My alarm went off at 5am and as I turned it off I wondered what I was hearing out in the street. Pre-coffee, I thought of dogs and pictured all the strays of Kelaa sitting in the street below my apartment talking very loudly. I went upstairs to the kitchen, and as I crossed the open roof from the stairs to the door to the kitchen, I could hear the sound more clearly. It was the three closest mosques calling out the pre-morning prayer with the usual delayed repetition that prevents me from distinguishing any one of them very well. I generally sleep through the early call to prayer and when it does disturb me, I never fully wake up. This was the first time I realized how long it is. I had stumbled out of bed, made it upstairs, across the roof and had the water for coffee boiling before they stopped. Almost 15 minutes. Supposedly to wake even the soundest sleepers. Afif, my landlord, actually goes to the mosque for this prayer, though the dark and cold keep most people praying at home. 
Just before 6am I was jittering at the bus stop, congratulating myself for actually getting out of the house so quickly. It was not quite dawn, but I could distinguish a woman and two men in the group waiting across the road. One of them moved very animatedly and reminded me of the vice president of my Dar Chebab’s Environmental Club. As it got lighter, I realized it actually was him, with the president of one of the cultural associations that works with kids. Perhaps Kelaa is a small town after all. After greetings, they chastised me for coming to the bus stop alone. Living alone gives me a great excuse to do things alone in a society where women do not go unaccompanied. 
Out the window of the right side of the bus I watched the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen in Africa. It rivaled the last sunrise of the Great Burning Man 2005. Winding east the sky brightened but the Atlas rose up preventing the sun from actually showing itself. Only when we turned north to parallel the massif did the first rays peek over the imposing foothills. Squinting, I dug into my bag for my sunglasses, happy to see I had remembered to toss them in when I packed last night. Adding them to my black head scarf that I wore as much for the chill morning as to deflect attention, I got the familiar Jackie O feeling. I know I resemble her about as much as I look like JFK, but I can’t help feeling a wee bit elegant when I wear a loose head scarf and black sunglasses 
The fields around Beni Mellal are dotted with bright red poppies that I didn’t see among the blossoms between Kelaa and Ben Guerir when I passed through those flowered fields a few weeks ago. In the early morning uncountable small hawks were out surveying their territory for breakfast, gliding on the first breezes as the sun heated up the olive groves. Leaving Kelaa the hills are low and rolling, alternately dry, rocky and barren or lined with olive or orange trees. For a ways past Beni Mellal the landscape is pretty much the same. The only oddity was a hot air balloon floating along the craggy skyline between Beni and Kasba Tadla. Right after Tadla the road turns east again and starts up into the mountains. I saw dew shining on the fields of new wheat - the first dew I have seen in months. Suddenly the riverbeds we passed over had water in them. Around Kelaa some bridges cross little muddy trickles but most are Sahara dry. Past Tadla the water was clear and fast. The hills were covered with grass and when the road wound through larger valleys I noticed the sideways rays reflecting on white minarets back in the hills. Looking closer squarish outlines of earth colored homes clustered around the mosques. Only the extreme angle of the sun rays allowed for enough contrast to show the difference between the buildings and unaltered land. Unfortunately the mud splattered on the windows discouraged me from taking any photos of the countryside as I passed through. 
As soon as I got off the bus in Tighassaline I was whisked to the yard and souk area by the Dar Chebab where Marc and other people who help out at his Dar Chebab were beginning a sort of carnival. Basically the carnival consisted of a very complicated game that a few guys had organized for the younger kids, foot races and face painting. Using ordinary non-toxic watercolors, face painting is self-explanatory, but I still do not completely understand how the game functioned. It looked like semi-organized anarchy. All the same, the kids were having fun and it gave me some ideas for activities at my own Dar Chebab.