And I'm not in Morocco anymore. I am, instead, sitting in my parent's home in Wisconsin. The hills are rolling, the forests are flush with newly grown leaves, the birds are riotous... in general, the land is in high gear for summer, and you can feel it. The air is humid, and it smells of chlorophyll, damp soil and plant sex. For the first time in about two years my hands are healing. They have been plagued by chronic eczema all this time, forcing me to wear rubber gloves for all washing, and obsessively applying lotion, all to no avail. Now, in the blessed humidity, they heal on their own.
This is quite the adjustment. Morocco is... I wanted to say a world away, but it isn't. I feel like it's a world away but it's actually part of this world, just a distant part. Me, I'm a child of forest and field, at home amongst cows (I love to let calves suck on my fingers), a lover of cheese, a wanderer of hidden leafy glades. I got used to the rock and cliff and medicinal herbs of Morocco. I loved my mountains of spices, forever smelling of rosemary. I mourned the floods that carried away the remaining topsoil. I was AT HOME there. More comfortable there than I am here now. I know I will get used to short sleeves, tank tops, shorts, hair let down, tight clothes, humidity, the color green, the availability of fancy stuff, driving my car EVERYwhere, and more... but part of me doesn't even want to. I don't want to take this for granted. I want to remember how priviledged we are to have topsoil. How decadent it is to be able to travel 50 miles round trip just for lunch with a friend--in a personal vehicle, by myself, and spend only 90 minutes on the road.
I like appreciating these things. I like knowing that I'm absurdly lucky. It makes me feel a little bit smaller. It makes me thankful. I wish the rest of my fellow countrymen and women understood. I think we would be happier with our lot in life if they really understood. I think they might choose to use what we have more wisely, that it might continue to be there in times to come. I hope these things despite the knowledge that people are greedy just as often as they are generous. Stubbornly hopeful in the face of reality, because that is something I learned in Morocco as well.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
From late April, actually
Of Money, generally
“Globalization: the development of something, so as to make it’s influence felt all around the world.” Which often leads to the homogenization of peoples and cultures due to increased travel, trade, and communication. There have been and are many cultures on our planet, some of which had/have really great environmental ethics. Some examples are, traditional cultures in East Africa, including the Maasai, and most of Kenya’s old traditions. Native American cultures also often had respect for the other inhabitants of the planet built into their culture.
Our current generalized global culture doesn’t do so well. Money talks, and it talks a whole lot louder than the various ‘Loraxes’ out there. Success—as measured usually by possessions, acclaim, fame, beauty, and comfort—that’s the most important thing. So, people climb the social ladder, cutting corners if it saves them money, thinking only of the immediate future. So we figure, well, if I cut down that entire forest and sell the wood, it’ll grow back. Eventually. I think it will, anyway… sure it will! I need the money, I need it bad. Besides, if I don’t do it, someone else will. So I might as well get the benefit… better me than someone else, right? Never mind how steep the slopes are, never mind the animals and plants that depend on those trees, never mind that the sheep will eat anything new and green that grows, never mind the people who need that wood to heat their houses in the winter. They can buy wood from somewhere else. Or heat with gas. The money is more important.
So, having and aquiring these markers of success has become a main goal in life. We all strive for it on some level, and thus we justify it to ourselves: everyone’s doing it. And heaven forbid anyone should imply that the having or the getting of these things might not be as ethical as one might wish. It’s my right to take the opportunities I see! And my right to enjoy what I’ve got! After all, if you got it, flaunt it, right? Sometimes I find myself cynically thinking of all this as socially sanctified greed. I know it’s not quite that. I know, but it’s too close to that.
The thing is, the more we trumpet to ourselves that we have the right to acquire, the right to keep what we get to ourselves, the right to enjoy our hard-earned spoils in comfort… the less frequently we find ourselves content. Content. That means actually relaxing in the present, enjoying what is around us for what it is; happy where and who we are.
I see it happening around me. People see someone else with something, and they think: I want that, too! Of course, that’s human nature. People see it on TV, especially. Over and over they see these values, the supremacy of money promoted, and eventually, they buy it. The drink the Koolaid. They adopt those values, and become less and less satisfied, less content, with their own lives. It’s all about perspective. If everyone else’s life is as hard as yours, it doesn’t seem so bad. But let you see someone else living in rich comfort while you struggle with floods and cold and difficult terrain just to feed your family… and it suddenly seems unfair and awful and intolerable. It is unfair. And it is awful sometimes. And there are intolerable inequalities in our world. But is the answer really to try to attain the same fool’s gold of “success?” I think not.
“Globalization: the development of something, so as to make it’s influence felt all around the world.” Which often leads to the homogenization of peoples and cultures due to increased travel, trade, and communication. There have been and are many cultures on our planet, some of which had/have really great environmental ethics. Some examples are, traditional cultures in East Africa, including the Maasai, and most of Kenya’s old traditions. Native American cultures also often had respect for the other inhabitants of the planet built into their culture.
Our current generalized global culture doesn’t do so well. Money talks, and it talks a whole lot louder than the various ‘Loraxes’ out there. Success—as measured usually by possessions, acclaim, fame, beauty, and comfort—that’s the most important thing. So, people climb the social ladder, cutting corners if it saves them money, thinking only of the immediate future. So we figure, well, if I cut down that entire forest and sell the wood, it’ll grow back. Eventually. I think it will, anyway… sure it will! I need the money, I need it bad. Besides, if I don’t do it, someone else will. So I might as well get the benefit… better me than someone else, right? Never mind how steep the slopes are, never mind the animals and plants that depend on those trees, never mind that the sheep will eat anything new and green that grows, never mind the people who need that wood to heat their houses in the winter. They can buy wood from somewhere else. Or heat with gas. The money is more important.
So, having and aquiring these markers of success has become a main goal in life. We all strive for it on some level, and thus we justify it to ourselves: everyone’s doing it. And heaven forbid anyone should imply that the having or the getting of these things might not be as ethical as one might wish. It’s my right to take the opportunities I see! And my right to enjoy what I’ve got! After all, if you got it, flaunt it, right? Sometimes I find myself cynically thinking of all this as socially sanctified greed. I know it’s not quite that. I know, but it’s too close to that.
The thing is, the more we trumpet to ourselves that we have the right to acquire, the right to keep what we get to ourselves, the right to enjoy our hard-earned spoils in comfort… the less frequently we find ourselves content. Content. That means actually relaxing in the present, enjoying what is around us for what it is; happy where and who we are.
