A lady I just met is helping me squat to pee in her front yard, because my hands and feet are covered in brown, fragrant goo and wrapped up in booties such that I can’t quite pull down my own genie pants. This situation seems avoidable, I’m sure, and it was… but what’s a nice evening between neighbors if not a team-effort midnight bathroom session al-fresco, right? …. right.

To preface this story, I’ll quickly diress back to one of our first days in Morocco, a little over 6 months ago now. Older, wiser volunteers arrived at our training site  to, ostensibly, dole out adivce and wise words about our 2 years to come (in actuality, probably just reveling in the hilarity of our collective “deer in the headlights” expressions and utter ignorance as to what we were about to experience). Amid feverish note-taking on now-obvious subjects such as navigating taxis and buying coffee, one particular comment stands out to me now, though moreso in retrospect than it did at the time… One volunteer, on the subject of language, told us “you will get to a point, pretty soon actually, where you understand all the words someone is saying to you, but that doesn’t mean you understand what they are saying to you.” Well, after this most recent cultural exchange, all I can say is “word, sister”. (pun- bad pun- intended).

So, as it is Ramadan, and I am hopelessly “mskina” (poor and unfortunate) in the eyes and hearts of all the women in town (being unmarried and so far from the protection of my father), it was nothing out of the ordinary that a neighbor of mine (who I didn’t know at all at the time) invited me over for “lftur” (the meal around 7pm that breaks the day of fasting in Ramadan). Her name is Zahara and she and her husband, Boubker, live near me, have no children of their own, and had decided that it was their turn to pack me to the brim with food.

I happily accepted the invitation, knowing that it would most likely turn into an extension to include dinner around 11:30pm and a sleepover so as to accomodate “sHor” (3am breakfast before dawn during Ramadan). I was right, as after lftur ended around 8pm, the thought of me leaving wasn’t even considered and a small boy was sent to inform my host family that I wasn’t coming back. I had little to no say in the matter. Not that it’s a horrible fate to sit and chat in Zahara’s small, cozy mud kitchen, helping her make chicken and potatoes into the later night hours.

So, there we sat, cooking and chatting, me drinking water to make up for the day of fasting, and her telling me not to drink so much or I won’t be hungry (hah, lady, as if). Eventually, the conversation drifted to the henna that had almost  grown out on my fingernails (henna is often applied all over the nail, and the red color lasts until it grows out… for me, about 3 months). I told her that I think henna is so beautiful and all about how we don’t have it in the states. She was shocked to hear that I’d never had henna on my hands before coming to Morocco, and as if in an effort to make up for lost time, she stated decidedly that we’d be doing henna tonight. Fine by me, I love it!

So, after dinner was cleaned up around 11:30, she brought out the green henna powder, warm water, rags and bowls required, but then looked up at me suddenly and asked, “Do you want to go out?” Taken aback at the sudden question, but in my village/Morocco mode of “okay, sure, whatever works” (as I usually have no idea what is happening, or why things are happening if I am familiar with them), I got up with her and let her take me by the hand and lead me just outside the small mud house.

And then… nothing. We just stood there, holding hands. Her looking at me intently on occasion, and me doing the usual mental exercise of trying to figure out either what we were supposed to be doing or what kind of conversation I could start to fill  the silence. I opted for conversation, and began rambling about the nice, cool evening weather and the pretty stars. Eventually she asked me (still holding my hand), “Safi?” (“finished?”) and I said, “Yeah, I am if you are?” and she just giggled and led me back inside.

So, we resumed our places on the floor and as she started applying henna paste to the soles of my feet, I continued on in an attempt to keep up the chit-chat:

“So, do you go out every night?”

She just looked at me, puzzled, and said “yes”.

And I thought, “Oh, that’s so nice that she gets some fresh air before bed, takes a short walk, most Moroccans I’ve met go straight to bed after dinner!”

Thinking this, I asked her “Do you usually go out for a long time, or a short time like we just did?” and she laughs at me again, not answering.

I shrug it off as my Arabic accent being hard to understand, and perservere onward with, “Well, I’m going to live right next door… we can go out together every night, if you want?”

This was met with the most confused look yet, so i just dropped it and reverted to the old standby convo of how my parents are doing and when I want to get married.

We passed a god hour like this, the henna was just finished, my hands and feet all wrapped up with rags (to allow the henna paste to dry all night) when, unexpectedly, all that water caught up with me and I really needed to use the bathroom. I asked my hostess where the bathroom was, using the polite term “hashek” after my question (as discussing the bathroom is shameful, especially in unfamiliar company) and she just looked at me, again, with that same bemused expression, before saying, “we don’t have one, we have to go out”.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. oops.

“Go out” is a single verb in Arabic, often used just for exiting a room, building, etc. In this instance, however, it’s a euphemism for “go use the bathroom outside in the yard because we don’t have a latrine in our house”. Hm. 

Turns out the door I assumed led to their bathroom earlier actually leads to a room of goats, who probably wouldn’t like me using the facilities next to their water trough.

So, comprehension dawns as I replay my attempts at light conversation earlier and realize that I’ve asked my new friend and neighbor not only if she goes to the bathroom every night and if it’s for a long time or a short time… but I’ve offered to go with her to the bathroom from now on, with my simple reason being “hey! we’re neighbors!”. Awkward.

Eh, not too bad though, it turns out, as she can see I didn’t understand until now, but the problem remains that I’m about to burst, hands/feet bound up, and genie pants don’t pull themselves down.

And so, in a final scene to round out an evening of strangeness, Zahara helps me waddle out to the front yard, in the pitch blackness, pulls down my genie pants and steadies me so I won’t fall over. If it had been possible at the time, I’d have made some kind of reference to Mr. Rogers and how he probably never counted this as a neighborly duty, but due to language limitations and the likelihood Zahara didn’t watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood as a child, I resisted.

The only thing I wonder about now is the impact this might have had on goal 3 of the Peace Corps (to help people from other cultures understand American Culture… or is it goal 2? i always get confused). Either way, it would be pretty hilarious/bad (?) if people in my town think it’s common for Americans to casually suggest group outdoor bathroom parties. On the flip side, and to end this with some semblance of dignity, it has now come to my attention that I might need to do a latrine project in town as, contrary to what I was told, and subsequently had assumed, everyone doesn’t have one. Some people have to “go out”.

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