On the bus ride from Tetouan to Chefchouan, I got another dreamy dose of the mountain life and green-hilled splendor. I like the feeling of being taken somewhere, or being driven to an end destination without any other responsibilities. There is forward movement, but my hands and mind are free to roam. Nothing to do except sit back and enjoy the ride, watch and notice the details, nothing more…. and so passing through the mountains means a chance peek or unexpected (uninvited) glimpse of secret life in motion.

Little villages and tiny dots of wool (sheep) spotting the mountainside. Boys racing bareback on their horses at breakneck speed, chasing each other and laughing hysterically.
Shepherds herding sheep. A dude peeing on the side of the wall, maybe his own house? Why?
A water well and trails of people walking from miles, carrying their empty water cans on the backs of soon-to-be overloaded mules.
A trickle stream river cutting through the pass. White tombstone road markers with a number written on the side of kilometers to the next town. Families of olive pickers in the orchards of trees. Freshly plowed fields of soil getting seed sprinkled by hand to beat the incoming rain. Bright, colorful chicken wandering, like pecking robots, around the fences (was I not paying attention spending all the summers on my grandparents pig farm? Were they all this colorful?). Lonely whitewashed houses with splashes of blue. Schoolboys arm in arm, loving and chumming each other along the road. A weird valley patch of fog that swallowed up an entire village, but left the rest of the landscape completely alone. A construction team of a dozen men, stacking cinder block for a future house that will never be finished. A lone mangey dog, sitting in the wind, contemplating the meaning of life. A mother corralling her children into their home. These are the things.