I see it happening around me. People see someone else with something, and they think: I want that, too! Of course, that’s human nature. People see it on TV, especially. Over and over they see these values, the supremacy of money promoted, and eventually, they buy it. The drink the Koolaid. They adopt those values, and become less and less satisfied, less content, with their own lives. It’s all about perspective. If everyone else’s life is as hard as yours, it doesn’t seem so bad. But let you see someone else living in rich comfort while you struggle with floods and cold and difficult terrain just to feed your family… and it suddenly seems unfair and awful and intolerable. It is unfair. And it is awful sometimes. And there are intolerable inequalities in our world. But is the answer really to try to attain the same fool’s gold of “success?” I think not.
The Story of Red
The Story of Red
It started, about 3 months ago, with a conversation I had with my friends N. and A. It wasn’t the first time we had had this conversation. It started, as it usually did, with A’s turkeys. He is very, very proud of them. All 14 or so, including a huge and magnificent male named “Charlie.” I mentioned how it would be cool to have a chicken. A hen, to lay eggs for me, and to cluck around my doorstep. It’d be kind of like being the farmer’s wife I have always felt an affinity for. Both of my friends pointed out that there would be an animal market in three days time. I declined to attend, telling them I needed to think my chicken aspirations over more carefully. Usually, this was the end of the conversation. This time, though, A. made a threat: “If you don’t buy that chicken, I am buying one for you!” I thought he was joking.
Three days later, I received a text: “You have a feathered friend coming ur way on the rainbow nukl! Be there to pick her up!” I still thought he was joking, so I texted back asking for 3m of chicken wire as well. He cheerfully said he had made the purchase and all was now on our way. I realized he might not be joking. At 4 o’clock, when I was having a meeting with the women’s association, my friend’s son Yussef comes up to my door, carrying a box and a roll of chicken wire. I am shocked. This is really happening. I go get my chicken, peek in at her, and set her down. She is still in the box. I do not know what to do with her. I go up to my women and beg for their help. The come downstairs into the barn part of the house, look around, and immediately set to work setting up a chicken coop for me. Only they call it a “chicken house.” I am assigned the task of making a water dish for her by cutting the bottom of a plastic jug. I do this without cutting myself, and proudly bring it down to find… a rather well set up wire fence, with bamboo pole and rocks holding the bottom down, and a largish red-brown hen looking rather ruffled and disoriented standing inside it. I give her water. She starts gulping it down. We give her corn and barley bits. She enthusiastically eats them. We finish our meeting. The women leave.
I have a chicken.
Days pass and Red (the name I eventually settled on) get used to each other. I give her crushed barley, bread bits, and veggie scraps. She attempts to escape twice and gives it up as a bad job. She picks a roosting spot on some large branches in the chicken house. I was a little disappointed, I thought she would want a nest, which I had made for her out of straw.
Weeks go by, and she seems settled. But she isn’t laying eggs! A. and N. both told me she was supposed to be a great layer. I ask my host mother, who suggests letting her outside. It’s been a while, and so I do. That is, I tie a string to her leg, and the other end to my leg, and take her for a walk. She hates it! Spends 80% of her time just tugging on the string, 10% looking around worriedly, and only 10% eating like I want her to. She is courted by a handsome blonde rooster, but she runs away. After two days of a stressed out chicken tied to my leg, I’m done with this strategy. Besides, the villagers are giving me really funny looks, and my sitemate is outright laughing at me. So I let her go. And wonder of wonders, she doesn’t run away! She instead proves to me she likes her chicken house by trying to get back into it quickly. So, I start letting her out every day.
The blonde rooster came back. And a black rooster showed up. I’ll call him Torpedo. The blondie I’ll call Mr. Rooster. Torpedo has a one track mind. He saw my hen, happily eating dandelion leaves like they’re going out of style, and thought: “Perfect, I’m gettin’ lucky today!” And he dive-bombed her. No, seriously! I saw motion out of the corner my eye, heard a squawking sound, and there was my chicken pinned to the ground by the amorous Torpedo. Business taken care of, he runs off. Presumably in search of other innocent hens. Red looks a little traumatized, so I let her go back inside. The next day I watched the much more courtly Mr. Rooster attempt to convince Red to join his harem of hens. It works, and I have to go retrieve her.
Two or three weeks after all this, it happens. I walk downstairs to the bathroom early one morning, and there it is. A small, cream-brown egg lying in the corner of Red’s house. I am so excited! I have an egg! For free! Well, not free, but it just appeared there!! From that time on, Red laid an egg every other day for weeks. I was lovin’ it!
I came back from a trip to find Red sitting in the corner where she usually lays eggs. She looks all flat. Like she’s trying to spread herself out. I give her food and she doesn’t move. Now I’m a little concerned, because she is usually all about food. (Like chicken like owner?) So I climb into her house and poke at her. She burbles warily at me. I have never heard her make that noise. I pick her up and try to put her on her feet. She plumps back down as though drawn by magnetic force. I decide to leave her be.
She’s still there the next morning, but the food is gone. So, at least she’s eating. I decide to put her outside. She rouses herself to this; cleans her feathers, cleans her beak, and starts pecking at the ground. This is good! But after only 5 minutes she is back inside trying to get back in the cage. I put her back in and she settles herself down on her little nest in the corner… and I have a realization. She looks just like a robin on her nest. All fluffed up and smushed flat and with a look her eye that says, “Stay back, buster!” I have a new theory: she’s feeling broody. Cool.
Well, sort of. No more eggs, for one. And she’s not brooding anything but rocks. I figure she’ll get over her broody feeling fairly soon.
She doesn’t. Three weeks go by and she is still sitting there. I tell my host mother about this, and she tells me that she wants to give my chicken some eggs. You know, to sit on. Will she take them? I want to know. My host mother seems to think so, so I give her the go ahead. I come downstairs to find my host mother in my barn (she has keys to the outer part of my house), and my chicken with the fanciest nest I’ve ever seen. Three feet wide and approaching a foot deep of straw, I can barely see her in it. She looks very content. I go and lift her up, she’s got about 14 eggs under her, all warm. I poke some stragglers back towards the middle and put her back down. She burbles happily. I bet she will be a great mother. I wish I could get to see the chicks hatch!! I think I want to have chickens again.
