Last night, I came home early, as I wished to rest and improve the state of my digestive system. I have been suffering from a bit of gastrointestinal distress, but I don't want to make a big deal out of it, since I fear that people here might feel bad and blame themselves for my illness.
Still, I did need to inform my caretakers of my stomach issues, as I needed to find a way in which to beg off from eating too much. And so, I limited myself to indicating my stomach, and telling them, "Not Good. A little not good." Everyone, of course, had an explanation, most of which centered on water temperature. Perhaps they were right, though I have been drinking cold water on hot days my whole life, and it does not usually make me sick.
Well, just as I expected, Driss's mother fell into a state of worry and caregiving, although she never stopped laughing at me. She made me lie down face first on the ground, and performed the following "medical procedure," which she explained is used on children with stomaches.
1. She lifted the back of my shirt and spit on my back.
2. She rubbed in the spit and pounded my back.
3. She made me lift my torso a bit and massaged my stomach.
4. She pushed me back down and pinched my back, lifting me slightly by my skin.
5. Another pinch and lift.
6. Another pinch and lift.
7. Another pinch and lift.
8. Another pinch and lift.
9. She said she was done.
And then she asked me if I felt better. Amazingly, I did feel slightly better.
After this strange event, she brewed me up a pot of tea made with crazy herbs, four different ones I believe, and made me drink cup after cup of it. And after a while, whether from the strange beating I had received, or the tea, or merely the sense of being cared for, I really did feel a lot better.
Nonetheless, I have still got diarrhea. But that's a whole different story that nobody wants to hear. Perhaps I will move along, eh?
This morning I got a cooking lesson from Driss's sisters Hadda and Yemna. Hadda woke me up early in the morning, knocking on my window and calling out my name. It took quite a few knocks, but I finally woke up and stumbled out to learn how to make melowia.
Melowia is a breakfast food, something like a mix between a crepe and a filo dough pastry. It is actually quite simple to make, though it is rather labor-intensive. Essentially, it is made of flour, water, and salt. With these ingredients, a dough is made. This dough is formed into small balls, which are then flattened into thin sheets and folded in on themselves (like a note passed to a friend in class).
This done, these little packages are allowed to rise slightly. They are then flattened out until they are about the size of a notebook, rubbed with oil and placed in a hot frying pan to cook. The women move the dough around the pan with their hands, their skin seemingly impervious to the heat and bubbling grease. (I, on the other hand, used a spatula.) When done, they are flakey and delicious, and are served either plain, or with preserves or honey.
This lesson done, I moved on to make bread with Yemna. As I have explained before, the bread here is baked in a clay oven heated by burning sticks and bits of palm. The dough is placed on a metal tray in the oven and moved around with two metal sticks (one of them, in this case, a thin piece of rebar). The fire is blazing hot, and bakes the flat bread very quickly. It is, in fact, hot enough to raise a rash on unprotected legs, as I soon learned.
I now understand why the women here wear so many articles of clothing. I will never again bake bread without the proper attire.
All of this done, we sat down, the entire family and I, to eat breakfast. Hadda and Yemna told stories about my cooking abilities (or lack thereof) and everyone laughed.
The breakfast tasted better than ever.
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