Fête de bébé

So the party kept going, apparently. I came home Saturday evening to find a six-foot tall speaker booming into my 500 sq ft apartment and a band going at it at full volume to an audience of upwards of seventy people all dressed in fabulous kaftans. Every color of the rainbow in normal, pastel, and darker shades were in attendance along with all sorts of embellishments. I was seated in a chair, and within ten minutes the tables were being set up for the meal.

The large decorative sieve-like bowl was put on the table and water was poured so that people could wash their hands. Bread was brought out on silver trays. The first course was a dish of three chickens cooked with olives, onions, and preserved lemons, which I picked at lightly. The second course almost made me pass out. Half a rack of mutton sat on the table in front of me. I did not so much as even touch my bread to go at it. A rather large lady seated next to me kept encouraging me to eat, but I just couldn't. I stand firm that I shall never eat anything that I have ever fed. I may never even again eat lamb or mutton after this experience. Following was the dessert course of a massive plate of fruit. The lady next to me ate a pear, an apple, a banana, an orange, and ten strawberries.

The party was over almost as quickly as it had been that afternoon. People were filing out as soon as the fruit was laid out. Mother would not let me clean up at all. Instead, the two hired caterers and Mother and her two good friends worked endlessly until almost 1am to get the dishes washed and put back in boxes and tables cleared and linens laundered.

The party also continued Sunday night. I had bumped into Mohammed in the street while out with the girls, and he hadn't mentioned a thing to me, so that made it rather awkward when I walked home around 9.30pm to find the place packed with people in a somber atmosphere. This was the religious aspect of the celebration. A quartet of men in white robes were singing Quranic verse. Those listening did not listen in silence, as there was a constant undertone of chatting the whole evening long. The men sang until about 12 midnight, and dinner was served around 12.45am and cleared up around 1.30am. Mother was, of course, up and about at 7am this morning preparing breakfast and herself to return to work after almost three weeks off.

Leftovers have dominated the meals not specifically for the fête, and so yesterday when a mountain of meat was laid in front of me (i.e. mostly mutton) I did not touch a thing. I did, however, eat ten (or was it twelve) ghaif and bubble pancakes for breakfast yesterday morning all smothered with melted butter-honey sauce. I also had hard-boiled eggs and harira, and as we ate pretty late, around 10.30am, I did not understand how they could be ready to eat all of this food at 1pm. I just snacked on dates that I had bought earlier.

Otherwise, I spent my weekend writing papers, getting readings done, and reviewing Arabic. I went out with the ladies to walk around Rabat. We saw the Tour Hassan II, the landmark to the King's father. We saw the mausoleum of Mohammed V, which was PACKED with tourists. I hate that I am now treated again as I was at the beginning of the semester. This influx of tourists has caused even the vendors whom I visit regularly to stop speaking to me in Arabic.