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By Root 867 0

to replicate the hardships of rural life around the time the Romans came knocking in 100 B.C., it's a series of crude stone buildings enclosing a muddy courtyard. Windows are just bare holes in the walls. There's no electricity, therefore no lights. The only warmth in those days came, as it does in this mock-up, from an open fire crackling away in the hearth of an outbuilding. As a nice touch to round things off, several extras have been bused in this morning for set decoration—a couple of children, a good-looking woman who's here to represent the Berber wife, and some toothless old bag draped in rags crouching in the doorway, playing somebody's mother. There's even a ginger tom sprawled across the ground, along with a chicken. A lowly, dispiriting scene of poverty and desperation if ever there was one, and I'm impressed at how beautifully rendered it is. Humbled too that all these wonderful people climbed out of their warm beds this cold morning to do our little show. They've really pulled out all the stops. Thanks, Morocco Tourism. Good job.

While I hog the fire, thawing out my hands, “Mohammed” dives into the house, reappearing moments later with a spare djellaba. “Here, try this on.”

Normally I'd refuse. There might be things living in it. But since it's a prop, I'm safe. And when I slip it on over my head, it's instantly snug and warming. “Oh, I love this.” Additionally, I'm sure it makes me look rather cute—though that's a secondary factor. All the same, I may buy one later to take home.

Pulling up a little stool, “Mohammed” hands me a homemade round of pita bread and invites me to tear off a chunk. Of course, you just know at this point that a dozen grubby fingers have touched it prior to now. The chicken pecked at it maybe, the cat licked the edges or even curled up and fell asleep on it for a while. These are the mountains, life is meant to be tough here, and this piece of living art is uncompromising in its portrayal of people from Ancient Historical Times and their hardships. So to hell with it, I stuff the bread in my mouth anyway, swilling it down with a glass of delicious hot green tea laced with peppermint, which begins a slow journey through my system, heating me up as it goes.

Once I'm done eating and drinking, and I've conducted a short interview about this ancient lifestyle, I see Jay checking the clock he carries around with him everywhere. Our two hours are almost up. Time to head back to town. “Ask him how you get back into Marrakech from here,” he whispers in my ear.

So I do. “If I want to go to Marrakech, how would I get there?”

“I have friends,” “Mohammed” replies. “Somebody will help you. I can find someone to bring you to Marrakech.”

Of course, he adds, I might have to barter with the “driver,” give him something in return. I pull at the sleeve of my djellaba. There's always this lovely coat I've just acquired.

“That's good,” he smiles haplessly, pretending he's attached to the djellaba and that to lose it would perpetuate his hardship still further, which is just silly. There must be dozens of them in the souvenir shop.

And yet…

Alerted by a certain concern in his eyes, something occurs to me. A faint, distant, thoroughly implausible possibility …

No, surely not. It can't be.

… that “Mohammed,” nicknamed Tony, is not actually a stooge from the Tourist Office at all. He's not in character, playing the role of a Berber farmer; he really is a Berber farmer. A Berber farmer called Mohammed. And he does mill corn flour for a living and this is actually his farmstead, with its glassless windows and no electricity. And the children, the wife, the toothless old bag, the cat, the chicken …

Holy crap. What an idiot I am.

The whole thing's for real, isn't it?

“This is honestly how these people live?” I whisper to Jay, praying for a denial.

Busy sampling the wonderful mint tea for himself, he looks up and smiles.

Oh God.

Good news. After an hour on his cell, Willy's struck a deal with a hotel on the outskirts of town. “I don't know if you'll like it,” he mumbles apologetically. “It's slightly