It started, about 3 months ago, with a conversation I had with my friends N. and A. It wasn’t the first time we had had this conversation. It started, as it usually did, with A’s turkeys. He is very, very proud of them. All 14 or so, including a huge and magnificent male named “Charlie.” I mentioned how it would be cool to have a chicken. A hen, to lay eggs for me, and to cluck around my doorstep. It’d be kind of like being the farmer’s wife I have always felt an affinity for. Both of my friends pointed out that there would be an animal market in three days time. I declined to attend, telling them I needed to think my chicken aspirations over more carefully. Usually, this was the end of the conversation. This time, though, A. made a threat: “If you don’t buy that chicken, I am buying one for you!” I thought he was joking.
Three days later, I received a text: “You have a feathered friend coming ur way on the rainbow nukl! Be there to pick her up!” I still thought he was joking, so I texted back asking for 3m of chicken wire as well. He cheerfully said he had made the purchase and all was now on our way. I realized he might not be joking. At 4 o’clock, when I was having a meeting with the women’s association, my friend’s son Yussef comes up to my door, carrying a box and a roll of chicken wire. I am shocked. This is really happening. I go get my chicken, peek in at her, and set her down. She is still in the box. I do not know what to do with her. I go up to my women and beg for their help. The come downstairs into the barn part of the house, look around, and immediately set to work setting up a chicken coop for me. Only they call it a “chicken house.” I am assigned the task of making a water dish for her by cutting the bottom of a plastic jug. I do this without cutting myself, and proudly bring it down to find… a rather well set up wire fence, with bamboo pole and rocks holding the bottom down, and a largish red-brown hen looking rather ruffled and disoriented standing inside it. I give her water. She starts gulping it down. We give her corn and barley bits. She enthusiastically eats them. We finish our meeting. The women leave.
I have a chicken.
Days pass and Red (the name I eventually settled on) get used to each other. I give her crushed barley, bread bits, and veggie scraps. She attempts to escape twice and gives it up as a bad job. She picks a roosting spot on some large branches in the chicken house. I was a little disappointed, I thought she would want a nest, which I had made for her out of straw.
Weeks go by, and she seems settled. But she isn’t laying eggs! A. and N. both told me she was supposed to be a great layer. I ask my host mother, who suggests letting her outside. It’s been a while, and so I do. That is, I tie a string to her leg, and the other end to my leg, and take her for a walk. She hates it! Spends 80% of her time just tugging on the string, 10% looking around worriedly, and only 10% eating like I want her to. She is courted by a handsome blonde rooster, but she runs away. After two days of a stressed out chicken tied to my leg, I’m done with this strategy. Besides, the villagers are giving me really funny looks, and my sitemate is outright laughing at me. So I let her go. And wonder of wonders, she doesn’t run away! She instead proves to me she likes her chicken house by trying to get back into it quickly. So, I start letting her out every day.
The blonde rooster came back. And a black rooster showed up. I’ll call him Torpedo. The blondie I’ll call Mr. Rooster. Torpedo has a one track mind. He saw my hen, happily eating dandelion leaves like they’re going out of style, and thought: “Perfect, I’m gettin’ lucky today!” And he dive-bombed her. No, seriously! I saw motion out of the corner my eye, heard a squawking sound, and there was my chicken pinned to the ground by the amorous Torpedo. Business taken care of, he runs off. Presumably in search of other innocent hens. Red looks a little traumatized, so I let her go back inside. The next day I watched the much more courtly Mr. Rooster attempt to convince Red to join his harem of hens. It works, and I have to go retrieve her.
Two or three weeks after all this, it happens. I walk downstairs to the bathroom early one morning, and there it is. A small, cream-brown egg lying in the corner of Red’s house. I am so excited! I have an egg! For free! Well, not free, but it just appeared there!! From that time on, Red laid an egg every other day for weeks. I was lovin’ it!
I came back from a trip to find Red sitting in the corner where she usually lays eggs. She looks all flat. Like she’s trying to spread herself out. I give her food and she doesn’t move. Now I’m a little concerned, because she is usually all about food. (Like chicken like owner?) So I climb into her house and poke at her. She burbles warily at me. I have never heard her make that noise. I pick her up and try to put her on her feet. She plumps back down as though drawn by magnetic force. I decide to leave her be.
She’s still there the next morning, but the food is gone. So, at least she’s eating. I decide to put her outside. She rouses herself to this; cleans her feathers, cleans her beak, and starts pecking at the ground. This is good! But after only 5 minutes she is back inside trying to get back in the cage. I put her back in and she settles herself down on her little nest in the corner… and I have a realization. She looks just like a robin on her nest. All fluffed up and smushed flat and with a look her eye that says, “Stay back, buster!” I have a new theory: she’s feeling broody. Cool.
Well, sort of. No more eggs, for one. And she’s not brooding anything but rocks. I figure she’ll get over her broody feeling fairly soon.
She doesn’t. Three weeks go by and she is still sitting there. I tell my host mother about this, and she tells me that she wants to give my chicken some eggs. You know, to sit on. Will she take them? I want to know. My host mother seems to think so, so I give her the go ahead. I come downstairs to find my host mother in my barn (she has keys to the outer part of my house), and my chicken with the fanciest nest I’ve ever seen. Three feet wide and approaching a foot deep of straw, I can barely see her in it. She looks very content. I go and lift her up, she’s got about 14 eggs under her, all warm. I poke some stragglers back towards the middle and put her back down. She burbles happily. I bet she will be a great mother. I wish I could get to see the chicks hatch!! I think I want to have chickens again.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A Day Off
13 March 2010
A Day Off
It’s Saturday, one of the days I technically have “off.” As a ‘cultural exchange agent’ I don’t really get time off as long as I am in People-of-Ali, my site. It’s actually Aixht Ali Yussef in Tashelheit and something else entirely on the map, but that’s the translation into English. So, I woke up at about 8:30 am this morning, and wiggled out of my sleeping bag—a bit of a task for a still-fuzzy-headed person. I have been doing laundry every day for 4 days and I still have laundry to do, and since I could already see the sun coming in through the window, I was anxious to get started. This week was cold, rainy, foggy, drizzly, damp; in other words, truly terrible laundry weather. For the weeks before that I have been traveling a lot, and that means laundry piles up. When you run out of underclothes, you are forced to wash something, but things dry poorly when you hang them up in weather that is raining one second and sunny the next. My suqmate E told me that my mountains look like the Misty Mountains (Lord of the Rings if you didn’t know!). I agree. They certainly felt misty!
