In Morocco,the weekly routines are about the family being IN.
Friday is a day of cooking, and Sunday a day of cleaning.
On Sunday, Amina and her family came to meet me at my house. I'm sure they shake their heads at me when they come over, thinking "this poor little American girl has no idea how to care for a Moroccan house," and it's very true. The methods of cleaning here are quite different. I've been using the squeegee brush instead of a broom or vacuum, but I was not prepared for what happened Sunday. The whole family met me at my apartment in lovely djellabahs and head scarves, which they took off as soon as they were in the door, a storm of velvets and silks that left in its wake all manner of djellaba underclothes: mismatched pajamas, sweatsuits, and the fantastic Moroccan leggings that are made of sweater-fabric.
Amina and her family took the house by storm.
Khadija began rifling through my cupboards and mixing flour with yeast to make the khubz-bread, while Amina and I found all the supplies we'd need, including buying some extra brushes and another bucket (Driss promptly broke the first one). Fuzia and Fatiha began moving the furniture, then filled a giant bucket with soapy water and upended it over my carpet! Driss kept filling the bucket and dumping more water on the floor, and we women rotated through the bristly scrubbing of the carpet, throwing water on the windows and walls, and manning the squeegee to ensure that the flood of water that covered our ankles was shepherded into the squatty-potty drain.
In the flurry of activity and sudsy buckets, everyone and everyTHING was drenched. I want to compare the efficiency of the women rotating scrubbing tasks to a machine, with each part working together seamlessly; however, the efficiency of Amina's family far surpassed any machines that I have seen in the last year. I find it very refreshing after frustrations with Moroccan things not working to be witness to Moroccan PEOPLE working with more expertise than I could imagine. Cleaning the house was like a spectacularly choreographed Renaissance dance.
After everything was soaked, scrubbed, soaked again, and squeegied, we rolled up the carpets and carried them to the roof to dry in the sun. Amina and I went out for a 2-kilo chicken and some olives and lemon to make tagine. I still haven't figured out if the "2 kilos" of the chicken refers to before or after it is killed, but I've found a chicken-man who skins and guts it before giving it to me. I appreciate this a lot.
We sat down as a family to delicious tagine and homemade bread in the apartment that was spotless, but destroyed. We had to sit on the buckets and a few plastic deck chairs, since the couches had been taken apart to wash the cushions. The wool had been removed from the pillows so we could wash the cases, leaving a pile of about a dozen sheep-skins worth of wool in one corner of the apartment. I resisted jumping into this pile for about 2 hours, and was proud of my restraint. When I finally pretended to trip and fall into the pile, the wool engulfed my body completely, and Amina and her family thought it was the silliest thing they'd ever seen.
Despite the open windows and warm sunshine, the apartment was wet for the rest of the day.
We spent the rest of the afternoon as comfortably as a family. I brought some little gifts to show my appreciation to them for teaching me to clean, and we all made henna and played cards until Amina and her family had to leave to catch the last bus home. They left me with the greatest left-overs, a new determination regarding my apartment, my favorite henna designs, and a refreshed spirit.
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