Join for a story starting with culture shock and transforming into an invitation to discover more than just the tea in Morocco.
The road trip
As the road turned again, I said a silent thanks for not being cursed with car sickness. The air catches in my throat when I look out the window at the new sights: the vastness is incomparable to what I have ever seen before.
We are meandering down a path that is not towards our final destination. Why not? We are curious about what lies on the side of the mountain past the next curve. And we are about to find out.
We come upon a group on the side of the road, my friend slowing to roll down the passenger window. This isn’t a well trafficked road anymore, and the people are likely curious about us. Their chatting involves me sitting pretty in the middle and listening to the sounds of an unfamiliar language. At this point, I’m not even sure if it’s Arabic or the local Amazigh language. Even as a linguistics enthusiast and aspiring polyglot, I cannot gain any context in their conversation.
I spend more time noting their outfits and mannerisms through the window. There are people in and around a larger vehicle, seemingly camped out there for quite some time talking. Outside of the van, the four men who have approached our car to learn about us travelers stand in conversation. Their scarves are tied around their heads in donuts and their outfits are made of one loose fitting fabric, resembling dresses. Who are these people, and what are they doing deep in the Atlas mountains, away from towns and cities? I patiently wait for translations.
Haven’t you heard Morocco is ____?
I’ve been in Morocco for three days now. Before arriving, people warned me “be safe in Morocco,” and blogs told me to reconsider solo travel as a woman here. Although I am welcomed warmly by my friend in the driver’s seat, so many unknowns and new cultural norms pile up and weigh on my chest. It doesn’t help that I didn’t feel ready for this adventure when I departed, flying transcontinental battling a cold.
With each new experience and passing hour in the Moroccan countryside, I feel more and more comfortable as the unknowns convert themselves to normalcy. I didn’t want to be intimidated out of my dream to see this beautiful country, supposedly full of flavorful food, nice locals, and a charming culture.
But now I’m here and…
As we say our goodbyes and pull away from the group, I let out a breath that I was unaware I was holding. Being out of the loop in conversation has yet to feel routine; I fear that I am missing an important chunk of information, especially when the sharp edges of the language flair up. It’s hard for me to tell when someone may be upset or is simply deep in conversation.
Saying “no” to Moroccan hospitality
My friend unfolds the highlights of their brief chat as we continue driving slowly down the path. These people we passed are part of a nomadic group who are currently on a voyage from their winter territory to their summer domain. The invitation for tea that they offered was declined kindly by my friend, and I feel an odd mix of warmth and unease by what he has shared. They wanted us to join them for tea? Why? We know nothing about each other, and I can’t even say three words to them. I decide that I’m content to skip the tea with strangers this afternoon.
As we approach the next curve of the road, there is a similar view to the one we have been marveling at since our detour began. We turn around to continue on with our journey back to the fork in the road; it’s only just past noon, and we have dinner at the next guesthouse much later. But I am excited to get on with our cross country journey, wondering if the next landscape will offer more rocky edges, lush landscapes, or World Heritage Sites. The path thus far has been full of a mix of these, and we joke of tiring of our frequent stops at the protected, historic areas.
I had met my friend at a surf town in Ecuador the year before. We played beach volleyball together, went dancing, and had some nice conversations. A few months before this trip, he mentioned welcoming me to Morocco if I ever decided to visit, and my plans ended up swinging in that direction for the summer. It’s easy to talk with him and he is patient with my endless questions about Moroccan culture, food, and language. We’re on a week-long road trip through the High Atlas Mountains for the breathtaking views, beautiful hikes, and to discover the traditional Amazigh culture.
Saying “yes” to Moroccan hospitality
Minutes later, we are back where we met the curious group. The sky, on our fifteen minute tour, had turned from sunny to lightly sprinkling, the air chilling with the incoming storm. I know we will stop to say hello and goodbye once more. What surprises me is my friend turning to me, saying “We are going to have tea with them. Okay?” Me: “oh, ummm, yeah? Sure?” What I wanted to ask was “why wasn’t this a group decision?” He read my mind and explained that it was impossible to refuse them again, that in Moroccan hospitality, people are very generous and find honor in inviting you for tea.
This is not exactly what I expected, nor read about, when considering traveling in Morocco. To be completely honest, I pictured the country as one big hot, stifling desert and questioned the many layers I was told to bring. (Spoiler alert: I needed all of them and more for the cold nights in the mountains)
Regardless of expectations, I have been cordially invited for my first tea in Morocco with a group of nomads, none of whom I can speak with. And it looks like we will be heading to their camp since it is beginning to rain.
Culture shock?
This is not my first time in a country where I have had trouble communicating. When I went to China on a cultural exchange at 16, I was overwhelmed by culture shock for the first two days. I knew absolutely no Mandarin before embarking on this cultural exchange, and my English did not get me very far. Without hopes of understanding the language, attempting to read people’s intentions by only their facial expressions and gestures was difficult for a scared teenager. I had struggled with adapting and so had my stomach.
