A Kindness and A Coffee

by Ian Barbosa (United States of America)

Making a local connection Morocco

“Two hundred dirham! Each. Now!” the driver screamed suddenly, all but spitting at me as a wad of bills were flung suddenly in my face & the driver door slammed violently. Four of us sat in the car, stunned, for a few moments more before he was suddenly back in the driver’s seat and we were off, surging away from the halogen island gas station, quickly outstripping what seemed to be the last town in Morocco. To the intrepid traveler this is beyond where you don’t want to be, it’s the situation you live with constantly in your mind so that you don’t have to experience it in real life, or more specifically somewhere along the Sahara in the middle of the night. You hear about it most often from friends and loved ones before any departure to parts unknown: isn’t it dangerous? But do you know anyone there? What if you get into trouble? There are many answers to these (valid) questions, but in this case it was the simple & universal answer to most of life’s questions, or at least that's how it started: over coffee. Ten hours north of Marrakech there is an old train station with ceilings so high the pigeons are specks as they swoop through the open arched windows facing the bristling metropolis of Fes, Morocco’s spiritual center and home to the world’s oldest university. Being “in the wind”, as they say, I set my pack down at one of the country’s most venerable and ubiquitous institutions, the Moroccan cafe, and set about looking for accommodations that night. A bastion of caffeine & wifi, a cafe will come in all shapes and sizes, from upscale joints serving tiny bottles of water with your espresso to humble affairs that at first glance look more like someone’s living room with street access. In a hurry to find the cheapest hostel, I distractedly took a sip of the water after the espresso, as is customary. Before even setting the glass down a kind old face suddenly appears by my elbow, eyes twinkling & suffusing the kind of goodwill that catapulted him straight past my con-man barriers. Crouching at my side in this fashion he says “Excuse me sir,” pausing to let out a giggle, “but if I drink the water I will be fine, I have lived here my whole life.” This last delivered with a warm note of pride. “But if you do” he is all smiles “and I mean no offense, but you will have -- well, you’ll not leave the bathroom for days!” We both burst out laughing, names exchanged and from there a chair is pulled, conversation flows. Abdel-hak, or simply Abdul, calls out for two more nous nous, that sweet caffeinated elixir taken when one wants a break from the rivers of fresh mint tea. Over the course of the next two days Abdul kindly guides me through the labyrinthine medina, reveals the best holes in the wall for fresh roasted sardines served over beds of coriander and positively glows when we get to the Chouara Tannery, his home and sustenance since he was orphaned at the age of 8. As a parting kindness, Abdul helps me get in touch with a tour company that provides trips to southern Merzouga, “Doorway to the Sahara”. Being early February, the pass is snowed out and extends an already long drive into a thirteen hour affair, putting myself and the three other passengers squarely in the middle of nowhere with an irate driver. When I hand the phone over to him I can clearly hear, if not comprehend, Abdul’s electric delivery in rapidfire Arabic. The car slows down, all monosyllabic responses from our end of the phone and he hangs up. As we pull up to the hotel a short while later and everyone hurriedly piles out of the car the driver calls Abdul again, handing the phone over to me and I can hear his smile from 600 miles away. “Some people are obsessed with money, it’s bad for business. Don’t worry now, enjoy the desert, and when you come back you will stay with me, there is an excellent cafe around the corner we can go to!"