On my exit of the gorge I was met by a young Moroccan, Aziz, who because of his middle class charm, and freindliness, I warmed to immediately. He helped me recover my rucksack and invited me to walk back with him to on the road to Demnate. He tried his English speaking to good effect and I desperately racked my French dictionary for odd words, regretting my penchent for obscure phrases and my disingenuous tone. Met by the van I had come up in on another of its trips, we joined the party, and headed back to Imni, where Abdul then went away to prayer in the nearby mosque. Such was to be my experience for the next couple of days, a toing and froing, back and forth, doing very little of conseuqnece, being passed from freind to freind, in what sometimes resembled a Moroccan version of the Darling Buds of May, without the Catherine Zeta Jones' love interest, and with less frequent meals.

The author with Demnate below.














The van & the road ahead.














Abdul and the driver.














Abdul.