The bus driver, a Berber from one of the desert tribes, points at my shawl with a cigarette laden hand. I have the striped red fabric wrapped around my head and shoulders, as much to keep the sun off as to adhere to the modesty traditions of Morocco.

"Did you get that in Moroc?" he asks. I shake my head.

"I bought it in London," I explain. He is a quiet man with a kind face; these are the first (and maybe only) words he has spoken to me.

He smiles at me, a many layered blooming that reaches all the way back to his childhood.

"You look like Berber woman," he says, and takes another drag on his cigarette.

~

We pull off into a national park, maybe. The trees are tall here, and palms are scarce. There are even a few patches of snow.

The guide presses his face against the window, watching the trees. Finally he sees what he was looking for and speaks rapidly to the Berber driver, who immediately over to the side of the road. We all pile out, with fistfuls of bread stolen from our breakfast table.

The monkeys come down cautiously at first. The first to take bread is an older male, who takes a piece and sits back to eat it,watching us like we're the biggest idiots on the planet. A few juveniles are next.

"A baby! A baby!" one of the younger Kiwi girls shrieks, pointing higher in the trees. In reality it's a mother, clutching a very new born baby to her stomach.

Several of the girls try to throw bread to her, but she refuses to come down, so they have to satisfy themselves feeding the bolder, baby less monkeys.

~

"Ugh," one of the Kiwis moans. "I just want fries and a milkshake. Is that so hard?"

"This menu isn't even in English! I don't speak French! What the fuck!"

"I saw men staring at my legs, but I don't give a shit," the annoying plump one tells her equally annoying brunette companion. They are both wearing short-shorts.

I wish to slap their stupid faces, but instead I excuse myself and go back to my room for some alone time, and to regain control of my temper.

~

We are leaving the village. We hiked up to the top of their monument while the sun set. I bought some very good tourist art. We had lamb and prune tagines ("I'm vegetarian! Isn't there ANYTHING here without meat in it?!").

The small bus wobbles through the streets. As we pass a group of young Berber men, I lock eyes with one of them. He wears a long blue robe, and a loose blue turban. His hair is dark, and his eyes are sharp and intelligent.

I see you, his eyes say. I see you.

And then the bus passes.

~

The mother, tempted by so much bread, finally comes down from the trees and sits a way off, wary.

The girls are out of bread.

I pop back to the bus and grab the orange I was saving for my afternoon snack.

"Ah!" the guide says when he sees me. "Give it here!"

I give him the orange, and he splits it with his thumbs. The girls are chattering and shrieking over the wet, trembling baby. The guide throws half the orange, but it is snatched by an older male. He tries again, and this time lands the orange almost right in the mothers lap.

She takes it and peels it with her teeth and one hand, making sure to hold her baby tightly to her plump belly with the other. She watches us, unamused, as she chews the orange.

The guide smiles, but doesn't look at me.

"Paradise is under the feet of mothers," he tells me.

Before&After