At Bounia, 25 km off the Midelt road and in the middle of the plain, the weekly souk was in full swing. Some fields on the side of the small town had been given over for the market and in one of the fields nomads, one man to one cow, were gathered for the cattle auction while other men, the buyers, checked out the beasts. The whole place hummed with muttering voices, while snorts of cold air hurrumphed from the nostrils of cows, a pair of them humping to one side.
The main market was divided by its products. Here, spices, next door, tupperware. To one side, handwoven cloaks, to another, olive oil. Fruit and vegetables took over a half of the space. Someone selling dodgy goods, no doubt stolen, had a crowd of onlookers and keen bargainers cloaking him as he palmed off old microwaves and other electricals. We of course were looking for Berber rugs, but no one much had any to sell, so I bought a litre of olive oil from the back of a van, a litre which eventually came to a nasty end in a square in downtown Fes.
At a van selling dried fruit and spices, we were given some tea while we tasted and eventually bought almonds, prunes, dates and bags of red yellow and orange spices.
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