The end of the line, Sun, Sand and Date Moonshine

My ride to Mhamed was in a large slow truck with two men who downed 3 beers in space of one hour while driving and gayly threw handfulls of rubbish out the window into the magnificent rocky desert landscape. They were stopped by the police at one stage and I sat on the roadside for 30 min unsure wheather my drivers were off to jail. They let us go and I made it to Zagora where a desert guide quickly snatched me up and threw me with my monstrouse pack onto his moped. I held on tight as we zoomed through water flooded backstreets from a nights heavy rain. I eventually escaped his tour guide office at a brisk pace and hitched with a 21 year old construction worker to his home in Tigounite where I met all of his 7 brothers and many village friends who were suprisingly interlectual and studdied english in Casablanca. I played them all my guitar then spent the night in his concrete shell, windowless house between two floor rugs. In the morning I caught a tractor to the final village at the end of the road and the frounteir of the desert 40km from the Algerian border.I met Abdulahwahed, a slothenly topless man living behind his resteraunt of date palm poles and mud on a small sand dune just out of town. He said I could stay with him in his large house and help to build a new mud brick extension to his resteraunt, though I dont know why as I now see that it only seems to see one wayward tourist every 3 days and is hardley struggeling to accomodate them. We shook on the deal and I told him that I would see him tomorrow after a night and day of much needed solitude in the desert. It seems imposible to be alone as the locals are so hospitable. I trecked a few hours with my compas through the vast date palm forest and out into the sand dunes where I pitched my tent in peace. After a day contemplating in the shade of a palm and eating many wild dates, I followed yesterdays footplints back to Abdulahs little sand dune and told him I was ready for work. "Today" he said, "you make your room", I have big house just for you". I followed him 200m to the ruins of a large old mud brick hotel complex. Many of the walls had follen in and mud bricks lay strewn about. We walked through a sandy wasteland courtyard to a wall of doors. We push open each door and I peer inside to a room which resembles and old sty full of rubbish, a queen sized matress and the floor10cm thick with sand. Loose wired hung down from the log and bamboo ceiling and one tiney window of blue and yellow glass sent a sickly sepia streem of light across the wall enforcing the ambiance of dormant infection which he was clearly striving for. I set to work imediatly by removong all of the rubbish and furniture, then with the aid of halfe a rusty shuvel, the contents of the Shara which had found their way in. Benieth the sand I uncovered a collection on old rugs. I took them into the blazing sun and began a frenzy of beating until the dust fell away to reveal bright colours of red, yellow and green. 3 hours later my room looked beautifull with a semi clean bed, a sofa, table and exsquizite rug lined floor. The evening was spent on Abdulahs floor eating turkey tarjine, watching football an a small TV screen and him smoking hasheesh. The next day my job was to collect all of the wayward bricks from the crumbling hotel and put the, in piles so a truck could take them to his sand hill. He is a tranqueil man who does not seem to want much, but is content with his rug floor, TV, the odd tourist, a steady supply if hasheesh, the ocasional prostitute and his home drew of fermented date moonshine. These men seem content at the fact that their impoverished livlihood requires the, to do pretty much nothing, yet perhaps a hint of depression can sometimes be glimpsed through the shroud of hasheesh smoke. We spent the next night up late talking while I helped finish the last few drops of the days distiled date ethanol. He says he drinks because it changes his mind and is the only thing he has the power to change. I told him that their were other ways to change his mind such as reading books or talking to new people. He seemed rreceptive to the Idea. The next day I cleaned out another old hotel room, perhaps for a friend to stay, then played my travel guitar while him and his friends wailed away passionately in their aribic scales. He gave me 20Dh and sent me off into the village for cigarets and internet where I write to you now. He is happy for me to stay forever it seems and does not expect much work, though I like to stay motovated and only return periodically to dabble in the lethargy of  his sedated sand dune. And thats seDATED of the fermented kinf of course.