Fantastic Fantasia

This weekend there was a festival in our village. I don’t know what the occasion was but it seemed like the whole town was in attendance. As the only foreigners, we heard “bon jour” and “ca va” everywhere we went. They still think we’re French (a good thing sometimes). There was music, men in yellow robes doing a traditional dance, meat sizzling on charcoal burners, popcorn popping, and craft tents with things for sale.

Co-op Adwal had carpets on display, and the sisters’ co-op had a couscous table. But the highlight of the festival was the Fantasia—synchronized Berber horsemen. There they were all in a row—men in white robes and turbans on highly ornate saddles straddling magnificent horses, gunpowder rifles raised high.

They started at the far end of the field, gathering speed as they charged toward us. Closer and closer the thundering hooves came. Then, when it seemed like they would run right over us, they leveled their powder rifles right at the crowd, raised them in the air, and fired a deafening volley as they pulled to a halt right in front of us. Holy mother!

The crowd of boys and I stumbled over each other leaping away from the fence as a shower of dirt, leaves and debris rained down, and powder smoke filled the air. We all looked around in astonishment. Then it was back to the fence as the horsemen turned and rode off, while another group of riders charged at us again--over and over with the same result.

For a while, on a warm late summer evening, I was ten years old again. It was awesome.