Moroccan Mountain Marriage
Moroccan Mountain Marriage
Cords of Arabic song nest on the clouds of steam drifting through the Hamam, when a cry of disappointment suddenly rings out and quickly wanders through the narrow rooms of the bathing house. Startled we look up.
“The hot water has run out,” the women exclaim in shock.
Silhouettes, barely discernible 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, catching the current of distress that lies in the air most easily.
“There’s no more steaming hot water,” they clamor.
“What shall we mix the icy, mountain water, with now? What a disgrace, especially on a day like this. ”
The bathhouse is filled with about thirty women covered in soap buds, looking lost as the news hits them.
“How are we going to get the Rhassoul out of our hair now”, they ask?
Smokey vapor engulfs three connecting, long chambers. Women sit, slopped against the unadorned walls. Many of them have applied the brownish paste of mineral clay, called Rhassoul, that comes from near the town of Fez about 200km to the south, to their heads to bring out the shine in their long hair for in preparation of the upcoming event. The temperature is well over 100 degrees. And now there is no more hot water with which to mix the ice water of the village mountain spring, called Ras el Mar, with.
“Is it a bad omen,” they question, having in mind the wedding for which they have all come together to celebrate in the right spirit?
The village dates back to the 14th century, and lies tugged to the skirts of a rugged mountain in the North Moroccan Riff Mountain Range, at 2000 feet above sea level. During the summer months it basks in the relentless sun and the wet winters it is exposed to the damp cold. It is one of those special places where time stands still and I am delighted to have been invited to come to Chefchaouen to participate in the costmary washing ceremony that presides a typical Berber, an Imazighen, wedding.
We are all naked, apart from our underpants, and sweating heavily. Big drops of sweat glister like oil on our skin in the feeble light penetrating the round holes high in the roof that serve as the only means of ventilation. 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 alleyways 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 traveler between cultures, bound to this
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Texte: Svenja Bary
Bildmaterialien: Svenja Bary
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.04.2016
ISBN: 978-3-7396-4769-2
Alle Rechte vorbehalten
Widmung:
To my daughters