I like to think I have grown in cultural acceptance since then from my experiences in university and traveling solo to new countries, but I am once again a deer in the headlights, a 16-year-old unable to communicate. How is this going to go?
I have no idea what awaits us, but I am not one to back down to fear. Curiosity wins, and I step from the car with my rain jacket and phone in hand.
How do I look?
Do I look ok? I think to myself, in a different context than normal. Looking down at my pants, I’m happy that I didn’t succumb to the oppressive heat of the morning down the mountain and put on shorts. Although chosen to respect the culture and show modesty in the countryside, the extra layer will now be useful against the chill coming in with the rain. My scarf is around my neck covering the lower cut of my shirt, and my hair is loose. The fit has been checked (it is on point), and I feel comfortable. My friend gives me an encouraging nod, and we move as a group.
Stretching my legs feels great after the few hours we’ve already spent in the car today. I exchange shy smiles with the men as we walk towards their camp and my friend converses with the others in their native tongue, this time confirmed to be Amazigh.
They speak what language in Morocco?
In Morocco, being multilingual is the norm. At home, if the family is indigenous to North Africa, or Amazigh, they will likely choose to use the older, local language known by most of the world as Berber. This comes from the French word for barbarian, so when possible I refer to it as they do: they call their language Amazigh. Outside of this group, Moroccan Arabic, or Darija, is spoken. This is a mix of Arabic with Amazigh, Spanish, French, and English, which is not mutually intelligible among other dialects of Arabic. In schools, Classical Arabic is taught along with French (due to the colonization of Morocco by France). English is learned as well in the cities and by those who have more opportunities to use it, whether that is through interaction with foreigners or travel to other countries.
On top of these common languages amongst Moroccans, many continue to learn another relevant European language to secure their standing as polyglots: Spanish (especially in the north of Morocco), German, Italian… They are blessed with language skills many of us can only dream of!
At this moment, I am learning my first two words in Arabic. They are arguably the most important: salam (hello) and shukran (thank you). I will go on to collect a considerable vocabulary based on my Moroccan lifestyle in the months to come: surfing and chilling. Now, however, these two words are all I have to go on. My French is also underdeveloped, but English is passable 😉
Here is a look at some words in Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, I would go on to learn.
With the group who invited us for tea, English will of course be useless, as will French. Any hopes for communicating without translation have come to a halt: they only speak Amazigh. And I can remember zero words in this language of the few I have been told in passing.
Invitations home
We cut left off the road, down towards a small valley in the hillside where the camp location has been chosen by the people and their goats. And they did not disappoint with their placement– around us is a grazing area for the animals, some weather protection offered from the nearby mountains, and untouched nature. There are manmade walls of rock protecting the main tarped area where the group is to sleep and enjoy the comforts during poor weather.
Just past this, a kitchen is set up between walls with a large fire in the middle. I can see from here the steam escaping– they must be preparing their next meal. And beyond the main camp, there are even more rocks set up to create space for the animals. This is no passing place, haphazardly put together: it has taken time for these nomads to build a home here.
Rounding the corner, we are invited inside, ducking our heads to the level of the roof. The numerous blankets are laid out on the floor, with some extras piled in the back. There is a table set up off to the side, near where we entered. I notice the colors, as always in Morocco, are inviting and bright.
Three young men are lounging in their home already and we say hellos and, probably, introductions.
My friend gestures to make ourselves comfortable, nomad style. Grabbing a folded blanket from the pile, we lean onto it as a makeshift pillow on our sides. This action almost feels more natural than pulling up a chair. As a floor lover myself, I am feeling right at home. No strict table manners necessary– at least not the ones I grew up with.
But what really puts me at ease is the woman I see. Yes, how could I not place it earlier? The group of strangers is all men, my friend included. No women or children. Over the next few weeks, I will question over and over where the women are when I don’t see them sitting at the cafes or shopping the markets. In this moment, I know I want to talk to her.
What’s the tea? I’ll sip it, not spill it
One of the men who invited us begins heating a fresh kettle of tea as everyone talks and I observe. Being out of the loop in conversation is a new feeling: generally in the first minutes of entering a large group I crack a joke or two to ease the tension, making myself known. Not even a whisper to a new, friendly face is possible here. How can I make connections without the use of words? I assume a new role, rather noticing my surroundings than actively partaking in the festivities. My mind wanders, curiosity peaking.
What’s that for? Oh look, their water is kept in normal plastic jugs. This blanket is a rough material but I like it. What are they talking about? Is everyone else more comfortable than me, did I fold this blanket right? How much sugar is he adding to the tea??
Moroccan tea is a combination of green tea, fresh mint, and lots of sugar.
