Memories of Morocco

The man with the banjo sits by the entrance to the salon. His eyes are deep and glistening, his smile toothless. His long blue robes are indigo in the twilight. My group is seated outside, by the edge of the swimming pool, and above us is a rectangle of sky. Around us Westerners in their chinos and white t-shirts converse softly, sitting in couples and groups at the wroughtiron tables, while dark young waiters call to each other over their heads.

The banjo player is singing a lament; he is engrossed in the sadness of the song, pausing only to inhale. He catches my eye and nods, crying out accusatory lyrics to the darkening sky. The music drives forwards, never quite repeating. My mind follows, curious, open like the night. My heart follows, aching, our cup is full, now empty as the music peaks and falls.

Between songs Ali, our guide, beckons him over to sit with us. He smiles shyly and addresses us. He tells us we are all friends, that even though we may find ourselves far from each others' eyes, we will always be close in our hearts. His eyes fill with tears and Ali explains that this man's best friend, a snake charmer, was killed by his own cobra a few days ago. As Ali talks, the banjo player blinks and smiles at each of us in turn.

Ali asks him to play another song at our table and we clap to the music, our enthusiasm hovering on the brink of good manners. A passing waiter picks up a clean plate and a fork, and puts his foot up on a leather cushion, joining in with a berber rhythm. Our clapping becomes heavier, our concentration more intense.

Two more smartly dressed waiters appear, one sings and the other drums his hands expertly on the edge of the table. As each new man appears he says "bon soir" politely to the group then throws himself into his chosen implement and rhythm with abandon.

As the music reaches its crescendo we smile at each other, friends, strangers, our hands stinging, there is great joy in the air, and we are in awe of the simplicity of the recipe.