A Riffians Tune Read online

  ‘How did you pull its fangs out?’ I asked.

  ‘Simple. I caught the snake from the back by surprise. I moved my hand until it was two centimetres behind its mouth, and held it very tight as though I would choke it. As it was choking, it opened its mouth. Then I pulled its fangs out with pliers.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was that simple,’ I said, but, in fact, I was terrified just by listening. I asked if the flute really hypnotised the snake.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It hypnotises people.’

  ‘I have a flute,’ I said.

  ‘Do you know how to play it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘Play something.’

  I played a simple tune to words I heard in my head:

  No two days in the valley are the same,

  No night is ever without dreams.

  No journey is ever too long or too short.

  Listen to your heart but also to your God.

  Everyone in the coach jeered at me. Some thought I was also a snake charmer or an apprentice. At the transfer point, I was glad to get out of this coach for the next one.

  On my arrival in Nador, I discovered that I had missed the next coach to Oujda. Looking around, I found suddenly that everything was different. The slow pace of life I was used to had become aggressive – all push and run. It’s just the nature of this town, I thought. Nador was the commercial centre of the region and a melting pot for all tribes and villages. Listening to the voices and accents of the people, I wondered from which tribes or villages they had come. The town was renowned for its smugglers. Luxury items such as watches, shoes and jewellery could be bought on every corner, in shops and on the streets. Adding to the social complexity, Nador was not far away from Melilla, a Spanish territory in Africa.

  Finding a place to stay was both difficult and dangerous. Before looking for a place, I needed to store my bag and suitcase, and this task proved impossible. I asked shopkeepers everywhere if I could leave my bags with them, and they all refused. Carrying my baggage made my movement slow, clumsy and difficult. I knew that my cousin Mimo lived in Nador and worked as a barber. I went to the nearest barber and asked, ‘Do you know a young barber called Mimo?’

  ‘He works in the street three blocks down,’ the barber responded.

  I made a beeline for the salon, and there he was. Mimo had to jostle his memory to recognise me, and it was not his age that had wrinkled his brow, but life in this town. He rarely saw people from Makran and Tassamat and wanted to hear the news and gossip about his stepmother and sister.

  ‘I missed the coach and need a place to stay tonight,’ I said.

  ‘I rent a small room. It’s no bigger than a grave, but you could stay with me.’

  I was saved from being a vagabond that night. Mimo had no clients and since his boss was not there, he offered to cut my unruly hair – a bonus.

  It was getting dark, the street was practically deserted and it was time for him to close. I bought a loaf of white bread, some butter, some tea-leaves, solid sugar and mint, and we climbed up to his room in the middle of a shantytown on the top of a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Small boxes were built on top of each other, like a basket of stones – no road, no lights, no water, no sanitary facilities. I wondered how people knew the way to their houses and how they could figure out which one was theirs.

  Mimo and I used two spindly candles to prepare our dinner and boil water for tea. He had no fork, spoon or knife. He didn’t stop talking all night about his wicked stepmother.

  Dawn ended the night and Mimo accompanied me to the coach station where the air was thick and black – each coach had its own shelter that announced depature time and destination. I bought a ticket and sat at the back. From the coach, I looked out the window at people looking like ants hit by an earthquake with no fixed destination, no order, just people crashing into each other, helpless and mindless. Armed police patrolled the station constantly. The coach moved, and the noises faded with it.

  The travellers were of great diversity: Moroccans, Algerians, Spanish and some French. Every group spoke a different language, wore different clothes and smoked different cigarettes or cigars. This diversity was not, for me, a source of peace, but of anxiety and fear. Sitting in my seat, all I could see were the travellers’ heads, looking like a line of fat prunes. I felt overwhelmed by such a huge coach, the likes of which I had never seen before.

  As the coach was moving faster and faster, farther and farther away from Nador, it was suddenly stopped in open desert by armed police. Some had simple pistols and others had small machine guns. Two of them moved around the coach, and the other two boarded.