So, this morning I washed dishes so that I could fill up the bucket for the rinses of the laundry, so that I could get the laundry out on the line so that the big bucket would be free for me to take a bucket-shower. No, I don’t have very many buckets. It’s actually kind of relaxing, sitting down in my doorstep with the sun on my back, listening to the noises of the village and scrubbing my clothing piece by piece. It’s also rather satisfying to hang it up on the line and see it waving brightly in the wind. I love how laundry on a line looks… it says, “someone lives here, someone is cleaning and keeping up with life, someone has done something today: this, at least!” And you can see if there are babies, or kids, or young women, or old women, stylish women or any of those same things for men. It tells a bit of the story of that household.
After laundry I took the bucket shower, which means I heated up two kettles of water, and carried my towel, my big bucket, and my heater into my bathroom that’s outside downstairs in the animal “barn” section of the house. I can’t walk to my shower wrapped in a towel because people can see onto my balcony. People routinely tell me “I saw your laundry out today,” or when it’s hot weather, “I saw you wearing a tank top on your roof. But it’s OK because it’s your house.” Needless to say, an appearance wrapped in only a towel would be occasion for comment! So I strip inside and put on a long apron and my fleece jacket and flip flops for the trip to the bathroom.
I ate lunch on my stairs to let my hair dry, and to enjoy the sun on my back and to read a book. A novel, just for fun! I’ve been reading a book of recent Arab history called “The Arab Predicament,” and while I am thoroughly enjoying it, it feels more like work than fun.
I took my chicken out to eat the grass and plants growing outside my door—all that rain means I have a lawn of sorts! There are two roosters who are courting her. Actually, one is courting her, and the other makes a mad dive-bombing dash for her whenever he sees her. The courtly one visited today, making a very impressive show as he made a beeline for us. She watched him coyly, eating daintily and keeping watch surreptitiously. He strutted, flapped, crowed, and flew as he came toward us, and then made the circling motion with one wing dragging against his legs making a sharp thwacking noise. Well, t least I was impressed. She’s still shy from the other rooster, the dive-bombing one, and Mr. Courtly wisely backed off when she shied away. He retreated to his little harem of hens, but I swear he sent them after her to gather her into the fold, as it were. They came over and tried to lure her away. Succeeded, too; I had to go chase her back to my house.
Such a lovely day just cried out for a walk. There’s a path that follows the river downstream. You can see it from the road in and out of town, and I have been curious about since I first saw it a year and a half ago. I told myself, today is the day I explore it! Anyway, it is my day off, and so I went for a walk! I brought my camera, and kept snapping pictures of the scenery. The path starts from the far side of Ait Ahendor, across town from me. Then it plunges down into the ravine where the little river is, and climbs up through “Mars.” I call it Mars because there’s a spot where the ground goes from orange to grey to teal to red to purple all in the space of a couple hundred feet. Then it tops this ridge and there are the last three houses of People-of-Ali. No way to avoid an invitation for coffee, but I told them I would stop by on the way back. Not that I don’t want to visit, but visiting is cultural exchange, and kind of work. The trail then drops precipitously down toward the river in a zig-zag, and follows the river from a safe distance. There is vicious erosion down there: deep channels cut through the earth, and there are big ravines and canyons. I found a little spring trickling down one. In some places the path runs along the top of a small cliff, in some places you find yourself scrambling over the rocky lip of a ravine and then up the other side. The mules here are pretty badass to carry heavy loads over these paths.
The rocks look like someone took them and turned them on their sides, creating long stripes running up and down the mountains. As if God took a comb and ran it through the rocky ground. The river goes from sort of meandering the sort of wide valley by the village to rushing headlong through shallow canyons by this path, and twisting between the feet of the mountains that push it this way and that. The view exposes new terrain behind each turn, and it was lovely. The wind was whistling around the corners, and pulling my hair out of my braid, freezing my nose and ears and fingers, and making my eyes water like tears. I loved it! I called my boyfriend and told him how cool it was. So often I am walking around here and I wish, I wish, I could show it to you all! It’s so beautiful, yet so stark. See what happens when you remove all the trees and let erosion play unhindered. See what this really cool geology looks like, see how rugged terrain is completely normal for the people here. I have realized over and over what a soft land I come from. The sun dipped behind the huge peaks across the valley, and the temperature dipped with it. I turned around. On the way back, I did stop for coffee.
I think I will make Cream of Vegetable Soup, from cauliflower, carrots and parsnips/turnips. And maybe pumpkin bread for desert. I may watch Lord of the Rings, too, since I can’t seem to stop thinking about those “Misty Mountains.” Or maybe, I will just wiggle back into my sleeping back and read some more of that novel!
A Day Off
It’s Saturday, one of the days I technically have “off.” As a ‘cultural exchange agent’ I don’t really get time off as long as I am in People-of-Ali, my site. It’s actually Aixht Ali Yussef in Tashelheit and something else entirely on the map, but that’s the translation into English. So, I woke up at about 8:30 am this morning, and wiggled out of my sleeping bag—a bit of a task for a still-fuzzy-headed person. I have been doing laundry every day for 4 days and I still have laundry to do, and since I could already see the sun coming in through the window, I was anxious to get started. This week was cold, rainy, foggy, drizzly, damp; in other words, truly terrible laundry weather. For the weeks before that I have been traveling a lot, and that means laundry piles up. When you run out of underclothes, you are forced to wash something, but things dry poorly when you hang them up in weather that is raining one second and sunny the next. My suqmate E told me that my mountains look like the Misty Mountains (Lord of the Rings if you didn’t know!). I agree. They certainly felt misty!
So, this morning I washed dishes so that I could fill up the bucket for the rinses of the laundry, so that I could get the laundry out on the line so that the big bucket would be free for me to take a bucket-shower. No, I don’t have very many buckets. It’s actually kind of relaxing, sitting down in my doorstep with the sun on my back, listening to the noises of the village and scrubbing my clothing piece by piece. It’s also rather satisfying to hang it up on the line and see it waving brightly in the wind. I love how laundry on a line looks… it says, “someone lives here, someone is cleaning and keeping up with life, someone has done something today: this, at least!” And you can see if there are babies, or kids, or young women, or old women, stylish women or any of those same things for men. It tells a bit of the story of that household.
