Rastapasta

Small rivers were suddenly finding their way through the labyriths of fez' souks, ensuring that everything that the rain couldn't reach from above was soaked from beneath instead. Huddeling under a tarpolin we watched irritated cats abandon spots that had been nice and sunny only minutes before. Here Mohammed approaches us:

'Today it's the 27th day of Ramadan. It brings us luck to invite people to eat.'

We accepted, knowing that sharing is a big part of the Moroccan culture and islamic religion -especially in Ramadan, and found ourselves inside a warm bakery with a huge fire and paddels to rescue the bread with. A makeshift table was made and about 10 guys, some arround our age and some older, proudly pulled out tuppaware containers containing steaming dishes. 'His mum had made this' Mohammed proudly announced. Several of the others nodded enthusiastically. We tucked in whilst chatting about family, jobs,crafts etc. As the night continued we meet all of Youseffs family for tea. All nice.

In Merzuga, we were again meet by the famous hospitality. The first night in our hotel we were warmly welkommed. tales of the magic nights of the dessert and the summer heat were flowing. 'Your'e welcome, your'e welcome' seemed like an echo after each sentence.

But it's all an illusion.

As we offered Mohammed to come for tea at the end of our noght in Fez he extended his hand: 'L'argent' he said. He didn't want tea.

In Merzuga, as the blue men of the dessert realised that we camped in the dessert on our own, that we weren't gonna by camel trips or have scarfs tied around our heads in berber fashion the interesst dwindeld. Kindness turned to sour and the next day when we tried to pay for another night, our room was booked out for someone else...

Rasta pasta indeed....