearly as effective at stopping a horse. Once we caught up to her, Grek had her get down and decided to give him his horse’s bridle. Margie understandably argued that if the bay horse doesn’t like the bridle, then she shouldn’t ride him with it on because he may lash out. Grek demonstrated that there was nothing to worry about but she wouldn’t have it, so he agreed to ride the bay while she took his more docile horse.

Once that was settled, Jacy and I galloped our even-tempered stallions side-by-side down the beach, feeling like we were in some sort of Ralph Lauren or Virginia Slims commercial. We eventually turned around to see Margie far behind, fighting to get her “calmer” horse to move. We watched her silhouette in the distance, arms flailing and legs kicking as the horse plodded along passively. Grek laughed and told her “I told you so” as they switched horses again. This time we all got a good couple gallops in before returning to the horse camp. It was smooth and exhilarating, a worthwhile 100dh!

That evening, after an afternoon of wandering the enchanting blue and white alleys of the medina and chomping on 5dh fresh sardine sandwiches, everyone gathered on the ramparts to watch the sun set over the Atlantic; an appropriate way to bid farewell to 2010. We returned to the Riad to drink wine amidst good company and humorous storytelling. Champagne bottles popped and a stream of silly toasts rang in the New Year. It was a memorable night. I rushed to bed after getting a warning bout of heartburn at about 1:30. My head was spinning so much though that I instead pulled on my running shoes, grabbed the house key, and dashed out into the cold deserted streets without a word to anyone. I ran a long loop around the medina, navigating somewhat drunkenly through the alleys I’ve thankfully grown to know well enough. I found a couple shops still open and bought a bag of chips before hurrying back to the Riad. The run and the junk food rid me of the spins, though it wasn’t my finest moment. I fell fast asleep. Thus began 2011.

Wed, Nov 17, 2010.