Our host adds the mint and large chunk sugar to the kettle. He expertly pours tea into the tiny serving glasses from inches– and then even farther– above the lip. With a practiced but carefree motion, the tea returns from the full glasses to the kettle without any spills. Apparently not ready for consumption yet.
After a few more pours to mix the sugar and mint, the man fills the glasses for everyone. Next to the cookies and nuts that have joined the table, the individual tea glasses are placed.
This tea is known colloquially as Moroccan Whisky, likely due to the fact that it is against Muslim culture to drink alcohol. Tea here is enjoyed in cafes like beer in bars, accompanying socializing, football games, and people watching. It holds many roles in society, and now is used as a way to bring strangers together.
I sip my tea with the others, savoring the sweet flavor of the warm drink. With a glance around the room, I notice the woman is still absent. She is the sole woman of the group, I come to realize, and is busying herself at the fire preparing lunch. Everyone else now is sitting, enjoying the warming tea in their hands, without an extra glass to be seen. Hmm…
After what may have been ten minutes, she walks over to clean a glass and pour herself some tea. To my dismay, she does not join the group but sits on the outside of our socializing circle to drink it. She keeps to herself, and I glance at my friend to see if this is normal to him. The only woman, and she can’t join the grouping of her community and two guests? My heart goes out to her. Please look at me! Hi! She has been working extra hard, and is now sitting alone. I feel a deep urge to include her, for this not to be the way she is treated.
It is difficult to watch and do nothing. But what can I do? I am the only one uncomfortable by the unfolding of such sharply defined gender roles.
Someone refills my tea glass and brings me back to the moment. I thank them by saying “shukran” and wish I knew more words to express my gratitude.
Finding another voice
Throughout tea time, my friend tells me the important pieces of the story he is told by the group. This land is protected by the Moroccan government and nobody can build on it, as it is for the nomadic groups that pass through and live in the area.
Eventually, my friend turns to me and asks if I want to know anything or need help translating. Any questions? Yes, loads. I take my time to phrase my thoughts in a respectful but curious way. There are general questions about nomadic life, alongside:
- Will the woman join us? I would like to talk to her.
- Where are the rest of the women and children?
- Do they want to ask me anything?
No, she will not join us, he responds to me with an unspoken understanding that he will elaborate later. The children do not travel, as they are in school. Instead, within this group, they stay in the “winter” home year round.
I learn that they are not overly curious about me because I am not the first white tourist they have met. In fact, this group of nomads has welcomed a small number of foreigners on their month-long trek across the High Atlas mountains from one home to the next. They share in the responsibilities and live the nomadic lifestyle together in cultural exchange, all participating in the camp setup, food preparation, and animalcare. According to the group, this is enjoyable for them and they receive money to help support themselves as well. What an amazing exchange!
Hearing of this opportunity sparks an interest in the shepherd lifestyle. The daily journey across the mountains is timed not by how fast your feet can take you, but is marked instead by the grazing goats or sheep. Where there is food, the pace slows to allow feeding. It is the leisurely pace that entices me, exploring new grounds more for the animal’s needs and the experience.
My last question, I shyly ask, “can we take photos?” My phone has stayed put in my pocket, but is begging to be used to capture the moment. They say yes, and we avoid taking photos with any people in it out of respect for the group and their privacy.
I get up to photograph their dwelling and the views, easily finding the woman again. She is back in the kitchen tending to the fire. I watch her from afar, deciding how to approach her. When I do make contact, we smile and giggle at the difficulty in communication but attempt it regardless. I make hand gestures to ask if she is cooking, and tell her it smells wonderful. I tell her my name, learn hers, and ask if she would like my help with the fire (she does not). There are a couple other things we are able to say in our own way, the effort speaking much louder than our broken communication ever could.
Even though the meal is letting off a wonderful aroma, we decline lunch invitations with profuse thank yous for the tea, and say our goodbyes.
More on gender roles
I asked my friend to explain the gender dynamics within the group after we left, hoping he can shed some light on the subject. The answer I received was along the lines of traditional roles: when men have guests over, the women take on the behind-the-scenes role of preparing food, cleaning, and tending to the fire instead of socializing. She stays busy.
Oh. I sit with it. I can say “it’s not fair” and “I wanted to be her guest” but that does not change the traditional roles they follow. This is something that I will continue to see, struggle to understand, and eventually try to accept as part of a culture that I know only so little about.
The real Maghreb uncovered
The generosity of Moroccans knows no bounds. Assuming good intentions allows kindness and connection to exist between strangers, resulting in a warm culture that even foreigners who do not speak the language can feel and take part in.
I would go on to relive this message over and over. My experiences taught me how this beautiful culture would impact me, staying with me long after my toes left the North African soil (the Maghreb):
“If I leave Morocco and don’t exhibit greater generosity towards others, then I did not, in fact, visit the Maghreb.”
Thank you for reading 🙂
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