On to Oran, and the feast of a lifetime

"We go to Oran," said Djelloul way back in the planning stage. "They have very good fish there.  You see. We visit my brother, Mohammed and his family.  You'll like it."

So off we go, past rolling green hills,  high mountains and low, farmlands and orchards and flocks of sheep tucked in the folds of vast views, speeding on winding two lanes, slowing at round-abouts, accelerating on, slowing through villages, ka-thump, ka-thump over speed bumps, then cruising on the new four lane highway to the city.

 I did not photoshop this green.  It was this green.  One of the little towns we passed, translated as "River of Peace" had built platforms high on their seven street lights, and this is the amazing result.  We actually pulled over on the ride back, and I got better views.  But we were in a hurry.  People were waiting for us.  It's about a 3 hour ride, or so.

Here's an early glimpse of the ancient city of  Oran on the Mediterranian, a shining new mosque, multitudinous high rises, and the distant mountains.   

 We exit the highway and pull behind a silver car. Out steps Djelloul's older brother, arms wide in welcome.  He leads us to his home, an apartment above shops near the center of the city, near the promenade overlooking the water.  His wife has prepared us a feast.

Rock, Djelloul, and Mohammed. My place is set by the fresh-squeezed orange juice in the far chair.

 Nadjet and Walid in the kitchen, happy to have my visit.  I check what's on the stove. Rouge fish.

 Sole.

But first course, fish soup.

Second course, salads, cheese tarts. . .

Third course, du mer -- small shrimp, large shrimp, with sauce.  The rouge fish, breaded and fried and served with tomatoes, the sole, and fried calamari.

Now, if Mohammed, Nadjet, Walid and Faris visited me.  I would probably serve them lasagna and salad and think I'd done myself proud.  But Nadjet is not yet done.
Fourth course. We need a little more veggie and a little more drama.
Out comes the artichokes and the marinated shrimp and chicken kabobs.

And of course, for the fifth, some roasted lamb.  We are in Algeria, after all, and all those sheep need some purpose in life.

With crepe's stuffed with ground chicken (I think) just to fill in the cracks.  Enough already.  But it's not enough.  

 When Nadjet presented the main course,

 -- stuffed boneless lamb with potatoes and parsley, I was dumbstruck.  Didn't this woman sleep?  Every single dish was nothing less than mouth-watering.  The love that went into this meal was utterly unforgetible.

Seventh course, strawberries, fresh from the farm, cheese, tea and coffee.  Could I take another bite?  Was there an atom of space inside any of us?

But there was another feast, besides.  The brothers hadn't seen each other in years, and Mohammed was eager to share his stories with his brother's family.  He was a major in the Algerian military, serving in the Western mountains -- among other places -- at the time of the uprising after the overturn of the elections in the 90's.  Their father, too, served in the military, fighting for independence, killed when Djelloul was just a baby.  Nadjet's father served as officer for the police, the gendarmes, and she and Walid proudly showed us photos from their family and her childhood.   Mohammed now heads security for a large international company in town, and he loved practicing his English.  

At one point Rock asked, "Don't mean to put you on the spot, but how would you fight terrorism?"   The question was appreciated.  In broken and unbroken English, this was the sense of what he said. "First, I talk to the mother and father.  Reason with them.  If that doesn't work, we must try to capture them.  If wounded, we take them to the hospital, bring them health.  Then they go to justice, to court.  Reason with them. But most important, we find them good jobs.  We make them good life.  That is how to end terrorism."

Now to see Oran.

In the company of angels

Now it is time to visit the cousins on the farm.  They have prepared us a feast, a whole goat, roasted.  We take the turn off the highway up a winding road through grasslands. At the bend young father and his little girl wait for us in front of their home, all smiles.  Hugs, greetings, and inside the courtyard the whole family comes to greet us.  The cousin, the matriarch, Fatmah’s generation, her husband, the patriarch, their  son, daughter-in-law, daughter, who speaks English well, (if we speak slowly) they are proud to say, and the little girls.  The courtyard walls are high and tiled, like the floor. And the shiny water tank is in the corner. Back and forth they go, filling containers as needed.  A mat is on the floor, with pillows against the wall.  The sun shines warm and bright on this early march day.  Do I want to eat here?  But in the cool shade inside, in the parlour where the low sofa cushions line the wall, the low tables are already set with china and glasses, plates of salads.  So no, of course we will sit here. 

Faces turn to me, smiling in the kitchen.  There it is, the goat, roasted in the nearby town, since the local man he is too old to ask to sit and turn the spit for three hours.  The little girl pokes her finger in the meat and is told to move on. Cats meow outside, we talk some, and the little girl returns, and is finally given a meaty bone.  She is pleased.  I may be mistaken.  She may be the one in charge.  Her aunt teaches her English.  “ABCDEFG. . .” she sings.  We join her.

The feast is a joyful reunion, a catching up and learning, interrupted only by the cat and her kitten coming in on the path of sunlight through the front door.  Shushed constantly away, or lured away with scraps thrown outside.  

After the feast we walk through the 50 acres of fields planted with fava beans, the bee-keeping area, the olive trees. Chickens cluck, the goats bleat somewhere behind the hand made fence in the other side.  We’re shown the irrigation system he’s set up, the vegetable garden, green peas, already knee-high lettuce, parsley, onions, the 50-ft deep well he dug himself, lined with bricks. We traipse on deep green grasses, covering the ground.  No, not grass -- that is wheat growing, which is what they use for bread. 

We come to the chalky green river, high and running after a winter of snow and rains.  The little girl shows me the wild flowers she’s picked, and we search for more.  

Pictures are taken by the river, against the backdrop of the mountains.  In a distant farm’s front yard someone is leading a cow while the children play.  A brother’s farm, I think.  Back to the house, we come upon a small black sploted  tethered, a small mild black and white bull.  He’s used for plowing.  Does he have a name?  No, none of the animals have names.  “Let’s call him John Deere.”  Around the bend a donkey is tethered, also used for plowing, or riding.  “Brooklyn,” I said.  “His name is Brooklyn.  Hi Brooklyn!”  We see  a dog here and there.  The cousin comes out and shows us her homemade oven, mud and straw, where our delicious bread was baked, where the water is warmed.

Another family member joins us, a young man who teaches French in the nearby school. His wife and two young daughters live in Tiaret.  Does he help on the farm?  No, he smiles.  We talk about the French word for star, -- star -- what must be gloriously visible there at night.  Yes, says Djelloul.  Jessica, she loves to stay here, and the girls.  They love the stars.  

We ride home, Djelloul calls Jessica and we all share the news of the day.  No they only got a few inches of snow.  He told her not in a million years would she guess what we were having for supper.  

Pizza.