Sheepfold

Marion Bourbouze

It was a day in the early seventies - and I was probably wearing some flared jeans and my favourite orange t-shirt. I was about five or six years old and we were living in Morocco, where my dad was working with peasant farmers on improving their agricultural practices.

On that occasion, my parents had decided to take my brother Tristan and I with them in the Atlas Mountains to meet some farmers up in the pastures. There was no road to the village, perched high on the side of the Azzaden Valley, and Tristan and I were dragging our feet on the dusty path, behind our guide Abdullah and his mule. Summer is hot in Morocco, even in the mountains, and after an hour walking, we were so exhausted that Abdullah hoisted us up into the huge straw baskets strapped onto the back of the mule. We were the proudest kids in the world, snug as bugs amongst the irrigation equipment, the blankets and the sacks of grain!

When we finally reached the cluster of mud houses with little wooden doors, it was getting dark, and we were welcomed by a flock of screaming children, looking half terrified, half delighted. Next came the women, running and wrapping their veil across their face as they approached us. And then came these monsters, or so they seemed to a child's eye. They were Bou'Jlouds, men dressed up in goats' skins and skulls, holding sticks and musical instruments. They were terrifying. Tristan and I took one look at them and instantly sank deep into our baskets. Luckily, they were chasing the local children as part of the traditional Eid celebrations, and let us pass.

My dad was welcomed with open arms by the village's chief, who invited us to share his family's meal. After a bit of persuading, Tristan and I were finally extracted from our panniers and led inside one of the mud house. The inside looked surprisingly cozy and the main room had a low table surrounded by cushions. For the occasion the chief's wife had prepared an amazing looking couscous with mutton and vegetables. We tried to eat it in the traditional way, making little bowls with our fingers and flicking them into our mouth with our thumb - but failed miserably, covering ourselves in tiny little pale couscous grains instead.

After all the excitement of the day, we were glad to be allowed to rest. We were led to the sheepfold - it made sense that after spending the day with the mule we would sleep next to it, too. We fell asleep immediately, completely oblivious to the rough straw, not to mention the sheep fleas.

But the awakening was rude... I woke up scratching, literally covered in hundreds of tiny red spots. I couldn't stop myself - the more I scratched, the more it itched. I was in such a state that my mother asked the chief's wife for help. She told us to wait and came back a few minutes later, followed by an ancient, creased up woman with a toothless grin.

She was the local 'witch-doctor'. She ordered everyone to leave and told me to lie down and take off my T-shirt. I did not speak much Moroccan but it was pretty clear, so I lay down - I was petrified. And then I felt her rubbing something on my back. I pictured some nice soothing cream. But it wasn't cream at all - she was calmly spitting and rubbing saliva with her fingers whilst blowing gently and mumbling to herself. I had an urge to scream and run, but I was paralyzed with fear and I felt like a small fish between her strong octopus fingers.

As soon as she stopped, I grabbed my T-shirt and ran outside into my mother's arms... but the itch had gone.

Many years later, after a camping trip in Ayrshire, I tried that technique on my young daughter who was covered in midge bites. She was not impressed. I guess context was everything - we were missing the sheepfold, the toothless grin and the remote Atlas mountains for the spit to work.