After laundry I took the bucket shower, which means I heated up two kettles of water, and carried my towel, my big bucket, and my heater into my bathroom that’s outside downstairs in the animal “barn” section of the house. I can’t walk to my shower wrapped in a towel because people can see onto my balcony. People routinely tell me “I saw your laundry out today,” or when it’s hot weather, “I saw you wearing a tank top on your roof. But it’s OK because it’s your house.” Needless to say, an appearance wrapped in only a towel would be occasion for comment! So I strip inside and put on a long apron and my fleece jacket and flip flops for the trip to the bathroom.
I ate lunch on my stairs to let my hair dry, and to enjoy the sun on my back and to read a book. A novel, just for fun! I’ve been reading a book of recent Arab history called “The Arab Predicament,” and while I am thoroughly enjoying it, it feels more like work than fun.
I took my chicken out to eat the grass and plants growing outside my door—all that rain means I have a lawn of sorts! There are two roosters who are courting her. Actually, one is courting her, and the other makes a mad dive-bombing dash for her whenever he sees her. The courtly one visited today, making a very impressive show as he made a beeline for us. She watched him coyly, eating daintily and keeping watch surreptitiously. He strutted, flapped, crowed, and flew as he came toward us, and then made the circling motion with one wing dragging against his legs making a sharp thwacking noise. Well, t least I was impressed. She’s still shy from the other rooster, the dive-bombing one, and Mr. Courtly wisely backed off when she shied away. He retreated to his little harem of hens, but I swear he sent them after her to gather her into the fold, as it were. They came over and tried to lure her away. Succeeded, too; I had to go chase her back to my house.
Such a lovely day just cried out for a walk. There’s a path that follows the river downstream. You can see it from the road in and out of town, and I have been curious about since I first saw it a year and a half ago. I told myself, today is the day I explore it! Anyway, it is my day off, and so I went for a walk! I brought my camera, and kept snapping pictures of the scenery. The path starts from the far side of Ait Ahendor, across town from me. Then it plunges down into the ravine where the little river is, and climbs up through “Mars.” I call it Mars because there’s a spot where the ground goes from orange to grey to teal to red to purple all in the space of a couple hundred feet. Then it tops this ridge and there are the last three houses of People-of-Ali. No way to avoid an invitation for coffee, but I told them I would stop by on the way back. Not that I don’t want to visit, but visiting is cultural exchange, and kind of work. The trail then drops precipitously down toward the river in a zig-zag, and follows the river from a safe distance. There is vicious erosion down there: deep channels cut through the earth, and there are big ravines and canyons. I found a little spring trickling down one. In some places the path runs along the top of a small cliff, in some places you find yourself scrambling over the rocky lip of a ravine and then up the other side. The mules here are pretty badass to carry heavy loads over these paths.
The rocks look like someone took them and turned them on their sides, creating long stripes running up and down the mountains. As if God took a comb and ran it through the rocky ground. The river goes from sort of meandering the sort of wide valley by the village to rushing headlong through shallow canyons by this path, and twisting between the feet of the mountains that push it this way and that. The view exposes new terrain behind each turn, and it was lovely. The wind was whistling around the corners, and pulling my hair out of my braid, freezing my nose and ears and fingers, and making my eyes water like tears. I loved it! I called my boyfriend and told him how cool it was. So often I am walking around here and I wish, I wish, I could show it to you all! It’s so beautiful, yet so stark. See what happens when you remove all the trees and let erosion play unhindered. See what this really cool geology looks like, see how rugged terrain is completely normal for the people here. I have realized over and over what a soft land I come from. The sun dipped behind the huge peaks across the valley, and the temperature dipped with it. I turned around. On the way back, I did stop for coffee.
I think I will make Cream of Vegetable Soup, from cauliflower, carrots and parsnips/turnips. And maybe pumpkin bread for desert. I may watch Lord of the Rings, too, since I can’t seem to stop thinking about those “Misty Mountains.” Or maybe, I will just wiggle back into my sleeping back and read some more of that novel!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Carding Party
Yesterday my imma (host mother) told me to come over and help with making lunch, because she was having women over to “karshnt,” or card and spin wool. It occurs to me that stuff like this doesn’t often happen any more in the States. That is, have a community gathering to make light work of a tedious and difficult but necessary job that must be done. We do this type of thing often here.
Today at 9 am I walked into my imma’s kitchen, a long and wide room on the top level with three wood posts holding up the roof. The cement floor is half covered with rugs and mats surrounded by low wooden seats. Today 8 women have already taken seats on those mats. They have been at work for a while: there is a huge pile of fluffy white wool on the floor in between them, but there are also many stacks of carded wool next to each women. A couple women have begun the process of spinning. They use a hand-spindle, and turn the carded wool into loosely spun yarn. It’s sits piled next to them, a huge, long discarded snake skin of wool. The raw wool look like a tiny patch of fog took up residence on the floor in between them. I have to repress an irrational urge to jump into it like a child jumping into a pile of leaves. I go around the room and greet each woman personally, as is expected. I opt for the shaking hands variety because kissing people’s cheeks is tedious when they are all sitting cross-legged on the floor.
A few minutes later I’m sitting on a short stool, with about 2 kg of fool in front of me. Ever had fool? It’s tasty. Big long green-beans with soft foam-like skin, seeds the size of a largish fingernail and tough strings running down either side. Each bean-seed has to be checked for damage from bugs, and the strings come off, too. After that, it’s the carrots, then the potatoes. My imma likes the carrots de-cored. I don’t particularly like de-coring carrots, but I can do it now. I realize my wrist is going to be sore after all this veggie prep!
Ever watch carding and spinning by hand? Each person has their own rhythm, their hands never staying still… the wool going from little fog-patch to snagged on the carding paddles, then scrrratch—scrrrratch it is combed and pulled into line and turned and returned until it’s smooth and in little rectangles. Piles of the rectangles grow and are taken to the women spinning. They take two, catch the edge of them on the spindle and give it a few twists, then tug and twist, tug-tug-tug-tug and twist again until the wool stretches out, growing and twisting as it falls by their sides in tangley looking piles. Then they wrap it around arms and pull it through into a big knot with a twist of the wrist.
