Travel Writing

A French woman walks hand in hand with a Moroccan man in the grand boulevard. Or maybe she is not from France at all but from Morocco. I would not know even after this long time in Morocco. I am in Ifrane and Ifrane confuses me.

I ask the taxi driver:

“Where are you from?

He says:

“Why, of course, from Ifrane. I was born here.”

I say to him:

“How is that possible??”

There is a small male donkey chasing a female donkey with his dingus rising and shining. The lass kick him with her behind legs but the lad rushes to follow her anyway.

I eat my lunch at the park overlooking rows of many neat and clean houses. A group of men in the silvery hair-tail fish suits and hats pass by with same bags. Military? Businessmen? Students?

Ifrane is in between Meknes and Azrou in the Middle Atlas. It is very strange to be here. I think I will pass Azrou and head to Beni Mellal. I finish off my lunch as quickly as possible and get a grand taxi out of this town.

2011, Morocco

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