The Longest Picnic EVER

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Hi everyone! Not a lot to report today, but I thought I'd let you all know about a fun little adventure I recently had.

Last Sunday my young adult class from Jamayat Tawasul decided to take me on the first of their spring picnics! Apparently they do this fairly regularly so this is probably just the first of many such outings. At 5:30 in the morning I dragged myself out of bed, had a quick bite and then went off to meet up with them. As I stumbled towards the meeting place, bleary-eyed and longing for my pillow, I found, to my not very great surprise, that the whole class was talking loudly and excitedly about the day ahead of them. There's something amazing, even endearing, about the way in which people here react to things that might seem so simple back home. I'm afraid this that sounds somewhat condescending, but the truth of the matter is that a spring picnic is something that all of us would look forward to with great interest if we lived in a place that afforded little other opportunity for entertainment. These are not backward people. They are not uneducated and they are not unaware of the wider world around them, but neither are they jaded, selfish, or pretentious about how they express their happiness. To a Moroccan time can be spent in no better way than being with friends or family and there's nothing in their culture that tells them to understate their excitement. Rather, they wear their enthusiasm on their sleeves for everyone to see and appear to be almost entirely unaware of the idea that someone might make judgement calls on them for their barefaced delight in the things that make them happy, a stark contrast to the "eyes-straight-ahead" impersonal approach that we New Englander's take so much secret pride in.

This mood carried throughout the whole day. Everyone laughed when the bus that was supposed to carry us most of the way to our destination drove straight by us without even slowing down. Of course it drove straight by us! This is Morocco! Just sit back and enjoy the adversity! Fortunately we managed to flag down a few passing taxis which we all loaded into and we were off. Although the early morning had provided plenty of light to see all around us, this was first time that I have seen the sun in the early stages of its ascension over the lake. The bright colors of spring contrasting against the dull red of the clay and the shimmering blue of the waters did little to convince me that I was not still dreaming in my bed. The vernal beauty of this valley is like nothing else I have ever seen, with olive, almond, and orange trees and wild flowers blooming in brilliant displays of purple and yellow among the immossibly green grasses that cover wide stretches of open land constantly broken apart by rolling hills, and all overlooked by the towering mountains that surround us in every direction. Solitary mud huts and small grouped villages dot the scenery, and the occasional telephone pole or shining silver motorcycle force the mind of the observer to grapple with the meeting of the old world and the new.

About 40 minutes later we arrived in the small village that overlooks the large dam at the south end of the lake and, hefting our food baskets, blankets, stove, and my guitar we started walking down the road. A short walk of about 20 minutes would lead us to our destination, but I was irresistably drawn back to the joy of the moment when, about halfway there our group had become too spread out and those of us near the front halted for a short dance party in the middle of the road while we waited for the stragglers to catch up. "Unreal," I thought. Where in America can you dance in the street to Amazirgian pop booming out of a stereo on someones shoulder? Further down the road we passed by the dam, with the river to one side of us and the mighty cliffs, blasted apart by the French colonialists during the building of the Moroccan infrastructure, on the other. I couldn't help but feel a longing for a good bit of rope and an experienced parter as I mentally charted the path I would take up those rocks, but this was a day for picnicing, not alpinism.

Finally we left the road and made our way on a winding path through the trees down to the river bed, and the picnic site. It was a beautiful little spot, about 50 yards from the river, covered with the shade of the trees around. We set up camp, unfolding blankets and hanging bags on branches, and immediatley went about the task of preparing breakfast. Bread, olive oil, fruits, hard-boiled eggs, tea, buscuits, and a brown powdery substance that has the texture of fine sand until you let it melt and carmelize in your mouth, were all produced and feasted upon. Full bellies, however seemed to have no effect on the energy of my hosts and almost immediately after the meal was completed we all hit the field for a couple good hours of soccer. Being the amazing athlete that I am I managed to get completely outplayed on every attempt to dribble, pass, steal, or defend and I capped the morning nicely when I managed to score the winning goal for the opposing team 😊 This of course produced raucous laughter from everyone. Silly American.

Things finally settled down for a little while after that, and the group broke up into card games, a music circle, and a few who decided to stretch their legs (some more) on a little walk around the area. Following two of them I found that the area is obviously well used in the warmer months, as there is a large swimming pool and, to my great surprise, two gravel tennis courts! The wet mud and deceptive grasses near the edge of the river tried to steal one of my shoes but the rest of the morning proceeded with relative calm.

Finally lunchtime arrived and my friends rolled out (surprise! surprise!) tangine! Two large plates of steamed vegetables and meat, all dripping in olive oil, were slow cooked over the stove and laid before us and, as the bread was passed around, I reflected on the surrealism of the day. I thought about how odd it was to find myself picnicing on a warm spring day in the middle of the Atlas mountains with a constant stream of Arabic and Tamazirgth running through (or really rather past) my ears. "What am I doing here?" I thought. "How did I get here and what does it all mean?" Trying to trace the steps all the way back is as impossible as trying to tell ones own life story in a minute by minute account but somehow I was vaguely aware that this was the fullfillment of a dream I've had as long as I can remember: to leave behind everything I knew, to travel to some distant land, to meet the people there, and to share in their lives. So hear I am doing it. Forgive me if I seem to overanalyze but anyone who finds themselves in such a situation and does not question it, is not moved by it, or cannot remark upon it in any meaningful way, is truly missing out on something very important.

After lunch I pulled out the baseball gloves that had recently arrived by mail (thanks, mom!) in an attempt both to redeem my earlier misadventures with the soccer ball and to share a little of my own culture with those who had been so free with theirs. Playing catch was a big hit and everyone who put on the gloves was excited to tell me that it was their first time doing so. Beaming, I congratulated them as I demonstrated how to throw and catch linedrives, popups, and grounders. I have plans to see if one of the carpenters in town can fashion me a bat so that next time we can practice a little hitting too 😊

Finally, as the afternoon was waering on, we packed up camp and walked, yes walked, the 16 kilometers back to town. I'm not sure where we found the energy for this (maybe from each other) after such a long day that had started so early, but the level of excitement never dipped until we had set foor back in Ouaouizerth. The whole way home the Moroccans were singing and playing games with each other and talking expectantly about doing all this again a month from now. I say we walked the whole way, but in truth we did get a ride for about 3 kilometers on our approach to the town when Joaud, the waiter at my favorite café, pulled up in a van with a few other people in it and gave us a ride most of the way back. When we got near the gendarmerie we had to hop out and do the last hour on foot again since carrying so many passengers in a small van is illegal, but even that short ride was filled with singing and shouting that would have made any American driver go off the road.

There was another small incident when a few of us tried to hop on a horse cart about a half hour outside of town, but the horse reared, throwing off his yoke, and driver, passengers, and cart all landed in a ditch, fortunately without injury. Laughing, we helped the driver reharness the horse and let him go on his way and, with smiles on our faces, we trudged back into town like weary wanderers returning home from a long journey. I slept all day on Monday 😊

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Comments

[Marilyn Goodrich]

Dear Rich, I really enjoyed reading about your lovely picinc! And it is so good to know that you are well and flourishing! All the best, Marilyn