Horizons Unlimited - The HUBB

It’s late night on a muggy weekday in Quarzazat, Morocco. I just had a hot shower followed by a dish of typical Moroccan Tajine. After spending most of the day riding pistes I’m ready for some red wine and good Moroccan music, and despite staying at a budget hotel, it seems to cater for both on this day. The musicians name is Hamid. His skin is a darker shade of brown than the average Moroccan’s and he talks with a slight slur. The slur is probably from the stuff he smokes. At every opportunity he proudly shows off his callused finger tips caused by the banjo strings. His dreadlocks gives him the appearance of a Rastafarian, but in the navy blue Berber turban and the powder blue robe he wears for the tourists, he looks exactly what he is, Moroccan. I have known him for three days now and although I hardly understand a word he says, he’s grown on me.

There are no tourists tonight. That’s if you don’t count us three regulars as tourists. Hamid wasn’t going to perform but having nothing better to do than hanging around the pool deck, he was easily convinced. We dragged up a few sun loungers and a bottle of Moroccan red wine and waited for him to sort himself out. Suddenly the chef and the waiter were also there and we all fitted ourselves onto the two loungers. We cringe when Hamid somehow manages to drop his banjo while pulling it from its bag, but he scoops it up without even flinching.

When the banjo starts, it’s not like the Deliverance scene where Burt Renolds plays ‘dueling guitars’ with the hillbilly kid with the banjo. The sounds from this banjo were heavenly. The song started soft and slowly and then built into a strong rhythmic tune. By the time Hamid started singing with his high pitched voice, we were all entranced. By now the waiter and the chef were tapping their feet loudly to the rhythm of the music and the chef was drumming away on his thighs with the palms of his hands. I watched to see Hamids’ reaction to the unsolicited musical support but he seemed to be in a trans himself. Then the waiter started singing too. Just like Stevie Wonder, his eyes were closed and his face was lifted at a forty five degree angle while effortlessly forming a duet with Hamid.

By now we had Hamid playing the banjo and singing, the chef enthusiastically tapping his feet and drumming away on his thighs, and the waiter tapping his feet and singing with Hamid. The French girl in the group was now also bobbing her head to the tune and I feared that she might start humming with them any minute. Strange as this all was, they were making beautiful harmonious music. Just when I thought the song was going to play itself out like this, the chef stopped slapping his thighs, slipped his left hand between Hamids stomach and the banjo and started rhythmically tapping on the back of the banjo while still keeping that faraway look on his face. This time for sure I thought Hamid was going to show some reaction to the chef muscling in on his banjo, but again he accepted it as if it was the most normal thing to do. By the time the song ended I had to hold back not to jump into a standing ovation and I could tell that the French couple felt the same way.

And so it went for the next hour or so. By the time the three musicians called it a night the Moroccan wine was done and we three regulars had developed a healthy respect for the Berber way of entertainment. All this and I haven’t even reached the sandy dunes of Merzouga yet.