Local Hospitality

It has been hectic since we have returned from holiday with report writing and parent teacher conferences.. As I am sure every teacher has experienced, you are often faced with that feeling of having worked really hard to climb a mountain of work, telling yourself that if you just make it to the top then you'll be able to catch your breath on the way down the other side. The problem is that this is usually slightly delusional. Well it is for a new teacher without resources anyway. The reality is closer to that of reaching the top only to find it's a false summit and you have another 300 metres to climb, and then another 300 metres and so on. It is this naivety and the thought of things getting easier that keeps new teachers going for the first few years. Those that don't possess this naivety or let's be nice and call it self preservation mode, quit. In fact the only time you're on the downhill straight is when the kids leave for the summer. Then it is more akin to falling off the edge of a cliff into a two month break, the first two weeks of which are spent near comatose wondering what just happened. And I only have thirteen kids.

Last week we were invited to the home of one of Nick's students for dinner. Both suffering the effects of a 700 km Moroccan drive, head colds, sore throat and three days of frantic report writing meant that all we wanted to do was curl up on the sofa for the weekend. Knowing how much effort was likely to have gone to, we wrapped up warm and headed out.

The homes in the centre of Ifrane look very impressive from the outside but many have fallen into disrepair and it makes you wonder what they are like inside. The home we were welcomed into that evening was incredible. Entering through immense double doors into a lounge bigger than our apartment we were ushered into one of the four split level sitting areas. Decked out in fine examples of Moroccan metal and wood work it was exceptionally grand. There were twelve sofas in all, some big enough to seat eight, spread over the four different levels. Each area had a slightly different theme. Where we sat there was a huge ornate table made from old carved and metal studded doors like ones we have seen and admired in shops and wondered where you would ever put them. Now we know.

As well us, their son's French and music teachers' family had been invited which was a relief for me as it took some of the pressure off me from joining in the conversation which was 95% French. My French has improved and while I am able to get the gist of nearly all the conversations, I’m unaware of details and lacking any confidence to actually respond in French. This meant when it was time to eat and I was tucking into an enormous serving of incredible pie that I missed the warning to 'not eat too much as there was plenty more to come'. When we had been invited for dinner it was under the pretext of 'to experience real Moroccan food'. I wondered what we had been eating for six months if not real Moroccan food. What we ate that evening is unlike anything I’ve every eaten before, in particular in somebody's home. We began with a salad of seafood, fruit, cheese and palm hearts. The salad was followed by not one but two enormous pies. One was the traditional Pastilla; a filo pastry patty shaped pie stuffed with vermicelli and seafood. The other was a mince beef pie topped with thin pastry and crispy melted cheese. Both of these were big enough to feed about eight people for a main meal and by this time all the children had disappeared and Nick and I seemed to be given the bulk of the portions. It was at this point that I missed the important warning about not eating too much and kept pie eating with relish thinking this was the main part of the meal and was completely unprepared for what arrived next.

Shuffling under the weight of an enormous platter, the house lady arrived at the table with our third course. This was four whole succulent roast chickens surrounding a mound of lemon and olive pearl barley. Nick requested breast and I leg, we were given one chicken cut in half. It was incredible but we were already stuffed to bursting. I managed about a third of what was on my plate. This was at the point a platter of braised veal was placed on the table. This meat was probably the most tender I have ever eaten but I was unable to do little more than pick at it. I began to be overcome by cold sweats and began to feel an attack of what Miss O’Connor aptly named 'the meats'. Thankfully the last course was a fruit platter and I could sit back and zone out while the French conversation went on around me. Life and soul of the party I was not.

The evening was a true glimpse of the grander side of Moroccan life. For all their criticisms of the organisation of the country and government, people here are very proud to be Moroccan and want to show off their culture, of which food and celebration plays a very big part. It is normal here to host parties for weddings or births that last around seven days. One can only imagine how many kilos would be gained during a seven day feast. It has taken me about a week to lose the pounds gained from one evening.

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Sadly I didn't take my camera to take pictures of all the food, but then my picture taking enthusiasm in near strangers' home would have perhaps been a little awkward.