The Guedra Dancer
Morocco 2003
I used to help a Berber family with their fledgling tourist business. They responded by trying to think of places to take me where I would find interesting photographs.
We drove into the desert from Rissani where two trees sheltered a gathering of Berber families. One of the families needed financial help and the others, poor as they were, had brought gifts and money as aid. A blanket had been spread on the ground and each family member placed their contribution…even the children added their small bit.
This old woman was the family matriarch. Her haik, unlike the haik of the local women, was of traditional indigo dyed fabric favored by Touareg. Her henna stained hands and hair were a startling orange-red color. She sat in a place of honor among the tamarisk tree trunks, where the Berber women gathered and all eyes were on her as she cried out in a querulous tone to no one in particular. Looking at me, she lifted her skirt and slapped her slack thigh. She raised her hands helplessly to her wrinkled face. She had once been a beauty and was bemoaning the loss of her youth. She began to screech “Guelmim!” Then some of the women picked up plastic dish pans and began to drum.
Still calling out the word, “Guelmim” the matriarch rose to her knees, stretched out her arms and began to sway in time to the drumming. She was the center of attention. Even the men walked over to watch and listen to her wailing cries. Then, to my amazement, she reached into her voluminous gown and drew out a withered, flaccid breast. She left her breast exposed for all to see as she continued to dance. The men watching laughed as if she had told a good joke. No one was offended, but my face must have given me away because my friend’s sister later asked me if an old woman in America would show her breast like that. And I said, “Absolutely not!”