After lunch, we headed up the valley along the M'Goun River into the Atlas Mountains, with the growth along the river making a green gash through otherwise deserty pastel reds, yellows, and whites in rock, sand, and dirt. At one point, we turned off the road and headed into a canyon, into an area that was mostly red dirt and red rocks, like one imagines the surface of Mars might look, but for the low sparse scrub brush. The track undulates along rolling knolls between tall ridges in the distance. We come to a stop on a hill with a view of a Berber nomad encampment, where there are some caves carved out of the hillside, a couple of large tents, and a low stone wall enclosing some chickens. This is the home of an old man and his wife. They live entirely off the grid in these caves and tents, raising livestock, weaving carpets, and occasionally walking to the nearest market town to barter for some supplies. Our guide approaches them, and then gestures for us to join him. We are welcomed. As is the ancient Moroccan imperative, even among people who live in caves, strangers are to be welcomed with mint tea.
The woman prepares the tea on a small propane stove, using bottled water that our guide told us to bring. (This is not only for us, so we know we're starting with bottled water, but for them, since they don't exactly have tap water running in their cave, and all of their water has to be carried in.) We are invited to sit on one of their woven blankets on the cave floor, carefully keeping our shoes off of the carpet, which is worn but clean and a beautiful multicolored traditional design. A primitive loom made of a few carved poles is nearby where they are making a large carpet, mostly black wool with white stripes and knots. The ceiling of the cave is black from the fires they burn to keep warm at night. Our guide tells us that once a year they'll do a "spring cleaning" to scrape out the soot and expand their cave a bit. Their dress was traditional. The man wore an orange robe that came down to his ankles over a white peasant shirt and white headdress, and orange cloak. The woman, who did not want to be photographed, wore a brown full-length dress with some embroidery, with a black cloak and black scarf, so that her hair was covered but not her face. He had slippers, she was barefoot. Our guide spoke mostly with the man, translating from Berber for us, and we learned a little. They have a herd of sheep. Their grown daughter, now married, lives in another nomad cave elsewhere in the canyon, and she is a good carpet weaver. The man has no idea how old he is. They are faithful Muslims. As we were leaving, he asked our guide, looking at the sun, if he reckoned it was time for the
al-asr late afternoon prayer. A few minutes later we watched him walk across his enclosed yard to make his prayers.
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