Moroccan Mountain Marriage

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A Moroccan Mountain Marriage

Cords of Arabic song nest on the clouds of steam drifting through the hamam, the bathing house, when a loud cry of disappointment suddenly rings up and quickly wanders from room to room. "The hot water has run out." Silhouettes, barely discernable in the heavy mist, glide through the three roomed establishment. "Oh, no." A general exclamation of disappointment echoes back from the hamam`s ancient, pink walls. Little children, soaped to the ears in white foam, sob from between their mother`s legs in panic. There is no more steaming hot water. "What shall we mix the icy, mountain water, sprouting from the tap in the corner, with now? It is a down right disgrace!" The hamam is filled with naked women covered in soap buds, looking lost." How shall we finish washing? With what shall we rinse our heads?" Smokey vapor engulfs the various groups of women sitting in the different high domed rooms. The temperature is well over 100 degrees. And now there is no more temperate water to pour from the plastic cups while we comb our hair. The village, dating back to the 14th century, lies tugged to the skirts of a rugged mountain in the North Moroccan Rif Mountain Range, 2000 feet above sea level. During the summer months it basks in the relentless sun and in the wet winters it is exposed to the biting cold. It is one of those special places where time stands still and I am delighted to have been invited to come and participating in the costmary washing ceremony that presides a Berber wedding. All the women around me are naked and sweating heavily. Big drops of sweat glister like oil on their skins in the feeble light penetrating the round holes high in the roof. I am part of the negaffa, the female attendants of the bride to be. The negaffa, usually older married women, relatives and personal friends, have the task to accompany the bride on her metamorphosis from a girl to a married woman. Outside, in the alley ways that wind through the blue mountain village, it is also well over 100 degrees. It is the session for weddings and the road to Morocco from Europe is clogged with home comers. They are travelers between cultures, linking up with roots turned overly colorful through distance. Once they left their homeland to live in a foreign country, now they come back to relive impressions and gather pictures for the family albums - like most of the other 20 million people worldwide who do not live in their native land. I am also a traveller between cultures. Yesterday I passed across the Strait Gibraltar, coming through Spain alongside the yearly flow of Moroccans returning home. 500 hundred years earlier the Moors were pushed back out of Spain by the Catholic Kings after 700 years of living on the peninsula. A year later, in 1495, Christopher Columbus, financed by the spill of the riches, discovered the Americas and the Arab influence and global expansion came to a definite standstill, until recently. Here, in the Rif Mountains fierce Berber families, from along the North African Coast mingled with the Al-Andalus Moors and Jews fleeing back over the Strait. But a variety of different ethnic groups Arabs, black Gnaoua slaves from the Sudan and a few Christians, mixed with them - each leaving their traces. The music at the wedding would demonstrate this. To go to a hamam is a surprisingly refreshing experience, in spite of the heat. My daughter and I splash water, cupped from the plastic pails stacked on the floor, and laugh. In fact it is like a trip to the swimming pool - without the pool - till the moment that the hot water runs out. I exchange shampoo and conditioner with the other women. Then we scrub each other`s back. Tiny toddlers lying across the knees of their mothers´ and rubbed roughly from head to toe while the bride spreads out on the floor in a separated niche. Four candles light her cell. They were the same candles the little girls carried when they headed the wedding procession up the steep paths of the village. They are the same candles that lighted the way when we stepped into the dark, humid hammam and started to undress in the timeless shadow of a silent fountain. Steam floats through the bath house, making it difficult to follow the movements of the old woman`s hands as they massaged the pale body of the bride with the long black hair. Hot air drifts up towards the arched, unadorned roofs. After the first exclamations of disappointment have died the women drum on the under sides of their empty buckets, giving voice to their impatience. Then they break into spontaneous song. An undulating zaghareet, a high-pitched wail made by wagging the tongue quickly back and forth, echoes back from the vault-like, barren walls. Sweat pearls roll off our thighs. Sipping the icy water from the mountain`s hidden spring, we speculate on why the great furnace, fired with the last trees from the mountain slopes, has died out. It is the first day of a feast that will last for 3 days in the bride`s home. Throughout the previous day relatives have arrived for the grand occasion. Excitement sizzles the air as the bride and her maidens step outside, wrapped like cocoons from head to foot in 20 feet long, coarse, white linen, haiks. The dark, enticing eyes of the unmarried girls flash out from beneath the bleached sheets, beckoning us onward. Neighbors, gathered in front of the door, cheered at the top of their lungs, and the bride`s proud father ceremoniously kisses his daughter on the forehead in the