A festival and an engagement

I recently had two more occasions to dress up in an amelhaf and to try to blend in to my surroundings. Despite the fact that the full-body garment, if held properly, reveals almost nothing, I still seem to be conspicuous in a crowd. When sitting with my usual gang (my host mother, her sisters-in-law and some friends) and we are approached by someone else, they will scan the group, greet us, and then ask about the taromit. If said person speaks to me, the conversation will generally go as follows:

Stranger: You’re wearing an amelhaf!
Me: Yeah.
Stranger: You’re becoming Tashelhit!
Me: Ha ha, yeah.
Stranger: Now you have to get married!
Me: Ha ha. Not yet.
Stranger: You wouldn’t marry an Ashelhi man?
Me: It’s not that, I’m just still young.
Stranger: How old are you?
Me: 23
Stranger: You’re not young! You have to get married now!

The first occasion was a local festival. In Morocco there is a tradition of moussems. They honor local saints and usually take place at their tombs. This moussem was at Sidi Abdljabar, a part of the valley just outside of my town. First stop was the tomb. Since the tomb is part of a mosque, I didn’t go in. Moroccan law says that only Muslims can go into mosques. The rest of the festival wasn’t too different from a town fair in the States. Shopping and eating. We walked along the side of the road to see what was for sale, then stopped to eat, then shopped some more, then ate some more. At the Moroccan festival in the place of fried dough, cotton candy and French fries there is fried fish, tagine and tea.

Most festivals in the area, but in particular Sidi Abdljabar, are known as an opportunity for boys and girls to talk. Other than school, there are not too many occasions when it’s normal for boys and girls to mix. (‘Boys’ and ‘girls’ do not necessarily mean young, they just mean unmarried). If a girl isn’t in school or has finished and isn’t working, the two most likely options to meet someone are through her family or walking down the street, like at the moussem. By late afternoon at Sidi Abdljabar, the coupling had begun. There were girls and boys walking around on the outskirts of the festival, up on the hill, away from the main street. I stuck with the married women for this one.

My next big cultural event in town was the engagement party of my host mom’s brother. This time, I got to wear the white amelhaf, reserved for engagements and weddings. All of us with the groom’s family got ready and gathered together plates of cookies, dates and almonds, milk, fabric, dresses, jewelry and a sheep to bring to the bride’s house. We piled in cars and put all the stuff in a truck and drove to their house. We were greeted by a large group of girls welcoming us with songs in Tashelhit and copious amounts of perfume poured on us. Our crew sang the only song I know, the one always sung at joyous occasions, and then we all paraded into the house and sat down.

All of the women, in their white amelhafs, sat in one room and the men went somewhere else. Between the four bridal costume changes and pictures of the bride and groom with every guest in each outfit, the women danced and sang traditional Tashelhit songs. About four hours later was dinner. Dinner at weddings and for important occasions usually consists of four courses. The first is called burqooqs, a dish made from couscous with butter and honey poured on top. Then comes chicken with olives and preserved lemons. Then beef with prunes and hard boiled eggs. Lastly, comes the fruit. Shortly after dinner and the last picture taking session, around 2 a.m., the groom’s family headed back to our caravan of cars and trucks and back home. It was a long day, but it was great to be considered part of the family.