We had heard of a very old Rabbi who could be found at the foot of the Atlas mountains.
According to the legend all other Jews in his village had moved to Israel some decades ago. He alone had remained and was now quite ancient, probably a centenarian. But he was still very sociable and welcomed pilgrims from all over the world into his house. If you found him you could sit and talk to him.
The village was just off our route towards the West coast so we decided this was worth a short detour. In fact a filmed interview with such a character could be quite interesting.
From Ouarzazate we crossed the Atlas once more in the dark. A couple of lorries encouraging us to overtake them on blind bends – dark abyss dropping off to one side and sheer cliff rising on the other – offered a little needed stimuli on the otherwise un-eventful journey.
As we came to the plains on the otherside we headed for a small town hotel that had been recommended. After waking the owner we were presented some very basic rooms. Mine had an unmade bed, which the owner quickly straightened out for me. It didn’t look like the pillow covers had been changed this year. The showers however did work and we all proceeded to wash away what we could of the vast quantity of the Sahara that had hitched a ride in every pore and crevace of our bodies.
I slept soundly cocooned in my sleeping bag on top of the freshly stained sheets until the cafe below and market next door decided noisily it was time for business. Morning calls to Prayer joined the fracas.
I woke the hotel owner and his son from their mattress behind the reception desk to settle my inexpensive bill and secured a prime street-side table in the cafe. This gave me a great view of the comings and goings of the busy little town. It also gave the little town a great view of an English tourist, which given the intense attention I drew from most passers-by I deduced must be a real rarety in these parts. In the background the cafe’s telly was blasting out what I can only assume was anti-American rhetoric from current events in Iran. While the locals did generaly seem friendly if overly curious I was glad to be joined by my fellow travellers as they emerged in dribs and drabs from the estabishment above. Safety in numbers is a basic if somewhat flawed instinct for sardines, sheep and tourists alike.
Back on the road we took our trusty pair of Logans down a long single track road, skirting the foothills for some distance before heading back up into them. Our American friends had been busy preparing questions for the interview with the Rabbi. I had agreed to act as French interpreter and was looking forward to the possibility of taking his portrait; anyone reputedly over 100 years old should make an interesting photograph full of character.
Winding our way up through a river valley lined with trinket and rug sellers we spotted a small plaque on the side of an unassuming building. Enquiries with the sudden crown of children surrounding us with fruit baskets and assorted gifts confirmed this was the place. The sight of a departing man with skull cap reinforced our conviction.
Cameras, video equipment and questions in hand we were led by one of the children down into the courtyard of the building and pointed in the direction of one of the siderooms. At one end of the room sat an old man. We quickly deduced that he was not old enough to be the one we were seeking. “Where is the Rabbi?” we asked. Silently he lifted his hand and pointed forward into the room. He pointed toward the centre where a simple marble toomb lay. Above and on the walls surrounding were faded images of old bearded and probably once very wise men. Photographs of young men and women adorned the columns at the head of the shrine. To the right two rows of benches invited visitors to sit and, if they wished, “talk” with the venerated Rabbi.
He wasn’t going to answer us on film so we made a donation under the eagle eyes of the very insistant old man and headed to the nearest restaurant for lunch.
We had visited a place of pilgrimage, ignorant of its history or importance. At least had had a few giggles at our own expense and stupidity!