To pass the time the women start singing. They’re clever, making up songs about life on the spot, and they teach them to each other in a call-and-response style. Thus, the leader who made up the song teaches everyone else a refrain and then puts in little verses once they’ve got it. It’s cool. The tune is usually the same, and it’s as twisty and turny as the wool. Middling high pitched, it’s sweet and they love it. They sing until their voices get scratchy. The carding makes a low, rough counterpoint, and I add the soft popping noise of fool being broken into halves and quarters and eighths as I prep it. They sing about marriage, about cooking and what fuel they cook with, and then my host mother decides to sing about me to embarrass me. They laugh and we keep going. I wish I could sing with them but I can just barely catch the meaning… the words flow by to quickly for me to raise my voice. I finish before they do, and help set up the mid-morning snack. They put a little round table over the fog-patch of wool and eat up. Then they get back to it. Scrrrrrratch—scrrrrrrratch!
Today at 9 am I walked into my imma’s kitchen, a long and wide room on the top level with three wood posts holding up the roof. The cement floor is half covered with rugs and mats surrounded by low wooden seats. Today 8 women have already taken seats on those mats. They have been at work for a while: there is a huge pile of fluffy white wool on the floor in between them, but there are also many stacks of carded wool next to each women. A couple women have begun the process of spinning. They use a hand-spindle, and turn the carded wool into loosely spun yarn. It’s sits piled next to them, a huge, long discarded snake skin of wool. The raw wool look like a tiny patch of fog took up residence on the floor in between them. I have to repress an irrational urge to jump into it like a child jumping into a pile of leaves. I go around the room and greet each woman personally, as is expected. I opt for the shaking hands variety because kissing people’s cheeks is tedious when they are all sitting cross-legged on the floor.
A few minutes later I’m sitting on a short stool, with about 2 kg of fool in front of me. Ever had fool? It’s tasty. Big long green-beans with soft foam-like skin, seeds the size of a largish fingernail and tough strings running down either side. Each bean-seed has to be checked for damage from bugs, and the strings come off, too. After that, it’s the carrots, then the potatoes. My imma likes the carrots de-cored. I don’t particularly like de-coring carrots, but I can do it now. I realize my wrist is going to be sore after all this veggie prep!
Ever watch carding and spinning by hand? Each person has their own rhythm, their hands never staying still… the wool going from little fog-patch to snagged on the carding paddles, then scrrratch—scrrrratch it is combed and pulled into line and turned and returned until it’s smooth and in little rectangles. Piles of the rectangles grow and are taken to the women spinning. They take two, catch the edge of them on the spindle and give it a few twists, then tug and twist, tug-tug-tug-tug and twist again until the wool stretches out, growing and twisting as it falls by their sides in tangley looking piles. Then they wrap it around arms and pull it through into a big knot with a twist of the wrist.
To pass the time the women start singing. They’re clever, making up songs about life on the spot, and they teach them to each other in a call-and-response style. Thus, the leader who made up the song teaches everyone else a refrain and then puts in little verses once they’ve got it. It’s cool. The tune is usually the same, and it’s as twisty and turny as the wool. Middling high pitched, it’s sweet and they love it. They sing until their voices get scratchy. The carding makes a low, rough counterpoint, and I add the soft popping noise of fool being broken into halves and quarters and eighths as I prep it. They sing about marriage, about cooking and what fuel they cook with, and then my host mother decides to sing about me to embarrass me. They laugh and we keep going. I wish I could sing with them but I can just barely catch the meaning… the words flow by to quickly for me to raise my voice. I finish before they do, and help set up the mid-morning snack. They put a little round table over the fog-patch of wool and eat up. Then they get back to it. Scrrrrrratch—scrrrrrrratch!
Herding Nomads
The trouble with working with semi-nomadic herders is that they are, well, semi-nomadic. Families often keep a house here, and a tent or a stone house in the mountains as a base for the herders to come back to each night. The family is divided between the two places, and the family members switch back and forth and back and forth. Usually a pattern emerges, though.
For example, the president of the herders’ association here has his family divided up as follows. Like his father, he keeps the main family house here. His oldest daughter keeps house, with his youngest son who is still going to school here. His wife runs the mountain base camp, a tent in the summer and a rock house in the winter. Except when the winter is so hard that the rock house is covered in snow. Then they take the tent down to the foothills. His second oldest daughter is married and lives in Sefrou. His two youngest daughters are attending middle school/high school in Haj City, our market town. They are staying with family members. The president is slowly building a house in Haj City. When it is finished, he will move his oldest daughter and youngest son there, and his youngest daughters will move in until they are married or go elsewhere. The old family home will be abandoned, I guess. His wife will, I suppose, run the tent until she is too old to do so anymore. At which point he will also be old, and perhaps he will sell his 350 odd sheep and goats and live out as good a life as he can in Haj City. I wonder if his grandchildren will learn the language he learned first at all. Many children of Imazighen heritage are completely ignorant of the language and stories of their fathers. Why bother when Arabic is so much more universal anyway? His is not an unusual story: many families are planning their escape this way. The life of the nomadic herder, semi- or no, is a hard one.
Back to the original comment… in trying to help people improve their life, one has to hold many meetings. Meetings are hard to hold if half of the people who need to be there are always gone, and which half is missing is continually changing. Any meeting or work that needs doing takes careful planning, and good luck as well. The worst is when the herds are moving between summer and winter pastures. Everyone is in constant motion, because moving the herds means moving the tents, with all of the furnishings and accessories. Vans, trucks, and endless mule and donkey trains can be seen moving up and down roads and mountains paths for weeks. I give up organizing until those weeks pass.
The nice part about working with semi-nomadic herders is that you get to go hang out in the tents with them in the summer. High altitude grazing grounds are always cool and breezy. The mountains are beautiful, and stark. They are almost entirely bereft of trees, but lightly covered with tough bunch grasses, herbs, bushes and the occasional blades of new grasses making a break for some sunlight between the rocks. Thus, the colors of the rocks show through, with a soft haze of yellow green overlaying them. Except for the patches of forest, deep green and sparse. Those forest bits are small and shrinking, like patches of hair on a balding man’s head. They hang down in lower altitudes, too, much like said male pattern balding. I use them to teach about erosion. “See those trees? See those huge gullies cut into the mountains by the rains last year? See how they are hardly ever in the same place? That’s why trees are important!” Unfortunately, I only get to tell so many people because I work closely with only a few. They are the ones who really organize. They use their superior networking powers to contact and bring in the semi-nomadic herders. It works pretty well for the meetings, but not for the informal education.
