by R L Tilley
We rode into
Morocco on a bus with two Moroccan guides. Three
beautiful Spanish girls were crossing the
frontier, from Ceuta, with us. A Moroccan
policeman boarded the bus and studied their
passports in great detail. It seemed that either
they intended to stay a while in Tangier or were
travelling on from that city. Eventually the
policeman nodded his assent and satisfaction with
their papers and got off the bus.
wanted to look at the girls, my wife said.
We crossed the
frontier where hundreds of Moroccans, many in
jellabas, loitered around the border. Some framed
against the sky atop a hill of red, Moroccan
earth. Some waiting by the sea. Some just waiting.
waiting for the bus to Ceuta, one of our
guides said. It is Moharem. The first day
of the Muslim New Year. The administration takes
a holiday. The markets continue.