Driving up to Imlil along the twisted road I become nostagic. The wild fig and caper branches growing out of solid rock give me a sense of place. I know soon that I will see Berber women tending their cows and young girls tending even younger children. The cows are always close behind, or ahead, depending on the temprament of the girl, or the cow. A halo of sticks bound to the old women’s backs bend them low. The valley becomes more fertile and the stream more full of promise. It’s coming from above. The Kasbah is full of old friends and often new. They want to talk. Everthing seems close to the heart.