Time has a different quality here. It is an organic continuum and sets you in a particular flow. Maybe it is because there are no motorbikes or honking cars like in every other Indian city. Maybe it is because at a certain point you get lulled into the prayers and the endless chanting of the Babas. Maybe it is because you dive into the mass of people, get dissolved in it and don’t cause any attention – even when you are only wearing your long pale blue long johns scuffling the vast premises of this religious fair.
Somewhere in the Rif mountains, hidden away from the Lonely Planet trail, lies a gorgeous valley. People from all over the country come here to cure in and drink the waters from the river. At the waterfront they serve tachine and orangejuice. Up in the hills they serve the finest Hashish in the world.
An old peasant sits with his grand children under a fig tree on the purple soil. They are having dinner: Tajine, french fried and watermelon. He invites me to join them and eat something, too. They are resting before harvesting the next field of Marihuana. It is concentrated work, sometimes they joke, sometimes they make a quick phone call. Their phones stay inside their plastic packs though, otherwise they would get ruined by the sticky brown hashish that covers their hands. Nobody smokes here, the work is too hard for that, with bowed backs in the hot Moroccan sun.
Ethiopians of all ages are walking from dawn till dusk, not fast but steady, making up to 40 miles a day under intense sun through the highlands of central Ethiopia. On their way they pass through sleepy towns and villages on roads less travelled thus creating a sense of belonging: for themselves but also for the people they meet on the street. Sometimes singing, sometimes chatting, sometimes not doing anything at all but setting one foot infront of the other.
The young men who work in the firework factories day after day got rid of their T-shirts and frenetically run, jump and shout together with the exploding bulls make the pit. They enjoy this intimate contact with the products of their own labor – the wounds inflicted that night are thought to be kisses from their patron saint.