InsideOut Travel—Destination Morocco Cont.

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At the building entrance, I saw two men standing next to each other in conversation. One wore a navy blue jacket and matching baseball cap, and the other was dressed in a suit and tie. I was far too preoccupied with all of the time-consuming projects I’d have to finish before the end of the fall trimester to be bothered with another conversation I didn’t want. I turned around and made a standard reply to the air, “Je suis presse,” which means I’m in a hurry, and continued on my way.

A week later, a man called out to me again as I passed by. This time, I stopped and looked into his eyes. He was dark-skinned, and his short hair was graying at the temples. A smile of recognition flashed across his face. “Man, I tried to talk to you last week but you completely ignored me. You know, that really fucked me up inside. You know what I’m saying?”

I replied, in step with his American slang. “Hey, man. In general, I don’t talk to people on the street anymore because I’ve been hassled one time too many. And I’m sick of being hassled.”

But Mohammed, whose name I soon discovered, didn’t want any money and had nothing to sell—he just wanted to talk. He stopped me, because he knew I worked across the street at the ALC, and he wanted to know if I could get some information about the TOEFL test.

“I want pass the test. I want to teach English and get a better job than this one. You know what I’m saying? I’m here 12 hours a day, seven in the morning until seven at night. I get 30 minutes for lunch. That’s it. It’s a not a job, man, it’s abuse. That’s what it is. Man, it’s December 11 and I haven’t been paid for last month yet. I’ve got a wife and a son, and I’m just trying to start over.”

Vials at a traditional pharmacy in Marrakech. Pieter Schockaert.

This kind of instant self-revelation is rare in this part of the world—at least among strangers from different cultures. I wanted to ask Mohammed immediately about the events in his life that made a new beginning necessary. Then, I remembered that I was in Morocco and such intimate questions are rarely welcome without a lengthy initiation of small talk. Instead, I said, ”You speak English really well.”

Mohammed divided his attention between our conversation and the people entering and exiting his building. My comment made him smile. “I know I do, man. I spent 12 years in the US, in New York. I lived in Harlem.”

I was not surprised, given the smoothness of his speech, peppered with the slang and cadence of a native. “You spent 12 years in the US? What did you do there?”

Mohammed looked up at the sky for a moment and made the decision to follow this conversation wherever it might lead. “Well, I was in jail for 10 of them.”

“In jail?” The pieces of Mohammed’s story were beginning to assemble in my head, my thoughts running far ahead of his words. “What for?” I asked, determined nevertheless to let Mohammed tell the story at his own pace—with his own language.

Mohammed looked sheepishly at the ground. Then, he stared deeply into my eyes. “Well, I was working at this grocery store, and a man came in to rob the place. I knew this guy, and I told him to go home. But he attacked me. He attacked me, so I defended myself. And I defended myself well, because he died.”

I knew it was coming. I knew there was a death at the end of this story, but I didn’t really know what to say once the words were spoken. I was standing in front of a convicted murderer who had spent a decade of his life in jail, was probably deported upon release, and was now back in a land he once tried to escape, working the only job he could find in a land where unemployment claims at least one-fifth of its workforce. There was desperation and disappointment in Mohammed’s eyes, but I never felt an ounce of fear during our conversation.

Silhouette of woman inside the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca. Stefan Tordenmalm.

Thirty minutes had passed, and it was time to go. I shook Mohammed’s hand, told him I’d do what I could for him once I’d finished grading final exams. “That’s cool, man. I’m not in a hurry.” He shook my hand firmly. “Man, it feels good to talk with someone again.”

I walked home, altered somehow, thoughts suddenly flowing from the unexpected meeting .I spoke with Mohammed a few more times in December. Then, one day, after he’d invited me to eat couscous with his family, Mohammed disappeared. I walked to the front of the building where he kept his watch and found another man standing in his place.

He wore the same navy blue cap and coat and stared out into space with an uncomfortable look on his face as though he was just beginning to understand the hours of mind-numbing boredom that awaited him. I had no phone number or address; no way to contact Mohammed to take him up on his dinner offer, no way to share with him what he had taught me.

I’m now determined, despite the hassles and potential dangers, to take a few more chances with people on the street. Most people, despite their struggles for survival, are just trying to do something good with their lives. Often their needs extend no further than trying to earn enough money to provide food and clothing for their families. Other people just feel lonely and need to connect with another human being. I hope that Mohammed, wherever he is, knows that at least I understood that much about him.

Joel Hanson is a teacher, traveler, musician and writer. This piece is one of several travel stories Joel wrote while teaching English in Casablanca, Morocco during the past year. His purpose in telling each story is a sincere attempt to understand an unfamiliar culture and a means to ask questions he believes would interest readers in any culture. His reviews, essays and stories have appeared in such diverse publications as Resonance, The Washington Free Press, The Rake, The Tacoma News Tribune and Clamor.

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CONTINUED DESTINATION: MOROCCO

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