This morning, as I’m leaving to go to the Coop, I meet my neighbors on the stairs. I’m going down, they’re coming up. Husband is home from the far south Sahara (works in the military) for one of his 2 months of annual leave. Oh, and they have a sheep with them. Going upstairs. I ask if there’s going to be a hfla (party)-you know, kinda making a joke of the fact that they have a sheep in tow. They give me deadpan looks and say ‘la (no)’. That’s it. Safi. B’slama. I go on to the Coop, wondering a bit about the fate of the sheep. And the status of my freshly laundered clothes that I’ve got drying on the roof.
Surprisingly enough, I forget all about it until I get home and go upstairs to the roof to collect my laundry. I’m literally eyeball to eyeball with the sheep. That is, the sheep’s head. Oh, and hooves. My laundry has been pushed to the edges of the rooftop and the sheep’s skin is draining into the roof drain-you know, the same one I used washing my clothes earlier.
Must be some celebration downstairs. Nothing says “welcome home” like a freshly slaughtered sheep.
Only in Morocco.