And the livin' is easy

It’s been a beautiful summer up here in the High Atlas. Just the other day a friend of mine here mentioned that there were two meters of snow in my site for most of last winter. So now I’m doing my best to store up memories that will keep me in love with this place through the bad weather.

While the rest of the country swelters in un-bearable heat, battles bugs, and most of my friends are on constant pest watch, I’m living with 80 degree heat, gentle breezes, and almost daily late afternoon thunder storms up here. I have been wandering around the fields a bit more than usual lately, trying to soak up the greenness of it all.

One of the things that I miss about America is lawn. I know it’s ridiculous, but stretching out on the grass with a novel and a glass of lemonade sounds like heaven to me. I haven’t seen a lawn in this country except at hotels or wealthy people’s houses, until recently. My town is divided into two neighborhoods by a river. On either side of the river, the land has been cultivated into fields for wheat, potatoes, corn, and apples. Some of the land, however, remains fairly marshy throughout the year. These days that land is dried out, and the woman have been busily cutting the lush grass that grows there, drying it, and saving it for winter fodder. The result is that now my site has a long stretch of soft, short, bright green lawn.

It’s perfect for croquet, bacce ball, sunbathing, soccer, or Frisbee, but there is no way that I could square any of those activities with my conscience. The woman of my village have spent hours upon hours cutting this grass short using small, handheld scythes. They then tie the grass unto bundles, load it onto their mule, leave it to dry for several days in the sun, and then store it. I’ve helped with pretty much every stage of this process, including carrying back-breaking loads of freshly cut grass. The woman like that I’m willing to help, but I’m not very good at it. When they ask me if there are fields like this in America, I always say, “there are fields, but they are different. And we cut grass with a machine.”

Here are some other memories and beautiful things I will try to remember:

Driving home on the last transit of the day in the front seat. Everyone except me and the driver is asleep, or so I think. As we head out of the town just down the road from me, we reach a high point in the road, and find a huge herd of camels grazing. Everyone wakes up to look at them, almost as excited as I am, even though they’re much less of a novelty for the people who live here.

Sitting on the roof of my new house, eating dinner and watching the stars slowly appear.

Going up to check mail in the late afternoon, just after a squall rolled through. Light rain and thin clouds with sunlight pushing through highlights the contrast of the greenery on the rocks, and the rainbow of colors on the rocks themselves.

Lying on a streambed with a good friend, watching the wind in the poplars and talking about boys.

Dropping down into the valley of my friend’s site, which I have to pass through to get to my souk town. The wheat is slowly ripening, corn is getting higher, and the apples are starting to color.

Sunset down in the valley. Watching the light change on the plains and the mountains around, then seeing the stars appear and the nomads’ fires in the distance.

Hiking around a nearby lake with friends on the Fourth of July. Skipping rocks, and flushing two beautiful cranes of some sort.

Lying in the fields, talking with my host-sister’s teenage friends and day dreaming about sex ed classes. (Other people day dream about sex, I daydream about sex ed.)

And this moment, right now… tired after a long day at work, writing down my thoughts, cooking ratatoille, and listening to some new bluegrass gifted to me by a friend.