light of a dozen buzzing cameras. Finally, accompanied by more merry shouting we had set out, following the sister of the bride, who balanced a tray with sugar mounts and flasks of rose water on her head. After the hamam we return to the house and the traditional Moroccan dish, cous-cous, is served in the kitchen under the roof. The house is buzzing with women and household helpers carrying dishes of food up and down. The men have been expelled for the length of the wedding feast - much to their loudly voiced inconvenience. Whenever a male approaches the entrance a women sends out a wail of warning to the others so that they can quickly cover their hair and pull down their skirts. An enormous plate of suksu, as the Berbers call their cous-cous, is placed in the center of the low table and chunks of the freshly baked bread are handed out. The tender chicken crumbles to pieces as twenty hands dig into it, tearing at the crispy skin. To soak up the sweet onion and raison gravy we use pieces of unleavened bread while the fine, yellow cous-cous may be scooped with a spoon as a special exception. The children are handed the prize pieces. For every grown-up there are at least 3. The youngest get the most attention in this village, where everybody partakes in the other`s life. The rest of us rip at the skin of the bird, lying on the summit of the wheat and barley mount, till the last mouthful has disappeared. In the late afternoon the henna painting ceremony commences. Henna painting is the traditional art of decorating the hands and feet with the finely ground leaves of the henna plant, botanically known as Lawsonia incrmis. Henna has been in use for as long as the Berbers have wandered on the face of the earth, for over 5000 years, and it is found in a wide belt reaching from North Africa all the way to India. Even the Pharaohs employed it to mummify their dead. Now we will use it too. Freshly made up and perfumed the bride has enters the sitting rooms and takes her place on embroidered cushions. Her foot is lifted onto a small stool and a woman, booked especially for the occasion, begins her work. She mixes the greenish henna powder with hot water and a drop of acetone, creating a smooth paste, and fills a dozen improvised plastic bags with it, stuffing the rest into an immense syringe. Then she begins to paint an intricate, floral pattern using the bare skin of the bride as her canvas. "It's a design from the Gulf region," somebody tells me knowingly, as branches of henna start to sprout out over the arch of the foot towards the blood-red toe nails. Berber designs are totally different, geometrical, like their written language. I remember the grandmother of the bribe, whom I meet 20 years before, when I first came to this village. She had a simple small, vertical line of blue ink tattooed on the tip of her chin, as was then customary. Today the 25-year-old bride smiles patiently as she switches feet and the women guests, filling the rooms, sit and watch in open fascination. Whenever the syringe is empty the artist refills it from one of the countless bags she has prepared. The mixture is the same hue as the marijuana pollen, harvested in this area, from which the hashish is produced which floods southern Europe. The smoking of the plant`s stems, however, has a long tradition in these parts. The mixture is known as kif and smoked in a tiny, clay head fastened to a wooden pipe. Suddenly the women cannot restrain their desire for celebrating the grand occasion any longer. Somebody starts clapping her hands and the singing starts in full force. A small drum, a tam-tam, is produced and a beat is set. Now everybody is joining in, clapping. The entire house is vibrating. Even outside in the alley the echo of the drumming is clearly audible and the colorful light bulbs, which have been hung from the roof, like a full-length curtain, knock gently against the blue façade to the sound of the music. The first stars have popped out of the lapis-lazuli sky outside as the lead singer sings a verse that has just sprung to her mind. "She placed her hand in the fire..." The chore chirps in, repeating the refrain. The lead singer begins anew, adding a phrase. "She placed her hand in the fire and burned it badly. She pulled it away and never looked back." The chore of women claps their hands, repeating the text in union. The voices ring like silver chimes and the heavy, golden jewelry, the women wear over their festive robes, thumps against their bosoms in union. As abruptly as the singing commenced it comes to a halt again. Sweetmeats are served and fresh, sweet peppermint tea is handed around on vast, silver trays. Relatives and helpers run up and down the narrow stair, from the kitchen to the representative rooms on the ground floor. The guests eye each other silently. The walls of the long open room, which is tiled waist high with bright, arabesque tiles and carried by plastered pillars, offers low seats from corner to corner. We sit back and sip the tea, ataí. Drinking tea is a way of life in these parts. The seemly endless, formal greetings have been guttered already countless times. Each day I kiss each guest anew and ask if they and their family members are fine. The amount of times one does so represents the degree of respect. Twice on each cheek is my limit. Only once in a while the atmosphere is broken by a loud shout of praise to the Lord, Alahu Akbar, and hopes for a happy future for the bride and her prospective husband. It is well past midnight when the last of the guests and children has finally