Ouled Mgatel: And the title of my blog was prophetic

We were much closer to the well than we thought!

Let's see.

Our mudbrick house.

The driveway.

Our beautiful, but arid land.

And there it is,

our treasure,

our well!

We've been told that there was a well on our land. But where exactly ? Nobody knew.. These last two years, it has rained a lot. And there was a place, below our house, where the soil was wet, despite the heat of the summer. The boys dug, and surprise!

Water on our land means a lot of things. No more tractor bringing a water tank every other week. A green garden all year round. Easier life for everybody - for us, and for the boys who take care of the house.

No rain in Ouled Mgatel, and a promise

Time passes very slowly in Morocco, december is almost here, and the sun still shines in Ouled Mgatel, and it still hasn't rained.




That's a big relief for us, -we had plenty of time to fix the house - but a bad sign for all our neighbors.

Last year, at this time, we were in the mud and the rain, and we were living in a crappy hotel in Fez.

Now we have a comfortable life here in our apartment in Fez, but we still don't go very often to our mudbrick house (even though we just spent a week-end there with French friends who live in a yurt in France and who thought that our house was a palace).

We'll be back.



(and this is, hopefully, the last picture of our house in that shape... not proud).

Life in Ouled Mgatel: 4 mariages and a convalescent

We waited the end of the heatwave to go back to Ouled Mgatel. There, we found our house very clean (thank you Fouad). We haven't begun the work yet; all the mudbricks are waiting for us in the garden. It's little weird to be there, in our mudbrick home, after all those months of living in the city. The beauty of the place is always a good surprise, but the empty shelves, the mould on our books and the kitchen, that haven't been used in 8 months now - except for the mint tea Bachir and Fouad drink everyday -, all of this makes me a little sad.






We were there on the day after Turia's wedding. Turia is one of Mohammed's daughters. This year, 4 of Mohammed's children get married. That's a little strange, given that it costs a lot of money - for the party (it lasts 2 days) and for the dowries. And it was a little strange, this day after the big party, when the bride is still in her family - and hasn't been in a room alone with her husband . On that night, she was going to her new home. For the first time, she was going to spend the night in a strange house. She was leaving to live forever with her new family - and a husband that, of course, her father chose for her.


But Turia seemed OK. She was dressed like a city girl - a light veil on her hair, pants matching her t-shirt, and heels. In one of the rooms of the house, there was everything she owned - the gifts, and what her father bought for her with the dowry: a bed, "farash" (Moroccan couches), a mirror, glasses and dishes, a blender, and lots, lots of tablecloths and blankets. There was also her luggage, full of clothes I had never seen her wear.

Her four sisters, the one that is already married, the one that is getting married in a month, the one that is getting married in a few years, and the one that will never get married, were inspecting the gifts and packing the luggage. Dunya, who will be married in one month, and who is much younger than Turia, was very chic too. She'll become soon a city girl, since her soon-to-be husband is living in Fès. Huria, the youngest of the 5 sisters, loses 2 sisters at the same time, but she gains two sisters-in-lawn, next month.

Abdelali seemed to be doing perfectly well. Life's smiling at him right now: the politics, a new tractor, and the land. And at the end of Ramadan, he's getting married with a girl from Fez - a striking symbol of his success, since usually the girls that grew up in the city don't marry guys from the country.



And what about our convalescent? It's Bachir, of course. He just had some tests done in Rabat - hmm, quite superficial I'm afraid - but apparently everything's fine. He still can't work, but he's getting better and better.






If somebody knows the name of that tree, which grew up very very fast, and is apparently in love with the earth of Ouled Mgatel - hmm, the same cannot be said of the other trees we planted - , I'm interested. Fred put a few seeds in a small container with some wet cotton, but somehow I doubt it's going to work...

Life in Fez: and being angry, angry, angry.

I wrote this post the other day. And then I forgot about it. It’s very long, I know. I was one very unhappy blogger that day. And that’s one post I won’t post on the French Prés du Puits, because I don’t want my grand-mother to worry about me.

On my way to the supermarket, something happened. Something that happens far too often in Morocco.

