Skin Deep

On our trip to the State capital last week we got a phone call from a friend who works in the town we live in but whose family still lives in the "big city." Even though he wasn't around, he wanted us to take the opportunity while we were in town to visit his home and meet his wife and kids. We were worn out from running errands and sitting in government offices at this point so we were happy to have an excuse to relax with friends (even friends we had never met before). On Friday morning our absent host's sister, a stern, well-dressed woman in her fifties, showed up at our hotel and escorted us back to her home in the back of a rickshaw (a three wheeled wonder-taxi). The home was a modest two-room building and a spacious mud kitchen in a small courtyard shaded by guava trees. Though we weren't sure what to expect, or what was expected of us really, the many hours that passed that afternoon were once again marked by sheer North African hospitality.

This day also proved to be a curious reverse of our more typical experiences here as Bryan found himself the only man among a household of well educated sisters, wives, daughters and neighbors. In fact, he spent several hours hanging out with boys in the courtyard while I was ushered inside and treated to something incredibly beautiful, quite literally. Apparently, like everywhere else in the world, when women get together here they like to make each other up and as a guest in this culture I was treated to the works. Our host's wife shooed all peeping eyes away from windows pulled up a stool at my feet and sat down with a porcelain dish in hand. She then folded my skirt up carefully around my shins and proceeded to apply cool red henna to the soles of my feet. She worked patiently for the better part of an hour, shaping the mud in swirls across my arches and heels, working it gently between my toes and across my nails. When she was finished an animated conversation began among the women in the room about who should do my hands. A younger girl was voted as the best artist present and after carefully sewing a torn piece of plastic into a long cone, she filled it with more henna and began tediously turning my hands into works of art. At times I couldn't watch her delicate movements forming petals and leaves, afraid I would wince or start sweating and mess up her hard work. When she finished I was propped up like a broken manikin while we waited for my appendages to dry. During this time our absent host's sister returned from the kitchen with a small makeup bag. She told me that it was now time to do my face. Painting up my face seemed somewhat less charming than decorating my hands and feet and I stammered something along the lines of – no thank you, that's so sweet to offer, but really not necessary at all. She would hear none of it though, and still bound by my wet hands and feet, I had no choice but to sit still and soak up the moment. My worst fears were realized when the first thing that came out of her bag was a razor blade that she swiftly ran across my eyebrows and jaw line. I pushed back all the images of the bearded lady at the circus that came rushing to mind and just closed my eyes in resignation as pencils, creams and powders were all applied in turn. When she was done and a mirror was thrust in front of my face I felt like I was looking at a reflection of someone who had just stepped out of a brothel in Cairo. Bryan's smirk made me suspect he was thinking the same thing. However, my beauticians applauded their efforts and assured me I looked gorgeous (though I can't help but think surely, surely there must have been a hint of "Wow, it doesn't look quite the same on her as it does on us, does it…" behind their smiles somewhere. Somehow the purples and blacks just didn't compliment my skin tones quite the same way.) The finishing touches were oil for my hennaed hands and feet and a brown paste rubbed into my neck and arms that smelled like sandalwood. Later, our absent host's sister slipped me a small vial of the stuff and said a two syllable word I had never heard before. I thought she was telling me the name of the spice but when I asked her to repeat the word she smiled and repeated the word(s) that I understood this time. "For sex." I tried to keep the high notes out of my giggle as I nodded and said thank you and she did what I feel like was the North Africa woman's version of a wink and a "Thank me later" look.

We left that evening with full stomachs and full hearts. I was a little shy to look at people from under my heavily lidded eyes in the rickshaw on the drive home but most people seemed to be more interested in my floral hands and feet than anything else. "Mabruk!" they said and continue to say to me even now as the dark brown swirls are slowly beginning to fade away.

Several people have said - now you are a woman from this country! - and even though we all know that will never be true, I receive those words as a compliment and I think people appreciate that in and of itself. In retrospect, I think my fairy godmothers were very thoughtful in what they gave me last week. They no doubt knew it would make me happy to be treated to something special like henna. But I suspect they also knew that others around me would appreciate it too. In just one very small way, for a while, I look a little more like people's wives or daughters or sisters and I feel people warm to that. In this way, these women's gift was more than just skin deep.