(Sorry in advance for another long post- I just can't make myself condense)
This past week, our program group of 33 tried out life in a
Moroccan village. We arrived to the northern village of Benni Kula after four
hours of bus driving. We were dropped off at the NGO set on the outskirts of
town. There, we were matched up with homestay families, including one
polygamous family. At that time, our program leader did not know anything about
my family and told me I would meet them at the village. We hopped back on the
bus and drove a few more miles until we reached the “base” of the village: a
hill filled with rows of olive trees. Sarah, another girl on our program, and I
were instructed to follow a young woman and her daughter who would lead us to
our family for the week. We were lead up the steep hill, into a cacti-lined
yard filled with grazing sheep, chickens, two cows, and a donkey. The right
side of the yard was fenced off with rows of crops, with a well in the corner.
We were brought inside a room with a traditional Moroccan sectional, a round
table, and a fridge. It turned out we were going to be four American students
staying in this homestay together. We sat at the couch as the young woman, our
host-mom, Ndjoua, and her mother-in-law, Fatima, walked in and out of the room.
The little girl who had picked us up turned out to be our adorable 5-year-old host
sister, Bissma, but I think the four new Americans living in her home were a
bit too much for her, so she hid inside another room.
The best way I can describe the property is a U-shape of
rooms all open to a courtyard with guard dogs and near the chicken-coop. We
were soon brought lunch at the table, complete with three huge rounds of hoobz
(bread), and were joined by our host-dad, Mohammed. After struggling to
communicate with Ndjoua and Fatima in darija (Moroccan Arabic), it was a
surprise and relief to learn Mohammed spoke French. After lunch, Mohammed gave
us a tour of their property. We met the cows, I fed the chicken and turkeys,
and he told us what crops they grow—potatoes, various other root vegetables, and tobacco. All of their
crops are for personal use, except for the tobacco. Mohammed let me try out the
axel, but thought it was pretty hilarious.
Since the weather was flawless and the landscape was beautiful,
the four of us were hoping to go on a little hike. Mohammed said we shouldn’t
go alone (I think because of the rabid dogs…) and so he offered to lead us on a
walk. It seemed as if our house was at the edge of the village (the cul-de-sac
as we liked to refer to it), so we headed in the direction opposite the
village. We climbed up some hills, giving us a view of the entire village, and
then walked through a small forest of eucalyptus trees, where we passed the
beehives of Mohammed’s friend who makes honey. He brought us to a river, which
now appears to be mostly rocks and told us all about this year’s drought and
how hard it is on all of the agriculturists. With a winter that brought little
rain, Mohammed and his family have to bring up buckets of water from the well
to water all of their crops. Speaking from personal experience of lifting water
from the well, that process can get tiring very quickly. We went back home,
read in the sun for a little while, but couldn’t seem to keep our eyes open on
the couch (we were ndikadika). We
feel asleep but were awoken to a huge dish of couscous (it wasn’t even
Friday!). As we ate the dish we mmm-ed and bnine-ed (delicious) but Fatima’s response was “la, bnine schwea” (or no, a
little delicious). It turns out she thought the dish was not/could not be
delicious without meat. I felt incredibly guilty preventing all 9 people from
eating what could have been a
delicious meal, in their opinion. I apologized and attempted to explain my
reasoning for not eating meat but struggled to figure out what to say. Instead
I told them to feel free to prepare meat, I just wouldn’t eat it. [Side note: what’s been interesting about
not eating meat here is that we have learned, and I can now see, that Moroccans
in their everyday lives do not eat very much meat. Meat is expensive whereas
vegetables are cheap and widely available-- throw them in a pot with some
spices and that’s dinner. However, serving a meatless meal to a guest is
considered rude and unwelcoming.] The next morning, we walked most of the 5km
to the NGO, but with around 1km left, Mohammed motioned over a white van,
opened the back door, and us 4 Americans hopped in the back, where there were
two side benches filled with people. We had a session of Arabic calligraphy at
the center, and then walked back home (no bus that time). We ate a delicious
lunch of bissara, a common Moroccan food I now know how to make, with fresh
olive oil. We hung around the house, reading in the sun, and helping out with
various tasks for the rest of the day. Right before dinner, we brought out a
Frisbee, some bouncy balls, and a jump rope one of the other students had
brought from home. Four neighbor girls happened to be over and seemed to really
enjoy the toys. Bissma was still pretty shy and decided to keep her distance,
but watched the activity from afar. 
The next day, we went outside to brush our teeth when Fatima
motioned us to come over, near the chicken coop. She pointed behind the fence
where we saw a baby lamb, clearly just learning to walk. We managed to find out
the lamb was born that morning. We then had a breakfast of fresh baked bread
with olives and olive oil, where Mohammed told us he would be gone for the day
to bring his lawyer friend fresh milk. That morning we were scheduled to help
our families plant some new trees. This quickly became a challenge with
Mohammed, the only French speaker, out of the picture. We had to use our
limited Darija vocabulary to understand and communicate everything from “go get
more water from the well” to “im doing the agriculture dance!” It ended up
being a lot of fun. After tree planting, Charley and I decided to go in
Ndjoua’s kitchen (both Ndjoua and Fatima have their own) to try and help her
cook lunch. Luckily she was really receptive and were able to cut the tomatoes
and onions, as well as mix together the spices, which she later added to a pot
of boiling lentils. 
After lunch, we thought we thought we were going on a
leisurely walk with Fatima, but with our limited Darija skills, we missed the
point that we were actually walking to the next village (just a few kilometers
away) where Mohammed’s grandparents live. There we met 8 other members of our
host family and were given a tour of their crops (which included chickpea
plants!) and home. To our surprise, although it shouldn’t have been, we were
served second lunch. The family was incredibly welcoming, especially our 90
year old host great-grandpa who refused to believe we didn’t understand him
when he spoke to us. I also managed to make friends with the cutest, most
energized 3 year old ever.
That night we spent several hours looking at family pictures
and being told what all of Mohammed’s siblings are doing. Mohammed has 6 other
siblings, and all of them are living in cities and only return home for family
weddings.
The following day, we had a Darija session in the olive
groves followed by a discussion with the girls of our program and the girls of
the village. We asked each other a lot of questions about opinions and
experiences. The conversation seemed to focus a lot on dating cultures,
travelling, and religion. In the village, any type of visible dating is not
accepted, so girls do it in private, mostly through their phones. They also
expressed their desires to soon marry, as it is an opportunity to travel and
leave the village. In terms of religion, someone from our program asked if anyone
ever questioned their Muslim religion, to which everyone replied “no”. They
then asked us about our religions, but we were unable to come to a consensus on
how to cover the broad range of beliefs. A Moroccan girl then spoke up and said
“I hope that one day you may all be Muslim”.
Later that day, after I once again was able to help cook
lunch (!), our host-cousin came by to give us henna- my first ever! With our
newly decorated hands, we walked all the way to the NGO for a farewell food and
dance party, where Charley and I were able to teach some little boys some English
(maybe…) by playing Twister. When we came home we were asked if we wanted henna on our palms. Charley and I were the only ones who said yes, and since we had it done around 10 o'clock, our host-cousin had to make our beds for us to crawl into and we were required to sleep with our palms up next to our heads.
Overall, my four days in the village were incredible and unforgettable.
I loved the simplicity of life, although not easy, and the kindness of everyone
we met. I joked with my host-family that I would give my host-brother my
passport so he could go to the US, and I would stay in the village forever. It
was maybe 80% a joke, but 20% serious. 
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