Coming into Africa with Idríssi Hafid

AND THEY CAME DOWN THE MOUNT / CLEMENS RECIPE, NO. 8 / SILENT PARTNERS / A CALLER CALLS / CONVERSATION INTERMEZZO / SLEEP IS A RARE THING / BY SEA, WE GO / THE FIRST STEPS

While in Valencia, I met a crew of Americans studying in Alicante. I had already decided to go to the seaside city to rehabilitate my feet after Las Fallas, but having people to hang out with two nights was a nice bonus. Before having to catch a late-night bus, it was suggested that we watch the sun go down from a mountain where the remnants of a castle stood. Bottles of Coke and Cerrol–a regional liquor with the taste of coffee beans–were bought to enjoy the setting even more. By nightfall I had finished both bottles and was pretty merry.

To make sure I didn’t get lost or pass out, George escorted me to the bus station and translated a few particular bits. When all the details were confirmed, he left and I climbed aboard: I was going to Tangiers.

I won’t lie and say I had no trepidations about going to Morocco, much less Tangiers. The place is pretty much known as the capital of ill-repute. Where Amsterdam is the Disneyland of hash and prostitution, Tangier is the international street corner. Steve, who I met in Luxembourg and was the main influence on me going to Tangier, had his things stolen from him while he was there. From the accounts on the Internet, so had everyone else. After briefly being the victim of pick-pockets, I wasn’t too keen to repeat the experience.

By the afternoon of the day of my departure I was still wavering on where to go. Yes, I want to go. No, I’m not sure I do. Then I picked up a book and skipped ahead:

Tangier is the spot we have been longing for all the time. Elsewhere we have found foreign-looking things and foreign-looking people, but always with things and people intermixed that we were familiar with before, and so the novelty of the situation lost a deal of its force. We wanted something thoroughly and uncompromisingly foreign–foreign from top to bottom–foreign from center to circumference–foreign inside and outside and all around–nothing anywhere about it to dilute its foreigness–nothing to remind us of any other people or any other land under the sun. And lo! In Tangier we have found it.

My seat mate was an older, well put together man. From his profile, he resembled someone I knew before and seemed not wholly unfamiliar. But his knee was just the slightest bit in my zone and I had a bit of resentment at him for that: I was drunk and it was late, I would like to sleep. We remained quiet. Cerrol and Coke is apparently a good sleeping device, though, as I immediately fell asleep once the bus started moving.

My phone rang. Or I thought it was my phone because it was the same ring as mine. Then I remembered my phone was underneath the bus and turned off for two months. The old man had sprung into action and was trying to figure out how to answer his phone; he missed the call and stared at it.

I reached over, and not knowing which language he spoke, communicated with pointing and “uhs” on how to unlock his phone.

“Ah, thank you. Thank you,” he said in a thick accent.

Our phone rang again. He stared. I pointed and “uh”-d once more on how to answer.

After the call, the man said thank you and we started talking: It had been his daughter, I think, who called–but all through the night rings from his wife and daughter alternated. He kept on giving them constant updates, telling them everything was fine.

He had retired in Alicante to be closer to his daughter who lives in Paris with her Italian husband. She is turning 32 in a couple of weeks. Right now he is going back to his original home in Rabat, Morocco. In a few days his wife will come down.

Where am I from? United States. Uh, Texas.
“Texas? George Bush.”
“Yeah, but not really,” I faded off, trying to argue his Connecticut birth.

There was a small silence and then he shook his head.

“This–Iraq–is a mess!”
I know. I know.

He spoke deliberately in in French, Spanish, Arabic, and the bit of English he knew so I could understand as much as possible. Even though I speak the language he talked in the most minimally, I understood.

Dick Cheney. Head shakes in disbelief.
Halliburton. More head shakes.

The bus pulled into some city for a 30 minute break. We had separated, but I saw him standing around.

“Do you want anything? A drink? Something to eat?”
“No, no. I have diabetes–my wife and daughter would kill me. I have water on the bus.”

For whatever reason we started walking around the station together, pacing back and forth between the vending machines and exit. We walked close and slowly, so we could focus and try to understand one another. He gently grabbed my arm and paused to further make a point.

“I know, I know…”

We got back on the bus and I tried falling asleep: With each stop and each phone call, I fell in and out of it.

His name is Hafid. He had worked for UNESCO, was a political scientist, and used to teach at the same institute for foreign relations that Chirac and many other politicians attended. I wished I spoke more French so I could talk more, but I enjoyed listening just fine.

Every time I woke up, Hafid was looking out the window.

“You don’t want to sleep?”
“No, no. I can’t sleep on buses.”

I woke up again and Hafid was breathing heavy. He looked in pain and hadn’t eaten anything for awhile so I began to worry.

“Calor. It’s very calor.”

I instructed him to unbutton the top of his dress shirt and he began to fan himself with the loose fabric. He was still hot.

I went up to the bus driver and tried to get across the point that there needed to be more air conditioning.

“Mas frio, por favor.”
“Sí.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” Hafid said.

The bus stopped at Algeciras, Spain as its final destination. I followed Hafid through the station and entrusted him with getting us on the ferry, and he did.

On board, he looked more at ease. It was no longer so hot and he was that much closer to his real home.

“Do you want a coffee?”
“Well I don’t really have any–”
“It’s fine.”

He brought coffees to our table and took out the breakfast his wife had packed for him.

“Take, take…”
“No, I can’t. They’re for you.”

He then plopped a glazed croissant into my hands.

“Okay, but no jamon, sí?”
“Jamon?”
“Oh, right, halal.”
“Sí. No halal.”

After I finished one, he forced me to have another. There were worse things in life.

Hafid watched over our things as I went up to get my passport stamped. The line was moving extremely slow. I turned around and saw Hafid coming up the stairs looking concerned that maybe they were deporting me. My face said, “No, just slow,” and he nodded with a relief.

On the ferry he grew tired of talking about the war and moved onto the Arab world. Every time he would recount the situation in a country he’d say, “Todo mundo Arab,” and then circle the temples of his head with his fingers and continue, “loco.”

Through out the rideI was nervous that he’d blame the war on Israel or say something that would then put me in an awkward situation, but it never came. Once, when I was rubbing my eyes and so tired it hurt he mentioned, “Juiffe.”

“What,” my ears perked up.
“You know, where Israel is.” He was talking about Abraham from a few thousand years ago as part of his history lesson. I went back to wondering how a 75 year old man could be operating on no sleep.

The ferry pulled into port and a swell of eager taxi drivers made their way to us. Hafid waded through them.

“Mike, where are you going?”
“Oh, I’m just going to walk to the petit socco.”
He turned around but I could practically see his eyes roll.

He started talking with a cab driver. After some negotiations, I loaded his luggage in and he told me to get in.

“Hafid, I have no money.”
“I am paying for you. You will not have to pay anything.”

Our cab driver, Abdul, headed for the train station since Hafid was running late. On the ferry he told me that he hoped to see me “Insha’Allah” with G-d, but as we drew nearer he wanted to clarify some things.

“Mike, Mike,” he turned around. “My name is Idríssi Hafid. It was a great thing to meet you.”

The taxi stopped and I hurriedly took out paper so he could write his address for me and mine for him.

“Thank you, thank you so much. It was great meeting you, too.”

We kissed both cheeks, hugged, and then left each other for awhile.