Whatever did happen to the old bardic tradition?

I remember some years ago seeing a story teller at the edge of the Sahara.

Just outside the souk, he set himself up with a waterskin and a dozen or so small glass tumblers scratched opaque by the sands.

He started his story, and a small crowd soon gathered.

They all stood and while he talked, he urged them to sit and take a glass. When they were interested enough, they would sit and take a glass, whereupon he would fill it with water, a contract had been made, and they would pay him at the end of his tale.

At least I think that was what was happening.

I watched the whole performance and even gave him a few dirhams at the end, despite not having understood a word. My Arabic is non existent and my French barely passable.

It was a magical evening; as the sun set like a blood orange over the Western desert, gun shots popped in the air and small fires sprung up in the growing darkness.

The blue of the Berbers moved like silk between the lengthening shadows and the smell of spices on the air wafted between the plaintiff cries of the azan, calling the faithful to their knees, to Allah the merciful.

yechydda,