SIDI ALI

I was living in Meknès in Morocco (1965). Across the valley stand the Zerhoun mountains and on their slopes a small village was gleaming white and calling at me to explore. The village is called Sidi Ali after the saint whose shrine is there. I went with my friend Ben Salem and a friend of his to check it out. Ben Salem had a small cubbyhole of a shop that sold odds and ends; he was dirt poor but had a heart of gold.
Arrived in Sidi Ali we go down to the spring and wash: hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, ears, and head. At the end: the feet. Ben Salem and I are content with looking over the holy man’s shrine and kiss the sarcophagus, but the friend prays for so long, that Ben Salem have to call him several times. He brings us two small bend stumps of candle and gives the straightest to Ben Salem and the biggest to me. “Light it from time to time when you are alone and pray to Sidi Ali,” says Ben Salem.


I decide to look for a place to stay in Sidi Ali and I go there with a young friend to translate. We wander about in the village that seems to consist of ruins. The village retard joins us and is optimistic; otherwise we see no one. It is late in the morning and everybody is indoors. We go back to the square and order tea in the café. Soon the talk starts and my friend asks for a house and enumerates my virtues. A man who lies stretched by the window in the farthest end of the café says something and my friend translates: “He has a house that is missing door and window. If you put them in you can stay there.”
“How long?”
“A year or two; as long as you want.”
“What does it cost?”
“Nothing! Favor!”
“Let us look at it!” We enter the shop next to the café and go through a trapdoor in the back wall into the garden. The garden makes a deep impression, one of these places where the spirits of nature seek refuge and fill the atmosphere with a mystic quiet. The house is a small mossy ruin hidden behind two old fig trees, but the roof is new and the rest seems to be easy to fix.
“Yes,” I say, “yes, that’s fine.”
My landlord’s name is Sid Srer and translates as Mr. Little. This is he:


After the house is fixed all I have to do is paint:


and paint. This is a verse from the Koran:


and this from the entrance to the holy city of Moulay Idriss, the closest town:


This is one of the elders in the village:


It is funny how the turbans express their owner’s character!
I will come back to Sidi Ali later.