Traveller's tale

The rhythm of Berber life is music to Chris Vogt's ears.

The Atlas Mountains loom over the ochre city of Marrakesh, my base for a month.

The Berber people's villages are rambling and scattered and it is to one of these I head for a change of pace and, as it turns out, a musical encounter.

By mid-morning the air is stifling. With dry eyes, a drenched shirt and mint tea on the throat, I have made the lower reaches of the Atlas. Travelling the sub-Saharan desert with a guitar borders on the ludicrous but I consider the instrument a potential icebreaker. Will strangers know the Rolling Stones? I imagine tea- and tagine-fuelled jam sessions.

The sun, by now overhead and without mercy, has sent the Berbers indoors. My guide motions me to a sand-blasted tent. He disappears inside for a moment then beckons me in beyond the threshold. Taking tea with strangers seems an increasingly quaint idea in the Western world.

More's the pity, for I have spent few more enjoyable afternoons.

As my guide introduces a foreign minstrel to three small families, I look for but see no apprehension in their faces. Rather, I am offered a seat. Propping myself up on deeply patterned cushions, I am brought a minty brew and pieces of sweet orange, which Berbers get from the valley.

While sipping, I notice one of the boys has found his way inside my guitar case and is gently plucking the strings. Taking my cup, he tugs at my sleeve. My turn.

I begin to strum, just a couple of chords. My guitar has never sounded better.

Closing my eyes for a moment I fail to notice the appearance of a small drum, fetched by an older man. With a smile he starts to pound away, an almost primal beat.