had her hand painted with henna and we crawl under the sheets of one of the improvised beds prepared on the floor. Early in the morning of the following day we are abruptly knocked out of bed by the arrival of the music band. A group of 4 elderly men, dressed like a European, military band, with trousers, blue shirts and gold-gilded caps snake up the hill, coming closer and getting louder at each bend of the road. One of them sounds his trumpet. Two others beat their tin drums while the forth bashes his brass cymbal as violently as he can. In the alley outside the neighbors have assembled once again. The morning sun slides down the sides of the walls of the houses that lean on each other in such a way that they form a labyrinth of interconnected passageways. Many of the doorways are minute, so that one must stoop to enter into the open patios, inspired by the romans or rumi, beyond. The doors are mostly arched and painted a bright, Mediterranean blue while the walls of the houses are whitewashed with lime to which different degrees of blue color have been added to ward off the Evil Eye. This is Chefchauen, known as Xauen to the Spanish, who ruled this area from 1926 till 1956. It is the most famous village in entire Morocco. In the local language of the Berbers, Tamazight, which is one of the 5 Berber tongues spoken by the 30 million Berbers worldwide, the name of the village is derived from the word "horns", which is what the mountains directly across from the village look like. By now Chefchauen however counts over 37.000 inhabitants, so that it is a township and not actually a village any longer. Its most famous temporary inhabitant was Mohammed Abd al-Karim, who was jailed in the town`s Alcazaba from 1916 - 1917. He was a highly educated government servant turn independence fighter, who proclaimed himself President of a Rif-Republic, free from Spanish control, in 1923. Help by 25,000 French soldiers, German, bio-chemical gas and a U.S. war pilot Abd al-Karim was however forced to surrendered to the French in 1926 and was hence incarcerated on the island of Réunion till 1947. He never returned to his native country. Not even after Morocco finally gained its independence in 1956. Was he very disillusioned when he died in Cairo 7 years later? It is a region that breeds strong feelings. Either you hate it or you love it and often enough it makes me feel both sensations simultaneously. The Uta al-Hamman square forms the town`s core and right in its heart an elegant pine tree towers like a tall birthday candle. The entrance to the kasbah of Moulay Ismail, from the 17th century, opens onto the square of the pigeons, which is what the name means translated - though most of the bird seem to have been used long ago to bake the traditional pastilla pies. Solid towers guard the little fort in which the pasha used to reside. The breezy garden is of a vibrant green, forming a stark contrast to the cool, blue color the village is otherwise so well known for. Under the garden`s orange trees the city`s intrigues were once plotted, in the many-arched palace the women of the harem once danced and in the dark caverns beneath the scrubs the town`s enemies once rotted away. Now the palace is a museum and offers local artists room to show their work in a side building, which opens out onto the principal mosque, constructed 1471 (969 according to the Islamic calendar), with its eight-sided minaret of geometrical inlaid red bricks. Surrounding the old town core the ancient town walls still hold solid. Most of the tourists come from Spain nowadays, passing through Tetuan, which is only 40 miles away. They sit in the countless cafés or wander in groups pass the bride`s house. The second day of the wedding is the day of the big party."It is the traditional day", the women tell me as they get dressed up elaborately. It is their big night - the one they have been looking forward to most. Looking at them I suddenly feel miserable in my glittering European outfit. A wild array of multicolored fabrics, stitched with gold and silver embroidery, meets my eye. A Chinese opera is nothing in comparison! Many a made-up face looks theatrical and the styles range from oriental princess and Han Empress to Hindi Bollywood star. Finally the big show commences as the sufi women`s orchestra takes to their seats. They are a recent addition to the musical scene, wearing comical, white napkins formed to hats on their heads. Their violins whine in a restrained fashion. Then the bride makes the first of her many appearances. It is a relatively simple dress she shows us first, while the bride maidens are dressed in fake Berber accessories, wide, straw hats with colorful knots and striped woolen blankets wrapped around the waist. In all, the bride will wear 7 different dresses, entering the room with her entourage of girls amidst a thunder of flash lights and rolling drums each time anew. She is the queen - it is a day that must last her for the rest of her life. Next the musicians are replaced by a group of young men in typical, peasant style djellabas playing large tambourines and clacking zils, metal spoon-like instruments. Their rhythm is far more appealing and the first women slide from the seats and start to wiggle their bottoms. To emphasize their dexterity they have tied scarves around each other`s hips. Undulating back-sides in many-patterned full-length gowns, called takshidas, fill the room. The music is pushing them to frenzy. Fans are scarce and it is stuffy amidst the many-layered, bright dresses. Young girls, taught