I wanted to cross the street, on the only crosswalk A car was coming from my left, so I waited for it to pass me to cross the road. I looked at it, for maybe 2 seconds. And that's it. That’s enough for some men here When they see a girl, especially a European or American girl, looking at them, they think they have a sexual interest in them. Even if you just want to cross the street and that you want to make sure you're not killed in the process.

So as I crossed the street I heard his horn. I didn't care, really, as I said that happens all the time when I'm alone – and even if I hate it, it doesn't make me feel bad about myself. I'm used to it. But then I saw his car stop, and then I knew he was one of that men. I kept on walking on the sidewalk, decided not to look behind me. He didn't seem to follow me, and I was relieved. Then I heard the sound of his old car, he passed me, and parked in the street. I began walking faster, and entered a little street on my right so I wouln't have to see him. He whistled when he saw I wasn't going to meet him.

After that, I saw him again twice, with always the same technique : he waited that I had walked about a hundred meters, and then would come park his car so that he could see me, and, I don't know, hoping that I would come to talk to him ? This is crazy. When I got to the main boulevard, he obviously couln't keep on doing this because of the number of cars and people.

It wasn't scary – in France, it would have been, but in Morocco, it’s just the usual. Every time I go out alone, something happens. There are men who say « Bonjour » with a soft voice when you walk by them. There are those who follow you – like today. Before that, I got really scared a few times. Once, in Meknès, I had to go see a shopkeeper and tell him that somebody was following me, I was so scared. There are those who say dirty words, in French, in English, and probably also in Arabic. It's rare, but that's really mortifying. And then there are those who insult you..

None of that stuff would ever happen in Ouled Mgatel. That's one of the reasons why I love it so much. Of course women have less freedom in the countryside – even I have less freedom there. Our neighbor Mohammed won't let me stay in the house alone at night, which used to drive me crazy. He would take his daughter with thim and bring me to his house because a women alone in a house at night is a shame for her husband.

But people in Ouled Mgatel respect you. Even people we don't know are always kind, and respectul. I remember once that I was telling Fred about one of this verbal assaults when we were eating with Bachir. Fred translated for him. Bachir got very angry and proposed that to go see the man who insulted me, and to beat him (Really. Ouled Emgatel men are known for their fighting skills). He couldn't even imagine such a thing was possible.

Photo Les Baisers de Louise.

I know this is worse for Moroccan women. Because I don’t have to worry about physical abuse – in Morocco, it’s very dangerous to touch foreigners. And I admire so much the girls and women who dress like they want to defy those men. Short skirts, low-cut t-shirts. Wearing that kind of clothes is really brave in Fez - more than in Casablanca, or Rabat, that are more open. I wouldn't do it. In my dresser I have a place for the clothes I only wear in France. Not that I cannot wear them here – you're free to dress like you want in Morocco – but because, in a way, I'm weak. I just don’t want men to notice me.

Yesterday Fred told me that the man in the car behaved that way because some young women sell prostitue themselves for 20 dirhams (20 dirhams !2 euros !). All men have to do is to blow their horn, and if she’s up for it, the girl wait for them in a nearby street.

Now I’m speechless.

A mudbrick house in Morocco and its gardien angel

Without its gardian angel, would our mudbrick house have walls that white?
Would it be that clean ?
Would the plants be in such good health, despite the summer ?
And would the grass be that green ?

Thank you, merci, shukran, Fouad.

Like in a mudbrick house in Morocco: Ouled Mgatel, 3 years ago

Morrocan communal elections: and a politician in Ouled Mgatel?

On June 12, there was a candidate to the communal elections in Morocco that we liked better than the others.

Abdelali, one of Mohammed's son (our neighbor), was running for the Istiqlal party.




Now, I don't know if he won. (News don't always travel very fast between Ouled Mgatel and Fez.)

Edit : No, Abdelali lost. His party, however, won in the area. So Abdelali has to go to a lot of meetings, and apparently he likes it. So I guess we can say that we have a politician now in Ouled Mgatel.

