04.15.05

I went to a peace, love, garbanzo beans, Quaker, high school. Every year, in March, there was a two-week hiatus called intercession. During intercession, the school�s staff would sponsor different learning experiences�from putting on a play in a week, to glass work, to trips across the country and around the world.

One year, I signed up for a bicycle trip through Morocco. Thirteen of us went, two teachers, and 11 students�plus our bikes and camping equipment. It was my first time off of the North American continent. I was excited, anxious, and eager.

When we landed south of Casablanca, it was early morning. We put our bikes back together and got re-packed. I was amazed by my first sight of African skies, trees, grass, dirt, and insects. I kept on pointing at things and saying, �What�s that?� without much luck in getting a response.

Right next to the airport was a grassy field with a Berber camp nestled against the trees. There were tents that looked medieval (a tall centre pole with a sloping roof and vertical walls, with pennants flapping in the breeze), and a milling group of Berber men in sweeping burnoose (burnooses?) with their sturdy, mountain-bred ponies. At some unseen signal, about 20 men got on their ponies, grabbed their rifles, and lined up at the far end of the field. I heard the jangle of the tack, the stomping hooves, and the shouted commands of the men.

Then everything went still.

With a zaghareet (ululation), the field of riders charged forward in a line. The thundering pound of hooves, the exclamations of the men, and a cloud of dust floated up into the sky. When the riders got to the end of the field, they let off a volley of rifle fire, wheeled back in the direction they�d come from, and thundered back to their starting point.

Quelle welcome to Morocco, neh?

Coming soon, the dangers of traveling with a hashish aficionado, and why it�s a really bad idea to jump over the wall of the international campground.

Go. Be fabulous.

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