to hide their emotions in public, show movements that would make a westerner blush. The green dress, the blue dress, the golden dress, the red dress, the multi-colored dress and finally the crowning dress: the white one, are shown to us during the following hours. Sometimes the bride is barely able to walk because of the sheer weight of the different robes. Never-the-less, she smiles with pleasure. It is a marriage of love and she has been counting the days for the big event. I go up to see her in the room, where she is changed for each new appearance, and wish her all the luck in the world. Later the groom shows up wearing a cream colored outfit consisting of baggy pants, flowing cape, red babush (embroidered, leather slippers) and a bright red fez hat. Then it is time to be seated on the "Flying Chair". It is the day`s climax. Wearing the white dress the bride steps up to the chair with the four wooden poles sticking out underneath. As soon as she is seated four, strong men each grab hold of one pole and lift her up in the air. The Jews have a similar practice, no? Up she goes, to be hurled around and around, and bumping wildly against the sides, she smiles down on us like an excited kid on a joy ride. The third day is men`s day. At lunch time some 200 guests met in the house, which has been rented for the occasion. For several hours they eat at the low, round tables drinking soft drinks and finally tea. The women too have been invited because these days procedures are less strictly observed. Another music band is playing in the background today. They sing popular, modern songs and the women wear western dresses and even trousers. They are making themselves "poor", for it would be considered impolite to try and outshine the groom`s relative, who have also been invited, on this day. Only the bride`s inner circle is now present and my daughter plays cards with the other children till the sun finally sets behind the "horns" in the West. When night falls the final part of the ceremony commences. The bride, the arosa, is placed in a small, wooden box wearing her white wedding dress. A warm, flat loaf of bread is slipped beneath her, though it is already hot enough in her tiny, airless box. Then the whole neighborhood joins in to carry her through the village to the groom`s home. We cross Uta el-Hamman, circle the enormous pine tree, and then push our way down the steep shopping street toward the town`s main gate, Bab el-Ain, at the bottom of the ancient town. In the groom`s house the bride`s family awaits us. The newly-wed couple, who have signed their civil marriage paper months ago, enter side by side. The groom`s mother welcomes them and feeds them both with a ceremonial date. Then she lifts a cup of milk to their respective lips and they drink from her hands. The bride bends her head to be kissed on the brow and her husband does the same. This is the moment of truth: the bride has arrived in her new home. She is the new daughter of the house. A touch of sadness lies in the air. The bride is a different person now. I do not know most of the people surrounding me and I almost feel liberated to step onto the street again, which is now lined with countless cars. Noisily we stuff ourselves into the automobiles, wind down the windows and open the roofs. Yalla,yalla!, Let`s get going! The car motors howl hungrily, and then we are off: a raucous parade of honking cars, making as much noise as possible. We drive back through the main streets to Uta el-Hamman, even though access is normally not permitted to vehicles. Then we dash back down the hill, take pictures on the big square in the new part of town, and finally head to the town`s highest point - the 4- star Hotel Asmaa - in a long procession of squeaking wheels and held-down horns. The children hang from the windows waving and shouting. This is the part they love most. The next day the wedding is over. The negaffa only have one last task to accomplish: bring the bride her breakfast. Once again the 4-manned band, with their western-style parade instruments, has come to the house in the morning. The bride`s gifts are laid on silver trays, as are the typical Moroccan sweetmeats, marzipan and almond cookies, which we will eat when we arrive. For the last time we set out. The hot sun hits our faces as we march through the entire village in union. In the bride`s new home we are lead to one of the many, open, representative rooms that constitute a home`s visiting card. For the final time, a tam-tam is produced and there is singing and dancing. Most of the women present have covered their heads with a scarf today from modesty but they clap and sing, making as much noise as possible for the last time. Only one person is missing: the bride`s mother. She is not welcome in her daughter`s new house as yet and sits at home, alone. Now the marriage ceremony will continue for another 3 days at the groom`s house. The mere thought of more dancing is already exhausting to me. For my daughter and me the wedding is over and in the morning we will begin our trip back to the European metropolises, lying beyond the Strait of Gibraltar, alongside countless immigrant families. At night we climb to the roof of our host`s house for the last time. This is one of the few places that women may enjoy the fresh air of the evening unmolested. Stars twinkle above our heads and hundreds of village lights dot the dark slopes. Several other homes boast pulsating chains of colorful, wedding light bulbs and strands of passionate, Arabic music drift on the breeze that envelops us.