Arriving in Zagora by the MTC bus, I had a fleeting and exterior preview of what could be the palm. She then appeared to me like an explosion of greenery that flowed into a fluid sheet along the river. We passed from time to time a douar which bloomed on the roadside. To my regret, I realized that this earth architecture was occasionally eaten away by sections of walls built vulgar blocks.
After dune fields, reg, after Dante ascent of Jebel Bani where we saw distinctly thick dark hair of the Draa Valley, we approached gradually from the palm. Below a hill where poor water tower once stood, snuggling against her as a sleeping serpent, we came across the river, and beyond a small
village of earth with his mosque.
We started a walk in the palm grove whose wealth and fertility were matched as isolation and aridity of the desert. A myriad of plots of land bounded by walls pressed against the trunks of palm trees.
Each one was a little Eden and wore his special fruit, covering its surface with a soft green carpet or bright yellow.
After the solitude of the desert, we met many people, working irrigate their gardens or to exploit the riches. Women are veiled in black, and black veils are embroidered with son in bright colors, symbols describing the world of the valley the river, palm trees, the well, the stars, the sun ...
I remember my guide pointing to the tower of a magnificent kasbah with geometric patterns, explaining, solemnly pressing this word, it is "qadim", that is to say "old" and at the same time a group of young people, perched on the terrace of the same kasbah, gently making fun of us, the guide and the tourist out of nowhere, repeating in chorus the famous "qadim".
The palm is a haven. One enters a den of freshness that contrasts with the harsh desert heat. It runs through a maze of dirt roads where you meet all black women, young moped, a donkey and his master, a tourist camel and guide.
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