The day of the festival meant every one goes to the mosque. Outside the hotel the street was filled with men, boys and women carrying their prayer mats and wearing their best jhellbahs. This of course meant every where was shut.
The receptionist opened the cafe to sort breakfast for us and assured us that petrol stations would be open (he was partly right, a lot were shut though) . We headed across country back to the southern base of the High Atlas mountains, on freshly built single track that did not match roads listed on any of our maps. In many villages there were processions of people, seemingly moving between mosques.
The roads were empty, every village and large town like a ghost town. In the larger places the air was filled with the aroma of singed hair as boys and teenagers sat at the kerb side, burning the flesh from the severed heads of goats.
When we arrived at our target campsite the gates were locked, but as I turned to leave a small door opened and a man beckoned us in. The site was empty, just his family there for the festival. But we could stay and join in.
While we erected our tent the goat and the lamb were slaughtered, skinned and gutted. Then they were hung and the butchering began.
During the next few hours we were fed various cuts of meat on skewers and plates. The, very, fresh ribs were excellent. By 2100 we were stuffed and went to bed.
At 2230 we were awoken and presented with a fresh tray of skewered meat, our dinner. Jean was too tired but like a trooper I got dressed, ate it and thanked them once more before retiring again.
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