Reflections on Africa
i fear that either i’m either too dense, too busy, or just to inertia’d (not a word) to react to and be impacted by the things that i see and hear in my life. i feel like there should be some change in my heart and in my life from my experiences there. i feel like something should be different or something should be clearer. i should feel some conviction or some stirring. and then i think, is there a shortcoming in me that causes me not to find those feelings, or a shortcoming in me that expects i should have them in the firstplace. maybe all i did was mentally (and physically) photograph and observe the people there. maybe i didn’t get as deep as i could. or maybe i got as deep as one gringo could get on a two week vacation. mostly i would suspect that it is partly that i have an overblown sense that i should have felt something life changing and partly that i haven’t given myself enough time to have that thing happen within me.
i just know that the place was strange and hard, wonderful and exotic. i still picture the buildings and the countryside in my mind. my heart still goes out to the women of islam. i shudder at the coldness i saw in men there towards their wives. wives were servants and little else in much of the interactions i saw. they wore full burqas in 108 degree heat while their husbands sported cargo shorts and yankees caps. i had my driver describe for me how he and 3 friends rent an apartment (they live with their parents) expressly for the purpose of having sex with prostitutes. these same people, however, wouldn’t dream of touching liquor and want to marry traditional wives (who they will then disregard and cheat on with prostitutes).
i couldn’t believe that the place wasn’t more religous fervor among the people. i had expected that every time the prayer call came, that people would fall to their knees wherever they were. it only took one or two prayers to stop pausing and waiting for it to happen. most people went about there day as if nothing was going on. not that that is any different than here, just unexpected for an islamic nation. the only people who actually made the walk to the mosque at prayer time were the people with giant welts and bruises on their foreheads from putting rocks under their prayer mats. for most of the rest of the people, though, islam for them seemed to be akin to what “white” is for me. it’s who i am, i don’t think about it and i never really consider being anything else, what it means, . they attach to the end of every sentence even mentioning the future an “en shallah” with the perfunctory impassiveness of a houscleaner remembering to recheck the bathroom trashcan. a rote nod to a sentiment (humility before God) that seems strange when untethered from a more zealous kind of faith and belief.
i wondered about the desire of completely secular men who live for the most part devoid of many of the hallmarks of religon and spirituality to marry “traditional women”. was it b/c it was the right thing culturally to do, was it based off of their belief that only that kind of woman could run a household and raise their children or was it another “en shallah” tacked on to their lives.
the most stark example of the lives of the women of north africa came in a little traditional berber village up in the mountains. there we got to see a family (of which we really only saw the woment). the youngest were two cousins of approximately 6 years of age. there was a sister of age 13, one of about 17 and a mother who probably was in her late 30’s. the young girls were just like any kids you would meet in america. fun and playful, energetic and happy. what little hesitancy they had towards us was quickly broken down by showing them a picture of themselves or playing pattycake. the older daughter was much more reticent to interact. it was only after some time that the girls made her feel comfortable enough to laugh and smile and just “let herself go”. the oldest daughter, however, was far too busy working to stop and play with us. she was cooking and cleaning the entire time we were there. when she had a free moment she might stand 20 feet away and watch us all, but never came over to interact with us. the mother, was hidden except when she was bringing the food out to us. it felt to me like the burqa isn’t the only veil in their culture. like a dark curtain slowly descended over the light in these young girls lives, starting sometime between when they would be in 2nd and 6th grade in america. to think that ones happiness might peak at age 10 before their light slowly went dark was unsettling and disheartening. i imagined it must be what an ALS sufferer feels like as they slowly lose the function of body parts. their life slowly dies around them until one day they realize they’ve been carrying gallons of water on their shoulder up a rocky hillside for 20 years and their backs are twisted like the roots of an old oak tree.
i guess i’m just extrapolating from anectdotal evidence, but it feels true. and it feels sad. here is the 12/13ish daughter from the house. her hand is died with a berber design in their tradition of decorating themselves with henna. for who or what? i’m not sure. if i spoke berber i might have asked
other thoughts from the country. apparently, the belief is that anyone you meet could be an angel. i think this is rooted in judeo-islamic traditions like that of the two angels at sodom and gomorra (which i obviously don’t know how to spell). anyone, they would fall all over themselves to be nice to you, but i am told that they were celebrating here, too, when 9/11 occurred. i guess it was as if america was a country populated by americans. americans were decadent, blasphemous, dirty and jewish. americans were a “type of person” but americans were not people. ergo, it wasn’t “people” who got killed that day, it was “americans” and we could not be “americans” because we were “people”. i’m sure someone or many someones might disagree, but that was my interpretation of the culture.
other than that. it was amazing seeing a culture that prided itself on “living as mohammed did”. it makes for such a picturesque scene and one that owing to the people and the amazing terrain is almost surreal. seeming at times biblical, martian, desert and oasised within 20 minutes of one another.
seeing a donkey filling up every inch of a narrow street as it traversed the city delivering coca cola. women in burqas in the surf, snake charmers and shepherds, and sand piled on top of sand so high you can barely believe it. these are the images i’m left with in my mind. that and those of a wonderful group of people with so many quirks and characters that it was amazing. it felt like there was virtually no replication of personal traits in our group, like each was a character in an allegory, presented to teach a virtue and illustrate a vice.
anyway, that will suffice for thoughts for now. below are a handful of more pictures from the trip, or if you want the kit, click this link for my picasa album. if you’d rather have the caboodle, then you can click this link for my paris pictures. rod, trey and i went to paris after we spent 3 days in the desert region. it felt amazing to step out into the damp chill of paris. we felt fresh and clean for the first time in 2 weeks. it was heaven!!
this guy was wearing a fashionable panhandling hat.
this is one of the young girls from the mountain village
this guy lived near the place owned by one of our guides ali (who was fantastic by the way)
this was our waitress at the hottest most humid resturant i have ever hurriedly sucked back a coke in.
and this was a little girl, who was sitting at a pottery stand. i couldn’t tell is she was tired, or sad, bored or content. she just sat quietly while many in our group shopped and i ate some fresh yogurt from a street vendor.
