<--the only picture I have of the mountains and Imilchil where they aren't engulfed in clouds.As I mentioned, this past month I froze my rear end off in a little mountain village called Imilchil in the Atlas mountains. I had heard lovely things about this village and the 4x4 type of driving it took to get there was also an adventure, not to mention spectacular scenery along the way. At one point, we pulled over in the middle of nowhere for a pit stop in a little village that was having a souk that day. I walked into this sort of longhouse/cafe type building looking for the bathroom and every eye in the room was on me; it was like something out of a movie: a big group of men gathered in this dark building, sheep hanging out outside the door, lots of tea being poured, cigarette smoke.... I don't know- something about it made for a cool memory.
Anyhow, two older men on the minibus had adopted me and were very sweet: I didn't get the feeling that either was looking to “hook up,” which was a relief. They chatted with me for the 5-hour minibus ride over dirt roads and helped me find a hotel in Imilchil. To make a long story shorter, I was about to leave the town when a guy I'd met at the souk walked by, saw me waiting for a taxi and told me that there would be a marriage celebration that night and one the following day, too. So, I checked back into my hotel with no heat and decided to endure the wet cold for another two days to finally get to hear some Berber music.
And it was cold there. Cold enough that I could see my breath in my hotel room. And after walking around the village for the two days previous, there was nothing to do. There were supposedly gorgeous mountains for trekking all around Imilchil but I only saw them once through the sheets of rain and snow. I read my guide book, all its color fold-outs, I napped, I watched a spider weave its web on the ceiling, I drank a lot of tea, passing the time until the evening celebrations. And wow, I suppose it was worth it (and the fact that I got a nasty cold after I left the village) because the music and the whole event of celebrating was wonderful.
I thought I would just go sit in on the weddings and quietly observe. But no, within minutes of arriving at the first celebration, before I could even get my coat off, I was yanked to the center to dance with the bride (who was doing some kind of belly dancing-like moves). Then a woman came up and wrapped a jingle belt around my hips so I could jingle the belt... so of course, I just went for it. I realized that this was not the time to be the square, white American. So I tapped into my salsa training and did the whole hip swangin' thing and man, did I get a reaction. ha!
(Some boys sitting in the corner kept rattling stuff off in French and then cracking up so loudly that all I heard was, “mademoiselle, blah blah blah avec moi, blah blah blah avec moi!”)
A bunch of girls- after they finally let me sit down for awhile- came over to look at me, try and talk to me, and basically stare at me. It was very sweet and kind of odd at the same time. They would literally stare at me, then look at each other and say something to each other, giggle, then stare some more. And they clearly didn't approve of how I'd tied my head scarf so they retied it for me, making me lean my head down. I was something of a celebrity or a pampered guest or freak show, but I'm not sure how much of each.
But it was all awesome. When the wedding moved outside, most of the villagers gathered in a circle around a fire, surrounding the bendir and raita players as well as female dancers. There was also poly-rhythmic clapping going on and rain falling down on all of us. The people in the circle would bob up and down in a particular way, along with the rhythm, standing shoulder to shoulder and moving sideways. I, of course, was pushed in to join, clap, sing and dance.
The second wedding was even a bigger deal. First there was dancing and singing outside around a fire again with three bendirs (frame drums) and a raita and singing. Again, I got nudged into the circle of villagers who were dancing shoulder to shoulder, bobbing up and down in a way slightly reminiscent of Native American dances I've seen (interesting, considering that the Berber are the equivalent of the Native Americans- the original people of Morocco, long before the Arabs arrived).
Then the celebration moved inside and we all ate from communal plates and I visited with two guys from the hotel, a sweet older lady, Fatima, maybe 65? who had decided she loved me (and mothered me all night long, straightening my skirt and patting me, gazing at me lovingly and the like) and some old man who I saw again later at the hotel. And boy was there interesting conversation over dinner- in Tashelheit, the Berber dialect, of which I understand even less than Arabic since it only shares a small vocabulary with Arabic.
First off, the 70 year old man was telling me that he wanted to marry me. I smiled and answered that he was far too old and that he should marry Fatima instead. Fatima wasn't keen on this idea. She had asked me just how “zwin” she was: “zwin” kind of translates as anything beautiful, wonderful, handsome, etc, etc. and it can be used for people, scenery, food- anything, really. Of course, I said, “zwin bzzef!” or “very beautiful!” So she pointed out that this old man was only a little zwin (shwiya zwin) and that with her being zwin bzzef, it just wasn't right.
In fact, at that she went around the circle asking me just how “zwin” each of the men were, with each of them listening of course. “And Lassan? Is he a little beautiful or a lot beautiful?” Egad. After that mildly uncomfortable dinner and mint tea, it was time for more music and dancing.
And that's when the village heart-throb took the floor. This kid looked just like Leonardo DiCaprio from Titanic: same jacket, same hat, same carefree attitude, only darker skin. He was a looker alright. But it was clear that he also knew it, if you know what I mean. When he started dancing, Fatima looked at me, her eyes big as saucers and she gasped, “zwin bzzef! mashi qdim!” (very beautiful.. and not old!”), referring to the 70 year old man whom I guess she thought was too old for her, too. Man, she cracked me up.
And of course, Mr. Di Caprio drug me to my feet to dance with him and that was probably the most red I've turned in ages. He was doing all kinds of fancy moves, weaving in and out of me, turning around me, dodging in and out and making all these exaggerated faces at me. I was partially stunned like a deer in the headlights and partially cracking up inside, trying to remember to dance and not look like an idiot standing there. I tried to match his enthusiasm and flair but when he started doing a kind of “wink, wink, hey baby” look, I sat down and faked being way too tired to dance anymore.
Ah, that night went on a long wonderful time and I couldn't get over the bendir playing. I would have sat closer and engaged more, but all the musicians were men and I had the hunch that it would be more respectable and appropriate for me to sit with the women and chat with them. In the rural areas, I have really tried to minimize the cultural discrepancies.
I sort of loosely got invited to join the marriage procession to the groom's village the next day but it didn't work out. In any case, although I got no recordings or photos, the images and sounds are still clear in my mind! Especially Fatima, gasping: “zwin bzzef! mashi qdim!”