Life in a small village in Morocco : Bachir's story

You know Bachir.

Or maybe not yet.

He's our friend, and he takes care of our house. We've know him since he was14. At the time we hired him, along with his mother, to make the white rendering of the room that is today our office. Yassine, who is responsible for our coming to Ouled Mgatel in the first place – his family comes from the douar – introduced him to us. We trusted him at once, and, with Fouad, our neighbor's son, he became the proud keeper of our mudbrick house – but also a worker, a gardener, and even sometimes a cat-sitter.

 

Photo Gabriel Feret

Bachir's family is one of the poorest of Ouled Tahar, the douar where he lives, near Ouled Mgatel.

His father is more that seventy years old, his mom works all day, keeping the house clean and fixing things, cooking, baking bread, going to gather twigs for the oven and food for their animals. She is from the Rif mountains, and her family still lives there. They have more money that her husband's family, but they barely give her anything. Just big bags of olives that she brings from the north every once in a while.

 

You've already seen Smaïn, Bachir's little brother. They also have a big brother, who left for Casablanca, hoping to find more money and a better life, and who watches car for a living.

On the far left, Bachir's brother Mohammed

Bachir is the one that brings money to the family– his brother contributes too I guess, but he's not often here. Thanks to Bachir, the family was able to buy a cow. He ears some money with the job he has in our house, and we've always helped him when he needed medication for his mom, or when he couldn't reimburse his loan.

Smaïn is still too young to work in the fields, and their dad is too old to do anything else than going to the well to get water, with the donkey.

In this area – Ouled Jamaa, near Fez -, where life is hard for everybody, Bachir is one of the less lucky. A family that don't have any piece of land. A big brother who lives in the big city, and a dad too old to feed his family. At 19, Bachir is responsible for his family – I say 19, even though on his ID card it's written that he was born in 1981. That often happens in Morocco, and it doesn't surprise anybody, because a lot of people simply don't know which year they were born in.

How to describe Bachir ? As a very reliable young man, strong, smart, who didn't have the chance to go to school – Fouad did, and he can read. That makes a huge difference in his life. Bachir is rarely in a good mood when he wakes up. It used to make us laugh, last year, when we were doing some work in the house. He would open the door without knocking, not look at us, mumble « sabah el khir », (good morning), and make some tea. After a few hours of work, and after smoking some kif, he would become more friendly, would smile, and lunch would always be jokes and laughter, with Fred and Fouad.

Unfortunately, we don’t know if he'll be himself again. Six weeks ago, after a hard day of making mudbricks with Aziz and Fouad, he said having a headache, and collapsed on the ground. A few hours later, in Fez, the doctors began suspecting he had a stroke.

In my next post, I’ll tell you about the awful night we spent in Rabat with him, desperately trying to get a diagnosis, and medication.

Just know that, today, Bachir is much, much better. After more than 2 weeks in the hospital, he came back home, to his family. Even if he’s still very weak, he can walk and speak. Maybe some day we’ll get the old Bachir back. Maybe.

 

A mudbrick house in Morocco: waiting for the summer

Here are a few more pictures of our Moroccan mudbrick house, that Fred took the last time he was there.
Where you'll see that we have a lot of mud bricks (the boys have been working very hard).

And we'got thousands of ideas for a new and improved house.

We've realized that we just can't live in the house full time. We need more power, for the computers, and a good internet connexion -we have a secret plan to make the electric company come to us, but I have no idea when (and if) it will happen. As a result of the flood, that destroyed the two dirt roads leading to Ouled Mgatel, we haven't spent a single night in the house since October (I think). And right now that it won't rain for a few months, spending the night there would mean to go camping in the house (no water - the pump broke, a dirty and collapsing bathroom). After the long months of sleeping in a crappy hotel, I don't to live in those conditions - Fred might try, but I'm sure he would give up too...
Bachir and Fouad took care of the house, sleeping there every night.

So this cannot go on. So we decided to build another room or two, so that the boys can have their privacy, put their stuff, and, last but not least, have some private time away from their families (they don't have a room for themselves in their houses - they sleep with their brothers and their dads).

