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The sound of our accidental guide’s laughter woke me up. This was quickly replaced by the white noise of waves and the steady pleasure that filled me as I remembered where I was. Warm light passed through the knobbly jamb of the door, cutting through the dark interior of the cave and bringing with it the smells of the Atlantic and the promise of instant restoration. I sat up on the thin mattress that lay across the alcove carved into the cave wall that had been my bed. A slight pulsing in my temples reminded me of Marco, the Swiss Italian who provided us with many bottles of Moroccan wine the night before. He handed it out with gusto and volume, which belied the rarity and mysterious provenance he waxed lyrical about between pours. As soon as I opened the door my senses were jolted into life. The sun was high in the eastern sky and hit my eyes and skin at the same time, shocking one and delighting the other. There was a cacophony of exuberant greetings from the other cave-dwellers who had already scampered to the sunny cliff-side veranda. Through the sounds of greeting, and the crashing ocean I heard the most welcome sound of all. As my eyes adjusted to the sun and I got my bearings, I heard the soft tumble of tea accompanied by the most cleansing scent of sweet mint. Our accidental guide Mustapha stood up and put a warm glass of Moroccan mint tea in my hand. He hit my arm in camaraderie and said, “Whiskey Berber for the head, Conan!” and laughed his joyous laugh once again. He had renamed me Conan as soon as we met in Tiznit, I figured it was because I was 6’4’’ and something of a giant in his world. One sip of this elixir and I was back in full health. I looked at the Atlantic horizon and took a moment to bathe in the memories of last night; beating a drum and wishing the sun goodnight as it slipped smoothly into the sea. I then took a moment to think how peculiar it was that I was the last one up this morning, considering I was the only one not to take up Mustapha’s consistent offers of Chocolat Moroc all night. This thought didn’t last long before it was interrupted by Mustapha, who had just answered his phone and spoke loudly in one of his many languages. The call ended and he put his phone in his pocket and declared “He is here, let’s go!” before disappearing along the edge of the veranda, and up over the roof of the cave to where we had arrived the afternoon before. I looked at my travel mate Eddie, who Mustapha had renamed Ali Baba in the previous days. He read my mind and answered, “We’re heading somewhere else now, somewhere Mustapha promises is even more mind blowing than this. Let’s grab our stuff and go – his friend is giving us a free lift, apparently he owed Mustapha a big favour!” he announced before chuckling and entering the cave to grab his things. Minutes later we were sitting in the open trailer of a blue milk-float speeding along a rough dirt-track. Ali Baba was trying to explain to Marco our experience of the smell of almond flowers in a Moroccan valley a few days previous. The Swiss Italian barely understood and yammered and nodded inconsistent to the story. I was wondering what favours the man in the driver seat must have owed Mustapha to begrudgingly but kindly drive us to wherever our next destination was. I turned my eyes to Mustapha, who was already looking at me, and he gave me a smile and a nod. I felt a warmth in my chest as I smiled back and turned my head to look at the dust rising and swirling in our wake and thought to myself how the best friendships are surely always accidental.