In the kitchen, the messy dishes from last night’s meal still sit on the floor, where I put them when I run out of counter space (this happens very quickly.) Three of my best friends are here. None of them are morning people, like I am. But today I wish I wasn’t a morning person, or perhaps so eager to feed them well. I want to go climb back into my bed and sleep a few more hours. I had made the mistake of drinking caffeine the night before, which carried me without fatigue through the marathon of enchilada preparation, two movies, star gazing, and a few hours of lying awake in bed chatting with my friend.
I ignore the messy kitchen for now. I’ll have to get more water for both the dishes and to fill the bathroom water supply again. But first, souk, or else all the good peaches will be gone.
When I was at home in the states, Sunday morning farmer’s market was an event for my housemates and I. We made an effort to get up early, headed to our favorite café for pastries and tea, then drove down to the market. We would split up, each of us searching for our week’s veggies, and perhaps some other special treat. Most of the people at the market were very much like us; educated, middle class, and liberal. Sometimes I ran into friends, but mostly I was completely anonymous in this crowd.
In my town souk is a necessity, not a luxury. If I do not go, I will have to go to souk in another town on another day, perhaps subsisting on popcorn until I do. It is also a social time, although with my limited language it is less so for me than for the men, young woman, and children who shop for their families. Very few woman shop; souk is a man’s world, but the young, unmarried woman go dressed in their beautiful white aHandils, decorated with reflective disks of metal. One of these hand-woven cloaks is beautiful to look at as it hangs on a peg in a house, but on a young woman, it is breathtaking. Her body disappears into the white cloak, and her face, framed by a colorful headscarf, is lit by the shimmering colors reflected by the disks.
I stand out here. Unless some tourist passing through happens to decide to stop, I am the only white person here. I have the only pair of blue eyes and my exposed hair is the only light brown hair in the village. I’m taller than most of the woman and most of the men, and I am not wearing an aHandil. Friends of all genders greet me by name and on this day I slur my words as I respond. SbaH lxir. Labas? Is tsouqt? Yeah, adsgg* swiya lxok, safi. LLah yerhem la walidin. La3awn. Then I shuffle away. Other people shout “Bonjour! Çava?” or “What is your name?” but I ignore them. I don’t know them and if they are going to assume that I’m a tourist, then I don’t want to. I look through the crowd for my host sisters or the group of teenaged girlfriends who helped me to buy an oven last week, but none of them have come today.
I turn my attention to the vegetable and fruit sellers. Grapes, apricots, and melons are at every seller’s stand, and I briefly consider getting apricots instead of peaches. Finally I find one lxdrt man who has a wooden box with the last of his peaches resting on the bottom. I ask the price and he helps me select a decent kilo of peaches. Five dirhams exchange hands with a “bismillah.” In the name of God. Then he congratulates me on my good health, “bisHa u raHa” and I respond with my wishes for his continuing good health, “Llah yticK SaHa.” I wish him to go in peace over my shoulder as I walk away.
I’m still groggy and feeling resentful of my sleeping friends when I get home. I’m thinking only of tea, so I fill the aluminum kettle and sit down in a chair to wait for it to boil. When it does, I start the tea steeping, and then pour hot water over my peaches to blanche the skins off them.
As I begin pealing the soft skins away, I forget about my fatigue, the dirty dishes, my tea, and my resentment. I think instead about how I’ll prepare the peach syrup I want to make for our pancakes. I compose haikus to the glorious golden orbs and sweet flesh of the fruit. I think about canning peaches with my step-mother. I think about the origins of peaches. I think about how I used to buy them from a little co-op on Orcas island in the summer, and the association makes me seem to smell madrona and the particular dusty smell of the islands under the sweetness of the peaches here now.
Finally the peaches are slopping around in my pressure cooker with water, vanilla sugar, and cinnamon. I return my attention to my tea, but continue to let the concern about the dirty dishes and my resentment out of my mind. This syrup is gonna be delicious. My house smells fantastic. I’ll fill up my water supply while my friends still sleep, and then begin the pancakes. And when the pancakes are also on their way to being finished, I’ll wake them up with music and we’ll eat.
Integrating into my community has been a slow and difficult process. Every day I have to challenge myself to leave my house. My language is progressing well, but I’m still a shy person. I still get frustrated with being asked the same questions over and over again. My community is also not very outgoing. I sometimes wander the streets and fields aimlessly, hoping someone, anyone, will invite me in for tea. In other places where I’ve been in the country, you get invited in at every house and force-fed sweet tea and bread. But we’re getting used to each other, imiq imiq, and I am proud to share my community with my friends.