  They stood in the front and everyone was terrified. They examined faces, showed authority, spread horror, moved around the seats and looked underneath and above them. I kept silent and wondered, Will it be a massive or selective execution?

  ‘Your identity card!’ shouted one policeman to a woman a few seats in front of me. He then turned to me. ‘Identity card, boy!’

  I handed him my card, which was an official piece of white paper, typed by a male secretary who had used just two fingers and had left many spaces between words and letters. The paper stated my name, ‘Jusef, son of Sarir,’ but with no date of birth.

  A policeman with a severe face asked, ‘The name of your grandfather?’

  ‘Hashi,’ I answered.

  A second policeman looked at me and asked, ‘Do you know the father of your grandfather?’

  ‘Yes. Mohamed.’

  ‘Your wallet.’

  ‘I have no wallet,’ I said.

  ‘No wallet?’ one of them murmured. ‘Show us your money then.’

  I showed them what was easily accessible, but not what I had sewn into my trousers.

  ‘Where did you get this money?’

  I replied, ‘From the sale of our bull.’

  While I was being questioned, two more policemen were involved in a row with a woman. She had a bag under her seat. ‘You’re carrying gold here! Come off the coach!’

  Everyone was ordered to vacate the coach. The driver and his assistant were made to bring down all the travellers’ luggage. The two policemen picked several cases, asked their owners to open them and they fiddled with the contents like a burglar at midnight. They took away the woman with the case, and no one opened his mouth or moved a finger, as though she had never been with us. Like rabbits ambushed by a fox, everybody jumped back into their seats and we moved on. A complete silence reigned over the coach. The driver detected the atmosphere and put his radio on, but it played melancholy music that didn’t suit anyone’s mood and failed to revive life inside the coach. Neither talking nor whispering was heard anymore. Shocked by the harshness, I wondered what might become of the woman.

  A few hours later, the landscape changed from desert to fertile land. Signs of civilisation and modern life sprouted: electrical pylons and telephone lines. Voices shot through the air, ‘Oujda. This is Oujda.’ The coach went into a deep tunnel where crowds of luggage porters and children were impatiently waiting. Children were there for easy pockets to pick, but for the luggage porters, it was their livelihood. Bags were thrown to the ground, and the luggage porters grabbed them in mid-air. Snatching from each other was followed by swearing, ‘Curse be on your father’s house!’ or ‘Curse on your mother!’

  Hearing these words, I realised that I was not only in Morocco, but also a bit of Algeria. Whenever a luggage porter put his hand on a piece of luggage, it became his. He wouldn’t ask, ‘Where are you going?’ but would demand, ‘Follow me …’

  ‘Where?’ shouted a confused, angry passenger. Like a crocodile taking its victim deep into the water, a luggage porter would grab the luggage, take it away, and the owner could only follow. Once the traveller was isolated from the rest, the bargaining would start at the porter’s leisure and pleasure.

  I was of no interest to the luggage porters. I was a child rather than a rich traveller, and not worth fight
ing over. While everybody rushed out, chasing luggage porters to find out who had their luggage, I stayed inside. I searched for a coach to Fez, but there was no sign of one. No coaches were coming or going. This was not like the Parada (coach station) in Nador – nothing like it – there was no rushing or pushing. Nador was the New York of the North. In Nador, I had heard people and understood them; I understood nothing here.

  Soon the coach station became deserted. Only a few boys and porters paced in and out. They all craned their necks to stare at me. I wondered if they often used their necks this way, making them so long, or if it was something to do with me. Probably they’re wondering what a strange creature I am – they think I’m mahboul (mentally disturbed). I scared them off, and they gave me peace. There were so many boys outside, young and old, big and small, short and tall, and they were all jumping around like monkeys. What would I do if they were to snatch my case? The thought made me nervous.

