Survivalist Wanderlust

Is this real or am I dreaming? Pinch. Slap. Splash of cold water. Yes, I am awake, but somehow this situation seems far too fantastic to be part of real life. If the so-called middle of nowhere is anywhere, it’s here and I’m in a cave drinking Berber whiskey (mint tea) with a couple of nomadic women while their children run freely about chasing chickens. The younger one, who would be wearing diapers if he were anywhere but here, has pissed himself and is wet from the waist down. No one seems to notice. I am already digging on their carefree parenting style.

Aisha’s coffee-black eyes are made even more stunning by her application of heavy eyeliner she obtains from stones in the area. Her persistent use of henna to help harden her hands against tough work has permanently stained them an attractive amalgam of purple and orange. She’s a middle-aged woman who knows nothing but the nomadic life. Her daughter, Fatima, has spent her whole life wandering from cave to cave, too. Their knowledge of the area’s mountains is incredible. They know every cave within hundreds of miles, yet both are illiterate. Their movement depends upon food and water supply for their animals: goats, sheep and camels.

I never meet the men. They leave the caves early in the morning with the older boys to graze the animals all day, returning with the sunset. The women spend most of their time in and around the cave watching the children and weaving on their looms. They mostly make blankets as they are practical for the family and are also a great bartering item. Aisha and Fatima are disallowed from visiting the villages to trade their goods, however. Gender roles appear to be rigidly defined. “It’s the man’s duty to be the boss and the woman’s job to stay at home cooking.” I wonder aloud if they ever get bored or frustrated with their lifestyles. Fatima finds my musings hilarious. It seems preposterous to her that I would even ask about boredom. “Why would I get bored? This is my life. I know nothing else.” Maybe ignorance really is bliss.

If only taken superficially, it would appear that women have no voice here. Surprisingly, though, it is the mother’s responsibility to choose a husband for her daughters. I ask Fatima how she feels about this. She is shocked and I’m struck with a feeling that I’ve asked something really inappropriate. Tradition orders everything and is not to be questioned.

The biggest thing I’ll remember from this encounter is how happy little five-year old Mohammed appears to be. Simplicity is probably something we could all use a little more.