When I think about my tenure here as a foreign visitor, I sometimes try to put things into a severely rational perspective. I think about the local economy, about the daily wages here as they compare to those back home. (My brother makes more money per hour working at Borders than I would have made in an entire day of wheat harvesting...and I only worked a half-day). I think about the real drain that I represent on the family's resources--on the water I use and the food I eat and the space that I consume.
I do, of course, try to occasionally help out, though too much would frankly be insulting, and money would be like a slap in the face. I have bought a cake for the family (they loved it--I had the baker write this great phrase--llah irhem u walidin, which means something like "may god watch over your parents") I have brought home chickens for dinner, and I try to do any work around the house that they will let me do, which frankly is very little.
Still, no matter how much I do, it is obviously not enough to repay them for all that they do for me. There is no price that I can put on their wonderful company, delicious food, their cleaning of my clothes or preparation of my bathing water.
How can one possibly repay all of this?
Most amazing of all, it seems that my mere presence is is enough...I do not mean this to sound narcissistic or self-aggrandizing, but there is no other way to say it. I love to be here, and they love to have me here.
Most of my time on this trip has been spent with Driss's family--with his mother, father, two brothers and the two sisters that still live in the house. In addition, Abdessamad, Driss's nephew, is often around, and there are many visitors. Every day and every night and every morning we eat together. We listen to music and dance, we laugh and sing, we try to understand each other through hand signals, basic Arabic, and the interpreting abilities of Driss and his brother Salah. Driss's father, Mohammed, normally a quiet, reticent man, has been laughing for what seems like days. Everyone seems suprised at his jolly demeanor. We share inside jokes within the family and repeat them incessantly, guffawing every time until we are near tears.
When I miss a meal at the Nabil residence, the next day they tell me how quiet the meal was, how normal. They tell me how sad they will be when I leave. Driss's mother tells me that I am her son, and that she is my Moroccan mother. They talk about the next time I will visit, about things we must do, about how happy they will be to see me return.
It is really all just quite mindblowing, and each day I am pushing back my day of departure from this town. I know that I must be in Portugal on the 21st of June, and I believe I have abandoned all notions of visiting touristic sites in other places in Morocco.
Ksar el Barrani has captured me, and it is hard to leave.
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