  I was standing still, confused, trying to find my way onward. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. The cement in the street was cooked by the sun, and the street was semi-deserted. As I went out, an old man in a chariot pulled by a donkey passed by. The donkey stopped in the middle of the street and stretched its neck down to smell a dropping from another donkey. I yelled at the man for directions to the coach station to Fez. He gave me directions, but they were very difficult to follow – so many lefts and rights – that I failed to remember them all. I followed the directions scrupulously, which took me about three-quarters of an hour. After that, I didn’t know where I was or where I was going.

  Suddenly a herd of women came out of a house and swept past me. They were all wearing white clothes, their heads and faces covered, only one eye showing. Some looked fat, others short and pregnant. One hand was holding the headdress, and the other hand supporting the belly. I had never seen anything like it. Neither my mother nor my sisters nor anyone I knew had ever dressed in that strange way and tried to walk. I advanced toward them and they stirred away from me. ‘Where is the coach station, please?’ I asked them.

  They all shouted at me, ‘Clear off!’

  I wondered if I looked like a thief or a pirate. Certainly they couldn’t think I was looking for a woman, could they? They moved like a herd of sheep and seemed to think I was a fox. I stood still and watched as they waddled like penguins past me.

  By that time, it was nearly two o’clock. The street became suddenly flooded with pedestrians. People emerged from every hole, every building and every door. How were all those buildings able to hold that enormous number of people without exploding? I wondered. They came in a rush, as if escaping from a fire. Two o’clock was a social phenomenon. After a heavy meal and a short, disorientating siesta, the people waddled back to work.

  I wished I had not followed the old man’s directions. The street became swollen with cars. Mercedes taxis passed by, but their fares were beyond me. Car drivers shook their fists at anyone or anything that stopped or slowed their movement. Maniacal drivers were angry, threw their cigarettes out of the windows, and shouted at the driver of a small chariot pulled by a dark donkey sandwiched between cars. It was fortunate that it was a donkey, as a horse wouldn’t have tolerated all the beeping of horns. Neither the driver nor the donkey seemed disturbed by all those agitated drivers, and he turned out to be the same man who had gotten me lost. He was an old-looking man whose face had been disfigured by sun and hard work. The sun had dug into his face and folded his skin, but it hadn’t killed his toothless smile. He recognised me and pulled over.

  ‘Quick! Quick! Put your luggage in and jump on!’ the old man yelled to me.

  Not sure where I was going or where the man was taking me, I felt an immediate relief from carrying the heavy luggage. I didn’t speak to the man, didn’t trust him completely and was uneasy about his charge. The old man drove his chariot straight to the coach station, and just before coming to the front door of the garage, he lifted his hand and said, ‘Here it is! Goodbye!’

  I picked up my luggage, jumped out, and said, ‘Thank you, sir. How much do I owe you now?’

  ‘Nothing.’ he said.

  8

  With its lack of light, the coach station reminded me of the cave at Moulouya inhabited by the disturbed hermit, and the one between Makran and Tassamat. The floor was cement and darkened with huge stains of dried petrol and oil. Now and again, here and there, dim lights went on and off. Lines of coaches of different colours and sizes were carefully manoeuvring in and out. The pungent stench of gasoline penetrated my nostrils and my eyes watered. Nausea grabbed me and I wondered, Am I on the right path? Stifling my doubts, I roamed around like a vagabond making sense of it all, trying to find the coach to Fez. Everybody but me seemed to know where they were going.

  People had their heads tilted, looking up. I thought they were praying, but in reality, they were figuring out the signs. By searching and asking the way, I found the pigeon-holed ticket desk for the coach to Fez.

  ‘I’d like to buy a ticket to Fez, please,’ I asked, feeling relieved.

  ‘No tickets left,’ a man with a low, gruff voice answered.

  Shaken, I shuffled backwards. Just behind me, a young ticket-scalper whispered in my ear, ‘I have a ticket.’

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Double price.’

  ‘Too expensive,’ I replied.

  ‘No! It’s a ticket for the front of the coach!’ he exclaimed and went away with a grumpy face.

  I raced, caught up with him and bought the ticket. With the ticket in hand, I went back to the ticket desk and asked for the departure time.