Mabrouk L3id! Today is the day, many sheep die. I went for a run at 7 and returned an hour later to hear loud prayer chants resonating across the commune, announcing this holy day of the Great Feast. I hurried to be at Naima’s house by 9am, in time for the sacrifice. I found Naima, her mother, and her older sisters at home with the children. They were still in their pajamas, busily at work in the kitchen. I sat and joined them for tea and cookies while the men made their way back from the Mosque. Fatima was making pan bread. She’s the quietest of the sisters. She sat in a corner of the kitchen pretty much all day. Batoul and Naima talk so much it’s surprising to see their sister is so different. Malika is the workhorse among the sisters. She’s always cleaning and getting her hands dirty. She has two children, Jalila and FtaH. There were 3 of Naima’s brothers at the house. One of them I frequently see on his motorcycle around town. The two others are from Agadir. One has an adorable 4-year old girl named Hiba, and his wife is 8-months pregnant. The other brother is father to a gangly and sweet little 10 year old girl named Acima, a 12 year old boy who always hangs around FtaH, and a new baby boy named Rbi3. The grandfather of the family is Ahmed, husband of Rkoush. Together, they make an adorable family.
After the men had their breakfast, they prepared the courtyard for the sacrifice. The oldest nephew helped the three brothers and their father with the huge task. They had 3 sheep to kill, skin, and cut up. One of the rams, the first to be sacrificed, was one of the biggest sheep I’ve ever seen. He was about the size of a Shetland pony: Tall, strong, and majestic. He had large curled horns on his proud head. As I sat in the kitchen chatting with Batoul and cooing over little Rabi3, I saw one of the brothers in his black hooded cloak pulling the beast past the doorway. Another smaller ram lay tied against the wall, braying. The women said they don’t usually watch the sacrifice, so before I knew it, FtaH ran in to fetch my camera and take photos. I hurried out to watch. They’d already slit the throat of the biggest ram. He lay with his head barely attached, as a pool of bright red blood covered a large part of the courtyard. They were bleeding him. He was still alive and kicking. At one point, his body heaved as if the animal was taking a deep breath, and his severed esophagus made a gurgling sound. The nerves to his brain were also severed, so I kept reminding myself the animal couldn’t feel anything. His legs kicked violently as blood continued to squirt out of his neck.
The women kept calling me inside to have more tea and pancakes. I finally went in but later witnessed the second sacrifice. Now that there were two dead sheep in the courtyard, there was much work to be done. Malika and Naima helped sweep all the blood down the drain. The men hung up the sheep and skinned them after blowing air through a hole in its leg so the skin would detach more easily. They handed the women the organs to clean up. The liver and heart were brought to the kitchen to be boiled as they cleaned the stomach and intestines of all their contents and removed the lining of stomach fat. Later, the boiled liver was cut up into squares, wrapped in fat, and skewered for a noontime barbecue. Every house in Morocco was doing the same thing; preparing a lunch of organ and stomach fat kebabs. The first kebabs were brought to me to eat sprinkled with salt and cumin, wrapped in bread. I was uneasy about eating sheep liver but I had to try it. It didn’t taste too bad. The stomach fat didn’t go down as easy, but I swallowed it all slowly, getting away with eating just one.
Afterwards, as everyone busied themselves with cooking kebabs or cleaning all the organs, blood and bits of sheep, I ran home to grab hydrocortisone cream for Acima, who’d developed hives from new clothes purchased especially for the celebration. I ran into my neighbor the Haj on my way back out the door. He asked me to come say hello and have a kebab. I decided to accept his invitation despite some previous electricity pirating issues in the past. They are my new neighbors after all. They’d moved in to the new house the day before. The walls are all unpainted and some were missing the last coat of cement, but otherwise it’s looking good. He gave me a little tour and took me to the kitchen where his sister and wife were cooking kebabs. This family had sacrificed a smaller sheep and a goat. Goats have less cholesterol, so some families kill a smaller sheep plus a goat for those with cholesterol problems. We all ate a kebab together while the Haj’s two young children giggled excitedly and played peek-a-boo with me. Before long I thanked them and excused myself from the awkward silences, as Acima was waiting for my hydrocortisone cream. I went back to Naima’s, put the cream on her niece, and sat in the living room with the women a while before continuing to Malika’s house in early evening. She was boiling sheep meat in the kitchen while Larbi was cleaning up the last of the entrails of their sheep on the roof. They insisted I stay for dinner: a platter of steamed meat served with salt, cumin, and bread on the side. I ate a couple mouthfuls and announced that I was “meated-out” and getting heartburn from all the sheep. It wasn’t a lie. They know of my aversion to meat so they didn’t push it. We sat together a while chatting. Larbi told me this year was special because he’d been given en entire five days off work at the mine for the Eid. I joked that he’d better spend it eating sheep to fuel his frail body for the remainder of the year working non-stop.
At 8:30, Malika and I joined Naima and her nieces to go watch the musicians in the village center. We sat in the street among a gaggle of women and girls waiting for the music as the Boujloud and Tamashut ran around terrorizing youths. There were 3 Boujlouds and several Tamashuts. The Boujlouds dress in goat skins, covered head to toe in it. Every time they passed by, the unmistakable billy goat stench wafted in my face. I wouldn’t make it 5 minutes in those costumes. These young men spend an entire day running around the village making grunting noises and chasing people with sticks. From my understanding, the Tamashuts are supposed to resemble cats. They paint their skin black and stick cotton balls on their faces. They look more like they’ve been tarred and feathered. Naima explained that each day of the Eid, a different group of boys dress up in the costumes. The stronger, older boys are Boujlouds and the younger, weaker ones are tamashuts because the costume isn’t as constricting. Their aim is to drive out evil spirits from the village. They run around smacking people with sticks until they give them a dirham. I was smacked a couple of times.
The music began at 10pm or so and lasted a few hours. Young men and children entered the circle, shuffling and bouncing along with the Berber music. The girls and women remained seated and huddled on the outside, sporting their elegant new clothes and giggling secretively with their friends. Naima and I retired from the cold and hurried home to our beds by midnight. Thus ended my experience of this joyous Moroccan holiday.