For example, the president of the herders’ association here has his family divided up as follows. Like his father, he keeps the main family house here. His oldest daughter keeps house, with his youngest son who is still going to school here. His wife runs the mountain base camp, a tent in the summer and a rock house in the winter. Except when the winter is so hard that the rock house is covered in snow. Then they take the tent down to the foothills. His second oldest daughter is married and lives in Sefrou. His two youngest daughters are attending middle school/high school in Haj City, our market town. They are staying with family members. The president is slowly building a house in Haj City. When it is finished, he will move his oldest daughter and youngest son there, and his youngest daughters will move in until they are married or go elsewhere. The old family home will be abandoned, I guess. His wife will, I suppose, run the tent until she is too old to do so anymore. At which point he will also be old, and perhaps he will sell his 350 odd sheep and goats and live out as good a life as he can in Haj City. I wonder if his grandchildren will learn the language he learned first at all. Many children of Imazighen heritage are completely ignorant of the language and stories of their fathers. Why bother when Arabic is so much more universal anyway? His is not an unusual story: many families are planning their escape this way. The life of the nomadic herder, semi- or no, is a hard one.
Back to the original comment… in trying to help people improve their life, one has to hold many meetings. Meetings are hard to hold if half of the people who need to be there are always gone, and which half is missing is continually changing. Any meeting or work that needs doing takes careful planning, and good luck as well. The worst is when the herds are moving between summer and winter pastures. Everyone is in constant motion, because moving the herds means moving the tents, with all of the furnishings and accessories. Vans, trucks, and endless mule and donkey trains can be seen moving up and down roads and mountains paths for weeks. I give up organizing until those weeks pass.
The nice part about working with semi-nomadic herders is that you get to go hang out in the tents with them in the summer. High altitude grazing grounds are always cool and breezy. The mountains are beautiful, and stark. They are almost entirely bereft of trees, but lightly covered with tough bunch grasses, herbs, bushes and the occasional blades of new grasses making a break for some sunlight between the rocks. Thus, the colors of the rocks show through, with a soft haze of yellow green overlaying them. Except for the patches of forest, deep green and sparse. Those forest bits are small and shrinking, like patches of hair on a balding man’s head. They hang down in lower altitudes, too, much like said male pattern balding. I use them to teach about erosion. “See those trees? See those huge gullies cut into the mountains by the rains last year? See how they are hardly ever in the same place? That’s why trees are important!” Unfortunately, I only get to tell so many people because I work closely with only a few. They are the ones who really organize. They use their superior networking powers to contact and bring in the semi-nomadic herders. It works pretty well for the meetings, but not for the informal education.
Friday, January 15, 2010
what we eat is what eats us
We talk a lot about food here in PC Morocco. Perhaps this is because we spend a lot of time devising ways to cook our favorite comfort foods in an unfamiliar environment. Or maybe it’s because so many of us see the environmental degredation around us and worry that this will become bad enough to hurt food production in our area. Or maybe it’s because of the plethora of people out there trying to raise awareness about the precarious situation of our global food system. We read a lot in our spare time. Or all those things.
There are little to no reserves stored for future famines. Some food is produced at artificially lowered prices and used to fuel the system of mass food production that so much of the developed world lives on. That has global ramifications once you start selling that un-naturally cheap food abroad. It undercuts the local food sellers and hamstrings local food production systems. Those systems falter under that pressure, becoming dependent on the same cheap food that undercut the system in the first place. This last year, 2009, there was a bumper crop of corn and wheat in the United States. One of the highest on record, I believe. **Please forgive the lack of references… it’s very hard to research ones references when one does not have the internet or a library at one’s disposal.** Yet many, many people still starve, or suffer from malnutrition for lack of good food. There are many complicated reasons for this. MANY. There are equal numbers of proposed solutions to this problem. One thing that some claim would fix the problem is if people stopped eating meat. Be a world of vegetarians. Why? Well, it’s about the efficiency of energy transfer.
This is ecology. This is also chemistry. It’s pretty simple: life needs energy to sustain it. Plants get it (most ingeniously!) from the sun, direct. They take the sun’s energy and store it-this is the most efficient method. Animals don’t do the photosynthesis thing (we’re not that cool), so many do the next best thing: they eat the plants and steal all that stored energy, unlocking the storage units in the plant (sugars, mostly) and use it for their own purpose-this is the second most efficient method. Other animals don’t eat plants, they eat other animals, stealing that stored energy and using it for their own purposes-this is not as efficient as the previous two. So you, as an organism, can get your energy from the sun (direct, primary), from plants (indirect, secondary), or from other animals (double indirect, tertiary).
Humans are omnivores, so we get to eat just about whatever we want (but not sunlight, again, just not that cool). Pretty nice situation for us, actually. We have it set up so that we have all kinds of plants gathering energy for us (corn, wheat, carrots, potatoes, oranges…) and all kinds of animals eating those plants and converting it into tasty energy packed meat (chickens, pigs, cows…). Being omnivores, we enjoy the variety, and it keeps us healthy to boot. We are set up to run off of a variety of foods. But that means that some of our foods are efficient secondary energy (cereals, veggies, fruits) and some are less efficient tertiary energy (meats, dairy, eggs). We use a lot of the secondary food (corn, grass, etc.) to feed the tertiary food (cows, ducks, etc.). It takes a lot more energy to feed a cow until it reaches slaughter weight than it does to just eat that energy ourselves in the form of veggies and bread. So, when you eat beef, for example, you have just used all that energy it took to feed that cow, plus all the energy it took to grow the cow’s food, plus all the energy you used to get that beef from the cow to your stomach. When you eat a piece of bread, you used only the energy it took to grow the wheat, plus what it took to get the wheat to your stomach in the form of bread. Thus, beef takes up a lot more energy than bread does.
The idea then, is that if we all stopped using all that secondary food to feed our food animals, we could instead send it to those starving people and feed them. It’s not a bad idea. The math works out. So then we would stop using up land to grow secondary food for our tertiary food animals, and instead just grow that secondary food for people. To put it another way, on a lot of the land that we currently use to grow animal-feed we could be growing high quality people-feed. In light of the “starving children of Africa” (and everywhere else), this is probably something we should try to do. Hence the idea that we should be all be vegetarians. This is probably not a welcome thought to many. Many others, though, say it’s our moral responsibility.
Wait! There’s a catch. Not all land is equal. There’s a lot of land on this planet that is simply unfit for cultivation. If you plant wheat, or veggies in arid, dry land, you have a high risk of causing a lot of environmental degredation. This happens mainly through using up what little water there is in such a dry place, or through breaking up the soil. Breaking up the soil creates opportunities for erosion, especially in dry climates. Erosion means that that soil will sooner or later no longer be there at all. A better way to use such arid land for our food purposes is through well-managed grazing of food animals. Over-grazing is another good way to cause environmental degredation, but well-managed grazing can actually augument the health of an environment. So, we could use the good land for secondary food production, and the not-so-good land for tertiary food production. Maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians after all?