Here we are. Waiting for July. A lot of plans, but not very much money or very much time to make them happen right now.

Just a lot, a lot of mud bricks.

Life in Fez : What we miss

Just a few photos of our Moroccan countryside, to show you what I missed this year, with the flood and all - watching the wheat grow, the people harvest their fields, seeing the countryside change.
I remember last year, each time we would come home from Fez, we would watch with amazement every little change in the landscape, every detail, every shade of green.

This is what our house looks like in April :

photo Nathalie Cardoso

Here's our land, with Bachir's wheat on it, in May :



And then, the harvest. In that field, the little stacks of wheat were hand-harvested - one of the hardest and most painful types of work people have to do here. Usually though, if they have the money, they use machines. They can't use them in that field.

A Mudbrick House in Morocco, and the little treasures of its garden

Our mudbrick house still bears the scars of the flood. All that rain, though, was a good thing for the garden. Spring and the Moroccan sun have brought us little treasures,

fragile little surprises,

colors that heal us of the grayness of Fez.

Of course the boys, who are better gardeners than us, took care of this little piece of land which will soon be the vegetable garden, and planted the fruit trees that had been waiting for months.

And where there’s a treasure, there must be a keeper - the dog Lisa. As always, very faithful, and very hungry.

- If you like our Moroccan countryside, go see the trip Sandy from The View From Fez took in the Rif mountains. Very nice, and amazingly similar to Ouled Mgatel. It's here and here, in the The View From Fez PhotoJournal.

Floods in Morocco: a House in Pain

Every time we go back to Ouled Mgatel, I remember the flood, and the night when we slept in the office, because we were afraid that the walls of our bedrooms would collapse because of the torrential rain.

What happened these last few months can be read on the walls of our house.

That’s a sad story…           

                             

A painful story…

The story of what we build, that we will have to rebuild.

The story of a house that has changed so much.

Good news for the road, and the well of Ouled Emgatel

The Moroccan spring brings us good news. As promised by our neighbors, and by the sun, the road is now passable. Even if it rains a lot, the soil has dried out, and the road will stay passable until… well, October at least.

That’s very, very good news. But of course, we cannot live in the house. I cannot live in the house right now. Fred would probably try though. but without running water - the pump is broken, with the ground being wet in most rooms, with all the dust, the walls of the bathroom that are not really upright. That’s a lot of problems.

We’ll stay in Fez then, until we fix the house.

And the house will be fixed. And maybe even better. Because we want to make it bigger. The main reason being that Fouad and Bachir have been sleeping in the living room for months, and that’s not very pleasant for them. We want them to have their own room, where they can put their stuff, and have a break from their families when they want.

But how are we going to build a new room? Without money, without time to do it? Well, we’got the most important thing: the water, a lot of water, and a well that has never been so full. The water that brings a big smile on the faces of people in Ouled Mgatel, and the water that is necessary to make mud bricks - as well as earth (we’got plenty of that), and straw.

The boys are making the bricks as we speak, and soon our house will be a better place to live.

No pictures for now. Just a picture taken from the car, a picture of what we see on the road to Ouled Mgatel.

Yes, I know...

... what it looks like. My blog seems to be stuck in the mud of Ouled Mgatel. It seems there are so few pictures, so few things to tell about our beloved mudbrick house.

And that is true. A little bit.

Because we don’t go there very often now – you know why.

But here, in our appartment in Fez, we’re making plans to conquer back our house.

We’ll paint the walls, fix the roofs, clean the garden, fill in the cracks, redo the floors… Put our hands and feet in the mud again.

(And of course we’re also making plans to earn all the money we’re going to need to paint, fix, clean, redo…)

The house is there, in the valley. Not so far…

Between raindrops

Every time we go to Ouled Mgatel, I realize that everything is still very beautiful.

That, if the mudbrick house is still suffering, the boys have done a good job making it more safe.

That something new is here, a very small stream, by our house. It’s so great to see this in such a – well, usually – arid place.

That, if we’ve go t holes in our roof, well, we also have flowers in our garden.

Not so bad after all.