  ‘The coach leaves at one o’clock in the morning,’ murmured a middle-aged man, his eyes fixed on the floor.

  A myriad of voices bombarded my ears. From one corner came what sounded like an echo of a chorus: ‘a, a, o, o, i, i, n, n’. At six o’clock, the crowd deserted the station. Looking for a safe corner, I heard again the repetitive ‘a, a, o, o, i, i, n, n’. The source of the singsong was three boys. One, older than the other two, was conducting and the others were repeating, like parrots.

  Noticing me listening curiously to them from a distance, the oldest boy jumped up and shouted, ‘Is my teaching correct?’

  I said, ‘Yes,’ but the truth was that I had no idea what it was all about. I edged closer to their encampment and sat on my duffel bag to listen.

  Delighted with himself, the boy returned to his teaching. From time to time, he would become aggressive toward his brother. The irony was that he taught Arabic grammar, but didn’t know the language itself. He spoke Tarifit. Whenever he got tired of teaching grammar, he switched to liturgical matters such as hygiene and women’s clothes, as they could be sexually provocative.

  Just as nervous as I was about the journey, one of the younger boys asked me, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To Fez,’ I said, ‘At one o’clock. A long time from now.’

  ‘That’s where we’re going, to school,’ he answered quickly.

  ‘Where is there to wait until one o’clock?’ I asked.

  ‘In a café,’ one said.

  ‘No, they’re closed,’ I replied. ‘We should rent a room in a hotel,’ I suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ responded the oldest boy, whose name was Kamil.

  We picked up our luggage, left the station and headed to the medina, or old town; a poor, crowded area. Unfortunately, wherever we went, the hotels were full. Also, our looks worked against us. I had unruly hair, wide trousers and a jellabah. Kamil limped, had a skinned head and wore a woollen hat that looked as if he had knitted it himself. His brother, Moussa, was thin and short, but with the voice of a middle-aged man. Samir, their cousin, had no hat, was wearing glasses, didn’t open his mouth, and looked just like a cat trying to jump on a mouse.

  The problem was exacerbated by the Algerian war. Refugees had flooded the town and occupied every room. We scurried up and down the dark streets, looking like demented patients escaped from a mental insti
tution. Desperate, we took a risk and ventured into the darkest slums of the town where we came upon a hotel in a narrow, twisted street.

  It was a terraced house with a very tiny low door. To get inside, one had to step deep down. The hall was spacious and had five or six rooms, mostly on the ground floor. All the doors were wide open, some for air, others for the occupants to see who was going in or out. Radio noise was pouring from every room. Music from different channels shook the walls, but no one seemed bothered. Famished and needing to escape our hired hell, we dumped our bags and went out to look for a place where we could have a meal.

  Looking for a restaurant, we came to the main street; it had an ornate Catholic cathedral in the middle. Deciding what to eat was not a problem for us. Anything solid would be tasty and appreciated. Aware of our budget, we danced up and down the street looking for a bargain. To attract clients, restaurants had their menus posted outside on mannequins. Menus were written in French; what was written in Arabic and Moroccan dialect didn’t make sense to us either. Moussa started moaning; he wanted to get a meal quickly, but he refused to pay the posted price. Embarrassed, his brother told him to shut up, but to no avail.

  One waiter met us outside and asked, ‘Can I help?’

  This was a good sign of Moroccan hospitality, we thought, and rushed inside. The interior was chic, and the aroma of onions cooking whetted our appetites beyond our ability to resist.

  The entrance opened into a bar, full of people drinking, sitting on high stools. I wondered, How can anyone sit on a wobbly high chair, dangle his legs and drink?

  The restaurant was nearly full and most tables were occupied by French clients. In one corner sat a French family with a Franciscan priest. He was drinking wine, smoking a long, thick cigar and looked as though he had a bottle in his mouth with smoke coming out. He was wearing a brown rug-like gown with no underclothes, I thought. Moussa wouldn’t stop talking about how strange the man was. I was appalled to learn that the man was a priest. Drinking and smoking was, for me, the last thing a religious leader should do.