Well… there’s another catch, though. Grazing animals, as opposed to the current method of feeding our food animals our secondary food, means that they take longer to reach slaughter weight. Which means you can produce fewer of them per year. We, of the priviledged developed nations crowd, have gotten used to having vast quantities of meat (inefficient tertiary food) at our disposal. By manipulating the price of certain plant foods, we have made it a lot cheaper to raise up all of those tasty meat animals than it probably should be. So we get our meat, and we get it cheap. And we like it. It is tasty, and nutritious, after all. And it’s a sign of prestige to us, too. Having meat on the table has always been an indicator of wealth, because it takes so much more energy (inefficient tertiary food!) and energy will always cost money, or time, or wealth of some sort. So, if we change our system to use less land to feed the food animals, we would have less, more expensive meat. So, maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians, but that doesn’t mean we can still get our cheap meat… We might have to become a little more omnivorous than we currently are. A little bit more veggies, a little bit less meat.
**Note: there are many reasons to become a vegetarian. I didn’t touch on them all, I know. This is less about the merits of vegetarianism than it is about our general food system. Peace.
There are little to no reserves stored for future famines. Some food is produced at artificially lowered prices and used to fuel the system of mass food production that so much of the developed world lives on. That has global ramifications once you start selling that un-naturally cheap food abroad. It undercuts the local food sellers and hamstrings local food production systems. Those systems falter under that pressure, becoming dependent on the same cheap food that undercut the system in the first place. This last year, 2009, there was a bumper crop of corn and wheat in the United States. One of the highest on record, I believe. **Please forgive the lack of references… it’s very hard to research ones references when one does not have the internet or a library at one’s disposal.** Yet many, many people still starve, or suffer from malnutrition for lack of good food. There are many complicated reasons for this. MANY. There are equal numbers of proposed solutions to this problem. One thing that some claim would fix the problem is if people stopped eating meat. Be a world of vegetarians. Why? Well, it’s about the efficiency of energy transfer.
This is ecology. This is also chemistry. It’s pretty simple: life needs energy to sustain it. Plants get it (most ingeniously!) from the sun, direct. They take the sun’s energy and store it-this is the most efficient method. Animals don’t do the photosynthesis thing (we’re not that cool), so many do the next best thing: they eat the plants and steal all that stored energy, unlocking the storage units in the plant (sugars, mostly) and use it for their own purpose-this is the second most efficient method. Other animals don’t eat plants, they eat other animals, stealing that stored energy and using it for their own purposes-this is not as efficient as the previous two. So you, as an organism, can get your energy from the sun (direct, primary), from plants (indirect, secondary), or from other animals (double indirect, tertiary).
Humans are omnivores, so we get to eat just about whatever we want (but not sunlight, again, just not that cool). Pretty nice situation for us, actually. We have it set up so that we have all kinds of plants gathering energy for us (corn, wheat, carrots, potatoes, oranges…) and all kinds of animals eating those plants and converting it into tasty energy packed meat (chickens, pigs, cows…). Being omnivores, we enjoy the variety, and it keeps us healthy to boot. We are set up to run off of a variety of foods. But that means that some of our foods are efficient secondary energy (cereals, veggies, fruits) and some are less efficient tertiary energy (meats, dairy, eggs). We use a lot of the secondary food (corn, grass, etc.) to feed the tertiary food (cows, ducks, etc.). It takes a lot more energy to feed a cow until it reaches slaughter weight than it does to just eat that energy ourselves in the form of veggies and bread. So, when you eat beef, for example, you have just used all that energy it took to feed that cow, plus all the energy it took to grow the cow’s food, plus all the energy you used to get that beef from the cow to your stomach. When you eat a piece of bread, you used only the energy it took to grow the wheat, plus what it took to get the wheat to your stomach in the form of bread. Thus, beef takes up a lot more energy than bread does.
The idea then, is that if we all stopped using all that secondary food to feed our food animals, we could instead send it to those starving people and feed them. It’s not a bad idea. The math works out. So then we would stop using up land to grow secondary food for our tertiary food animals, and instead just grow that secondary food for people. To put it another way, on a lot of the land that we currently use to grow animal-feed we could be growing high quality people-feed. In light of the “starving children of Africa” (and everywhere else), this is probably something we should try to do. Hence the idea that we should be all be vegetarians. This is probably not a welcome thought to many. Many others, though, say it’s our moral responsibility.
Wait! There’s a catch. Not all land is equal. There’s a lot of land on this planet that is simply unfit for cultivation. If you plant wheat, or veggies in arid, dry land, you have a high risk of causing a lot of environmental degredation. This happens mainly through using up what little water there is in such a dry place, or through breaking up the soil. Breaking up the soil creates opportunities for erosion, especially in dry climates. Erosion means that that soil will sooner or later no longer be there at all. A better way to use such arid land for our food purposes is through well-managed grazing of food animals. Over-grazing is another good way to cause environmental degredation, but well-managed grazing can actually augument the health of an environment. So, we could use the good land for secondary food production, and the not-so-good land for tertiary food production. Maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians after all?
Well… there’s another catch, though. Grazing animals, as opposed to the current method of feeding our food animals our secondary food, means that they take longer to reach slaughter weight. Which means you can produce fewer of them per year. We, of the priviledged developed nations crowd, have gotten used to having vast quantities of meat (inefficient tertiary food) at our disposal. By manipulating the price of certain plant foods, we have made it a lot cheaper to raise up all of those tasty meat animals than it probably should be. So we get our meat, and we get it cheap. And we like it. It is tasty, and nutritious, after all. And it’s a sign of prestige to us, too. Having meat on the table has always been an indicator of wealth, because it takes so much more energy (inefficient tertiary food!) and energy will always cost money, or time, or wealth of some sort. So, if we change our system to use less land to feed the food animals, we would have less, more expensive meat. So, maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians, but that doesn’t mean we can still get our cheap meat… We might have to become a little more omnivorous than we currently are. A little bit more veggies, a little bit less meat.
**Note: there are many reasons to become a vegetarian. I didn’t touch on them all, I know. This is less about the merits of vegetarianism than it is about our general food system. Peace.
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