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Abdelhak's mother could beat the shit out of me.

She has big, strong arms and a broad, matronly chest. She is an imposing figure, her physique forged by a lifetime of kneading dough and heavy lifting. Two of her front teeth are missing and have been replaced by gold substitutes, which shine when she smiles, which she does often.

Her name is Izhoar, and her chores are demanding, and she completes them with a brusque grace. She balances baskets atop her head and picks up burning hot couscous with her bare hands, rolling it expertly into small, bite-size balls. She carries big loads of hay to feed to the sheep in the backyard and carries the groceries home from the weekly market on her back.

When she watches television she yells at the screen and laughs heartily when the hero kills the bad guys. She belches after eating and then says, "Hamdullah," thanking God for the food that caused that very belch.

Like nearly all the women here, Izhoar seems to wear her apron all day, atop a labrynthine layering of other garments. When she leaves the house, she wraps a floral patterned bedsheet around her shoulders and covers her head, thus protecting her head from the hot sun.

Seeing the women on the street here; it is difficult to tell who is who, as they all wear the same domestic, gypsy-like uniform. As everyone seems to recognize me, and I seem to have met half the town, I just say hello to all of them.

The women here are form a close community, and their daily work is broken up by visits to other houses. In the evening, groups of them congregate, bringing their young children with them. While the young kids play among the rocks and dust, the women talk, laugh, and say hello to everyone that passes.

The doors to people's houses are open most of the time, and there is a constant stream of visitors--friends, family, the town mayor/postman that receives all the mail and then brings it to each of the approximately 1000 families here. Few people actually walk in the open doors, unless they are family, but rather knock on the door frame and wait for a reply from within.

This morning, around 6:30; there was a knock at the door. I peeked my head out the window, calling "Shkun?" as I did so, and seeing one of the local women, greeted her:

"Ssallama leykum"

She responded with a smile and a string of unintelligble words. I motioned to her to wait, and went to open the door. When I did, she again started speaking, and I understood only one word--Izhoar--Abdelhak's mother. I again asked her to wait, and headed off to the room where Abdelhak's mother and sister sleep. I knocked lightly on the door frame, peering through the curtain, and said:

"Il y a une femme a la porte."

There is a woman at the door. Abdelhak's sister started to stir and began to get out of bed. I walked back to the front door to chat with the waiting woman.

Again she started talking, and I understood enough to tell that she was telling me why she was there, and why so early in the morning. Something to do with bread. And something about a strong smell. And bread.

Yeast! I figured it out, and made a face to let her know. She laughed and started complaining, wondering where Abdelhak's mother was. She kept talking, chatting about the heat, and wondering what everyone was doing sleeping when the sun (chamse) was already up.

As she talked, an old man appeared on the other side of the street. He looked at me, holding out his hands, making beggarly signs. I stared, surprised to see a beggar in this neighborhood, and especially surprised to see a beggar at such an early hour. He sat and lit a cigarette. I was thinking what a shame it would be to use the magic word "lesehell" at such at early hour.

My staring and thinking were suddenly and brusquely interrupted by a punch in the arm. I looked at the woman. She was laughing again and yelling at me--"Chuf!" (Look!) I imagined that the rest of her sentence meant something like "at me when I am talking to you young man!" I ignored the old man and gave her my full attention.

Abdelhak's mother appeared at the door, half-asleep but cheery, carrying a shallow bowl of yeast. The woman spoke to her for a few moments, asking her who I was, and where I was from, and if I was Muslim, and then she left to bake some bread. Abdelhak's mother headed to the kitchen to begin boiling water and making coffee with cinammon and ginger and heating fresh milk and boiling eggs, still laughing about the woman's early visit.

It is difficult in moments like this not to fall into the easy and erroneous pattern of thinking small town life is all cheery neighbors and industrious women, and that everyone is unified and helping eachother and working toward a common goal.

Just a stroll around the neighborhood and open eyes is enough to realize that tensions, anger, fear and anxiety must exist. Dust flies everywhere, and there is no way to get rid of garbage. People burn what they can, feed all the organic stuff to their animals, and throw the rest in the streets. The fields, while still rich and bountiful, are obviously not what they once were, and entire plots lay dry near the once great river, now a mere trickle.

What more, in the same way that relationships are created and strengthened by peoples ties by marriage, blood and friendship, so too are grievances aggravated by the same ties. What might be a small dispute in a big, anonymous city becomes a highly charged, very personal issue in a small town, as I am rapidly discovering on this trip.

Yesterday afternoon I cam across such a problem. A young man was walking down the street with his sister. Another guy, standing in front of his house, made a crude remark to the girl, the brother got mad, and a fight nearly broke out. The entire family then got involved and the scene got ugly as everyone began yelling at everyone else. The old women were shrieking, one young man was crying, another young man seemed to be hurling ugly threats and epithets at everyone. Luckily the brother and sister were soon pulled away (by Abdelhak) and the family returned into their house to continue screaming at eachother.

A few minutes later, the mother of the insulted girl arrived at the house, knocking angrily on the door. Within seconds, the two mothers, nearly identical in the above described uniform, were screaming bloody murder, saying all sorts of things that I could not understand. And then of course, the rest of the family jumped in to scream a few things as well.

We left then, having gotten the point, so I am not really sure how long it all went on, but the point is, these things happen.

Anyway, that's about all for today. Tomorrow I head off to Miski, which I think is a place with natural springs and swimming pools and oases and the like. Saturday I plan to leave here, saying goodbye to my adoptive Moroccan family and heading off back alone.

I hope all are well.