Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
The Song of The ATlAS The song of the aidi hounds is beautiful, ancient, and an integral part of hunting in Morocco. by Chip Anderson T he black coils slid through my hands—cool, smooth, obsidian death. Hissing wickedly, the serpent reared back and struck at my face. I ducked my head to the right, and he missed my lip by less than an inch. With his hood in full threat display and mouth agape, he pulled back and lunged again! I jerked sideways, dodging the savage fangs. Breathless now and wide-eyed, I wondered just when this snake would figure out I'm holding his thick body in my hands. The fakir sitting to my right leaned in and whispered in a thick Arabic accent, "Do not be afraid, my friend." Afraid ???!!! I stared at him in shock and disbelief. Afraid? I believe I just wet your carpet. My horrific predicament was all my fault in the first place. My confident, somewhat arrogant little speech to the tourists gathered in the Marrakesh market was that these cobras obviously had their mouths sutured shut. Moroccan cobras are aggressive rascals, which makes them perfect ploys for the fakirs. Once removed from their clay pots, they immediately spread their hoods and stare menacingly as they weave back and forth to the movement of the snake handler. The small group that had congregated by the fakir's blanket had stared in curious horror as I strode forward and explained to the fakir that I would like to handle the snake, thereby proving 58 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S