A Spiritual Oasis

I often find myself in situations where I push the pause button for no more than a minute and think to myself, "Ten minutes ago, would I have ever imagined I would be in this moment?" Of course the answer is always no, and the follow-up question is inevitably, "Where am I?" Well, let me rewind a bit and give you some context.

One weekend, I had decided to join some other professors on a trip to the Tafilalt Oasis, on the outer limits of the Sahara Desert. We had been traveling for hours across barren plains and winding through rocky hills when we suddenly descended upon a lush green valley, bursting with date palms and woven with rivers. It was a true oasis in all respects of the term and a fresh gulp of water for the eyes. Now, what's interesting about this particular oasis is that just a few kilometers down the river, or immediately beyond the dam that is plugging this plentiful paradise is a region laden with cracked, dried riverbeds and entire families meagerly surviving on 5 liters of water a day. Why the drastic contrast? Well the answer is not all that surprising . . . religion.

Apparently, and as explained to me by one of my colleagues, an expert on the region, Sufi religious prayer centers, known as Zawiyats, speckled the area dating back to the time when caravans were crossing the desert from Algeria to Timbuktu. These Zawiyats were places where the community gathered for prayer rituals, where the harvest was collected and distributed amongst families, and where any tribal disputes were settled.

Well, not too long ago ,the kingdom of Morocco asked that these Zawiyats turn over their papers to the government. Most of the Zawiyats did just that and find themselves conveniently located on the green side of the dam, however some did not, and only one of them is barely surviving today. This is where I find myself now, seated among some of my colleagues and Sufi men and children, in the central gathering room, deep in a labyrinth of dirt walls, in the middle of the desert, on a stark black, starry night. The Sufi women are on the roof because they are not permitted in the inner room. There is a circular opening in the ceiling where you can see them occasionally taking a glimpse of their unexpected visitors. Below, we lounge on woven pillows and rugs, sipping cup after cup of mint tea, and snacking on fresh dates and peanuts. We had just witnessed poetic chanting from the Qur'an and were about to see the hadhra, a rhythmic invocation of Allah using drums and dance. Now, you'll get a glimpse of what carried us well into the night.

Just press play.

The Sahara

Some fluff in the muff

We knew something was wrong when the motor of our 97 VW Polo was louder than any beat-up, sheep-carrying, furniture-transporting vehicle on the road. However, what could be the problem? We had no idea . . .

We press on though, hoping it is nothing more than a busted muffler, until we come upon a honey farm on the side of the road, a place where you can not only find, but taste, over fifty different flavors of bee vomit . . . jasmine, eucalyptus, orange blossom, and Italian? Anyway, naturally we stop to stick our greedy little paws in various honey jars before we decide to continue on to our final destination, Chefchauen, home to cheese pruducin' goats and peace plant providin' mountains.

After I gather up my honey purchases from the small store, I walk outside to my three traveling companions, bewildered, observing the the back of the car. I join them, survey the situation, and am immediately aware of the cause of our growling vehicle. It appears that a small, black, furry animal has managed to be entirely sucked up and engulfed by our muffler. So much so, we are not quite sure if it is a cat, a baby goat, or a small child. However, regardless of the unidentifiable object, I jump into action, grab an empty plastic bag from the car, put it over my left hand, and squat down behind the rear bumper preparing myself for what is about to be yanked out. As I wrap my hand around what I assume to be the neck, or some part of the spinal column, I am receiving little moral support from the three members of my audience, two of whom can't stop crying they're laughing so hard and the vegetarian who is about to vomit from the whole scene. But, not one to stop a show, I pull as hard as I can, trying not to rip the muffler off or a vertebrae out of our furry foe. However, I only come away with a handful of charred fur and the final verdict that it's a cat, possibly a kitten, wedged in that pipe. Just as I'm about to jerk out my fifth handful of fur, my support team finally shows up, in true Moroccan fashion, with a woman in a gelaba serving us mint tea on a silver tray. So this is how they handle this sort of thing. Finally the honeyman comes out, takes one look at the situation and politely listens to my friends' desperate explanations in broken French, Arabic, and Spanish. I just quietly sip on my tea while manually shearing the kitten. After the honeyman grasps the gist of what my companions are so exhaustingly trying to communicate, he calmly walks to the back of the honey store and comes back with a young, strapping mechanic, complete with a gray jumper and gloves to match. Now, was is too simple-minded of me to assume a honey farm in the middle of the Rif Mountains probably would not have an on-site mechanic? Possibly so, but regardless of my ignorant assumptions, Sidi Fix It stepped right up to the plate, took off his glove, yanked out a clump of fur from the suffocated feline, smelled it, and declared us all idiots. Apparently, a small kitten sucked up into a muffler looks strikingly similar to a blown out filter. They assured us we would be fine for the rest of our trip and that we were not animal killers (the vegetarian was almost in tears by now).

So, to Chefchauen we merrily arrived, muffler intact, honey stocked, one more vacancy in the pet cemetary and a very important lesson learned: When you think you have some fluff in your muff, just sip your tea and let a professional do the work.

A call to prayer: Chefchauen