The car takes us only so far and then we follow a gravel road on foot toward a collection of quonset huts; mud and rock walls roofed with bits and pieces of tin and plastic. A young girl quietly falls into step with Fazia, our guide. Chickens and roosters scramble at our approach to the first hut. The door sits slightly askew in its makeshift frame and on the roof, a small solar panel is angled to catch the sun. It is perhaps large enough to power a few electric lights. There is no electricity in this village, no water and no sewage.
A broad smile lights the face of the woman who opens the door and calls a greeting. She speaks no English so our communication is through Fazia. Despite the language barrier, her openness, her smile, her eyes welcome us. Aicha is dressed simply and functionally; her age is hard to determine but she seems an easy leader. She manages the project that brings us here.
Other women join our little group as we climb a small steep hill that forms the buffer in front of the village. We reach the crest of the hill and, in the distance, I see the source of their building materials – the city dump of Ifrane, a wealthy resort town in the Atlas Mountains.
Modernization, climate change and the continued desertification has affected each of Morocco’s citizens differently. This group of Berber shepherding families less able to survive by their traditional means has squatted here for access to that which the rich discard. When combined with shepherding services, the dump’s assets provide basic subsistence; however, without something more, they will never break the cycle that holds them in the last century.
At the base of the other side of the hill, is a group of huts that represent hope and the future of this village. Building on the knowledge and skill of a few of the women, the village has become the site of a hand loomed wool rug making cooperative. With the help of the local university and donations from Morocco, the US and Canada, primitive looms have been built, wool sourced and the women of the village trained to weave rugs and other small items for sale to tourists and through outlets that specialize in hand crafted items. A chicken moves from its roosting place next to one of the wooden string looms as we enter the first hut.
I bought a sweater once in Piccadilly Market in London – it was a wonderful gray and white Irish bulky knit. Handmade by Irish lasses of yarn spun by Irish spinners from the sheep shorn by Irish lads after grazing on rich Irish lands…. I loved it. I loved the thought of it and especially the feel of it – the yarn had a rough texture with the slight feel of the lanolin still in it. And, it was a bargain, to boot! I held it to my face in the cold outdoor market and it had a rich, sweet, earthy smell that I still associate with warmth.
Ducking through the doorway into the hut in Tarmilat, I smell the same warmth. The only light comes from the doorway and two openings in the roof farther in the room. From behind the looms, the women begin to bring out their designs – some masterful, some more primitive –all beautiful colors and each with a tag identifying the woman who wove it so that when it sells, they know who gets the proceeds.
Soon there is a pile of rugs of every size, bags, purses, and runners strewn on the dirt floor in front of us. Each is tagged with a price in Moroccan dirhams. I pick up a bag of a rich brown and blue pattern with cream fringe and convert the price to about US$8.75.
I had determined not to buy anything while in Morocco (no room in the suitcase) and certainly nothing wool as there is more to my Piccadilly Market story: I was scheduled to leave London the day after buying my lovely Irish sweater. I somehow stuffed it into my duffle that night but I was already developing buyer’s remorse. Indoors and without the benefit of a brisk cold breeze, my sweater smelled a bit stronger – like the sheep might still be attached to it.
The return flight from the UK is numbing and I’m sure I didn’t give my Irish sweater another thought until I opened my bag on my bedroom floor and gained overwhelming respect for the plight of a shepherd. Unzipping my bag, I was met with the odor of what was surely a whole herd of woolly creatures. My wonderful bargain and everything else in my bag was redolent with the smell of sheep. Many launderings eventually dulled the smell and it still hangs in my closet as a reminder against romantic shopping notions.
So, I wasn’t initially inclined to buy until, as I picked up each piece, I saw the reaction of the women and children that watched me judge their work. There was pride, there was appreciation that I was there, and there was hope.
In the close, still air of the hut, I held a wool panel made by the oldest woman in the cooperative to my face and breathed deeply – no sheep, only warmth.
Fazia and the oldest member of the cooperative
I came home with several pieces, wonderful memories of meeting these women and a deep admiration for their determination.
