Insha'allah, Part 2

I did indeed eat couscous with the handyman's family on Friday afternoon.

The two American girls and I waited around outside work for a while after our agreed upon meeting time, but Didouche, the handyman, finally arrived and we proceeded to walk to his house. First, he asked about my roommate Daniel, and I had to explain that Daniel had not finished preparing for his six hours worth of class on Friday evenings, so he wouldn't be coming.

Didouche is a Berber from the Sahara. Like many of his countrymen, he moved up north to one of the more populous cities. He's done quite well for himself all things considered. He married a woman from the area around Meknes, and they have three beautiful children. Based on the incessant friendly greetings he engaged in during our walk back to his house, I would conclude that he's well-known and well-respected in the community. I asked him how long he has been living in Meknes, and he told me, "Fifteen years, all in the same house."

We passed from Hamriya, where I work and live and where the new town founded in the French colonial period is centered, into a newer and more crowded residential area. The area might be considered subpar to most Westerners, but it has electricity, running water and paved roads.

After wandering through a maze of streets, we approached Didouche's house. He pointed it out, walking in and heading up the stairs. Following, we passed the nauseatingly stinky shared bathroom on the ground floor and ascended two cramped flights of stairs to his family's place. On the way up, we observed the other families' houses as the doors on each floor were open for the entire world to see, displaying well-made beds and tidy kitchens in a very cramped space.

Upon entering Didouche's floor, his wife greeted us in English and shook hands with us. The children approached us one by one, greeted us in Darija, and kissed us on the cheeks. To the right was a kitchen and a bedroom just barely visible on the other side and to the left was a tiny family room and another barely visible bedroom. Later Didouche explained that the girls sleep in that bedroom and the boys sleep on the couches in the main room.

The two couches were of the Moroccan style, each only five or six feet total. The other two sides of the room were taken up by the TV stand and by the walkway to the bedroom. So the family room was close to eight feet by eight feet.

We sat down and watched some TV on a nice plasma screen TV (one of the only luxuries I observed in the house) and occasionally tried to say nice things in Darija. Didouche was constantly teaching us new words and trying to joke around with us.

His wife brought out one giant bowl of couscous and set it on the table. Like my previous experiences eating couscous with Moroccans, we each received a spoon and began to dig in (quite literally), starting on the edges where it wasn't quite as hot. Didouche's wife rolled couscous balls and gave one to each of us in turn--a tradition I'm still not quite sure I understand.

The couscous is topped by carrots, pickles, chickpeas, and meat. The meat is usually hidden under the vegetables and so when it starts to appear after a few minutes of eating, the family will begin to toss the best morsels over to the side of the bowl of the guests. If you stop eating, the family will egg you on to continue. If you truly can't eat anymore, it is polite to say a few set phrases in Arabic such as "Praise be to God" or "May God replenish you". I lasted longer than the girls did, but eventually I had to throw my hands up in surrender to my small stomach and say the same.

After couscous, Didouche's wife brought out some Moroccan tea as the children cleaned up the table. Surprisingly, the boys helped out in the task. In most Moroccan families, the girls do all of the chores. We drank the tea and munched on some almonds, still attempting to joke around with our feeble Darija. Asking what things are called and trying to say them can really help carry a conversation when neither of you speak the other's language well enough to really discuss much of substance.

As we left the cramped confines of Didouche's house to walk back to work in the hot midday sun, they asked us if we would like to come back next Friday. After a meal like that, there's no way I could say no.

So in Arabic I said that I would love to, Insha'allah.