IMAGES BY
STEVE WRIGHT, WORDS BY LISA SYKES/THE GUARDIAN
Just 24
hours after leaving London, I am dashing about the terraced fields of apple trees
with the village boys and men who are old enough to know better.
Even my
guide, Mohammed Elaamri, also a Berber, thinks it's all a little strange.
Above us in
the village of Aremd, every rooftop and street corner is filled with people
swaying, jigging, dancing, chanting, clapping or banging a tambourine-style
drum.
By dusk, the
goat-skinned men - there are up to eight of them each day - are
knackered.
The game
ends with the muezzin's wailing call to prayer echoing around the surrounding
mountains.
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