The Hole

by Gabija Vilkaite (Lithuania)

Making a local connection Morocco

Wandering the streets of Essaouira, known as a “small fortress”, I fell into The Hole. I'd heard about it being the only truly authentic bar in the city, which wasn’t one bit surprising considering I was in Morocco, a country where the vast majority of the population are Muslims. Now I found it and stumbled right into the dark niche at the end of the street that marked the entrance, not knowing it will become one of my keystone memories of colourful Morocco. A small, shady dive-in bar full of locals in a country where alcohol is practically prohibited screamed “adventure”. I couldn’t help but look around. “Unknown but cheap”, one sign claimed. “No photos”, warned another. One look from the man watching over the entrance - an equivalent of a bouncer - confirmed that breaking the rules here would be one chance you’d regret taking. The area was framed by mustard-coloured walls covered by a thick layer of smoke that has been settling on them since the 1800s. The place has already lived and breathed through several centuries, or so I was told later. Given how worn out it appeared, the number seemed about right. I walked through a narrow corridor of tables and chairs, made it through the floating ribbons of smoke, eventually reaching the bar where I sat down and ordered red wine. Soon enough I found myself having some company. “Are you Irish?“ a young Moroccan guy appeared out of nowhere. “No. I’m Lithuanian”, I said. “Hey, that’s not even close. But you do look Irish”, he informed me. The guy was easy to talk to and the conversation flowed effortlessly. I found out he has never been to Ireland, however, wants to move to Germany. His ex-girlfriend was from there, apparently, and he really admires the country, even trying to teach himself the language. Remembering the pain of struggling with it in high school, his determination impressed me deeply. However, when I inquired if it was difficult for him to go there, he explained that even if one didn’t have a problem with the authorities, the flights were crazy expensive - booking any flight from Morocco will be at least twice as expensive as booking the exact same one from any European country. Suddenly the bartender interrupted our conversation. “Last 20 minutes”, he said. “We are closing at midnight, sharp. Would you like one last round?” During the next 20 minutes, now sipping on a tiny bottle of sweet-ish local beer, I learned that the guy earned his living by running an eBay business selling gardening supplies. He arranged deliveries for companies from all around the world. He also told me he was the 3rd year student of English literature, however, contemplating dropping out. I suggested switching to a business course instead - there surely must be other alternative? “Perhaps”, he answered, “but they really are no good here. Honestly, I feel stuck. I want to leave Morocco and grow my business because what I’m truly good at, but I keep bumping into rock-hard walls”. A few moments after we were asked to leave. All the guys wished me goodnight and I stepped out into the breezy air. Then it hit me. Not that I wasn’t aware of it before, how could I not be? I also knew these things were very problematic. Yet after spending an evening with these people, listening to the story of a guy I just met while the mustard-coloured walls absorbed our laughter I now knew that the real hole was not the bar. No, the real hole was our system, both in form of laws and the way of thinking that results in perceiving people like this guy as a threat. The real hole is the media restlessly blabbering about foreigners taking away our jobs, our homes, our land, while the only things we are actually in risk of losing are the narrow outlook, stubbornness to accept any change and prejudiced patterns of thinking. With such thoughts I came back to my room and went to bed. But before that I promised myself to do everything in my power not to fall into the hole ever again.