At Casablanca station, I was looking for a train to Marrakech. It was not long before I noticed someone coming up to me; he beckoned me to follow him. I thought he would also go to Marrakech. He sat the seat next to me on the train and gave me a friendly smile. He advised me, to save me troubles, that I put my ID from my “skinny jeans” pocket into my backpack close to my chest. I didn’t understand what he meant, but obeyed him. Soon the train arrived at a station and we changed trains. The next one was very crowded. As soon as it began to run, someone or something bashed into me. At the same time, my peripheral vision were blurred with a violent jolt of the train.
After a while, suddenly I became uncertain as to what was in my “skinny jeans” pockets. Hardly had I fumbled in them when I realized my wallet had vanished without trace. I stood with my hands holding a big luggage and my back put on a backpack, surrounded by passengers, who stuck fast to me. He too had vanished. I looked around desperately and caught at once him easing his way along the platform. The train was slowly moving; I just stood with them―if I chased him, my all belongings might go missing with the train, and while I seemed to have done something shameful, with no taking action. I stared at him fading into waves of passersby, falling into a state of panic. “Skinny pants”: it should be hard for someone to pull out my wallet from my front pocket without me noticing―he was a highly pickpocket and left my ID intact.
I was strolling in Marrakech square, a lively market that was occupied by food stalls. Under the sun I drank fresh orange juice, which helped me feel better. As a matter of fact, I had divided all my money into a couple of places before I got pickpocketed; one credit card was safe. But what really troubled me was that the card was added no cash advance service―not only was I short of cash, but I had yet to find a mediocre restaurant or better, as most local shops and restaurants rejected credit cards. Moreover, I was oblige to cut off my itinerary: Sahara Desert, Fez(an ancient city), and Chefchoaouen(a mysterious blue city) for nine days. The largest portion of my heart was the Sahara.
One morning before the Sahara tour: two nights three days, I conversed freely with a riad (guesthouse) clark, who was an agreeable man, across the front desk from me. And when checking out, I held out my card to him for the fee. “The machine doesn’t work. Cash please,” he said bluntly. “How come?” I said. “You can’t be serious. You once said I could pay for the fee by cards. I could use this one at some restaurants,” I put my finger on it.
He reseted the pay device, inserted the card into―no signal like “succeed”―and ejected it. “I don’t have any cash,” I muttered. I read his expression looked stiff as if I got on his nerve. Still, I spurred him further, as I saw a tour staff leaning against a nearby wall. “Try, try, try,” I said. He let it go in and out of the device many times; we were quarreling over what was to blame―my card or his device? Pressed for time, I showed him what a little money I had. He shrugged his shoulders. Actually, I stashed 200 dirham (about $20) just in case, but had little cash to fall back on―I was to stay in Morocco six more days.
When I got in the van, the tour guests welcomed me. We travelled on the road that wound through hills and valleys, it stopped in a small country town and we stepped out of the van. When taking a breath as I was idling around, a man come right up to me. “Would you like to have lunch with us?” said the man, Michel (anonymous), a tour guest who was Spanish in his late forties maybe, with his daughter and his wife. Giving a laugh to cover despondency, I explained what happened to me and why I could not have a meal other than breakfast and dinner including the tour package. “But, you must hungry.” He went toward the entrance of a light-blown brick building.
As I was at some distance away from there, I saw him and a local staff conferring earnestly―the latter gestured to me to enter the building. At the sight of the cuisine through the glass of the building, I said no money and refused to come into. “No problem. you can eat,” he got closer to me and patted me on the back. Bewildered by my thought I would be charged for the meal later, I walked in the restaurant.
There were lively atmosphere, all the tour guests sitting around the table, talking and eating. “Come, K, enjoy lunch,” Michel raised his voice. I saw him, getting on his feet and waving to me. “K, come,” he motioned me to an empty seat. I couldn’t turn back any more. After a few minutes, the lunch―I was too upset to recognize what it was―were served before me.
After lunch, I leaned on the bridge’s handrail, staring down at sparsely palace architectures against a background of reddish brown cliffs in a row; I was haunted by reflection of a series of misfortunes. “K,” the voice was Michel. “I want to help you. I’ve been now working for Toshiba, you are my friend.” To begin with, l wondered what was behind what he said. Just because he worked for Toshiba co. and l was Japanese, why he wanted to help me I didn’t know.
Throughout the tour, among his family was so many talking with warmth and humanity―I would say, extremely pleasant one. They were also ready to help me unwind and enjoy myself when I was worried that I would be able to go back to Japan: Michel gave me water and foods that he bought at local shops, whenever we stayed at the rest areas. I was all the more sorry I could not do anything more than I expressed my gratitude to him, so miserable, that every now and then I excused myself and became distance from him.
It was in mid-afternoon of the second day that I walked through the gate way to the Sahara; a hot-dried air engulfed me. I ride the camel and moved across the field in single file, steered by the local staff in cloaks. There were the voids and the sun visible. I commanded a sweeping sand all the way to the horizon, observing something looked like a huddle of tents far away, where inhabitants maybe lived―the aloneness of the area blurred my tales of woe.
After forty-five minutes, we were blocked on a sharp sand slope. I got off the camel, and then begun to climb the hill. Every one of us, stamping the sand that swallowed each foot, ascended. When I got to the top of the hill, my body drenched in sweat mixed with sand into my clothes. Ahead of me, I saw Michel flopped onto the sand. In no time I stretched and massaged his entire body as if to make up for what I got from him.
The last day of the tour, when I bought water at the rest area, Michel asked me, “K, which do you like bread or sandwich?” “No, no.” “But, you have to decide straight away, to wrap them. I already ordered.” So sudden, I wavered in an impending decision and said “bread” in a reserved manner: Moroccan bread was cheaper. And then, he handed me a pile of bread wrapped in aluminum and said, “With this, you can stay in Airport for the last three days.”
The van was going back to Marrakech. The tour conductor talked to someone on the phone, ‘’One person, today.’’ After a moment, I heard a voice call my name, turning. Michel slipped a money into my hand; naturally, I refused to take it out of courtesy. He also asked me to email him where I was now and if I was all right, until I went back home.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind” —I paused. “To pay it back, telling me your bank account?” “No,” he shook his head. “You are my friend.” “But…” I sometimes peeked out through the van windows. When I became aware of the van approaching Marrakech square, I asked him, “By the way, why was I able to eat lunch at that time?” “The staff,” he said. “Corrected money from every one. That’s all.”
Some guests were about to stand up from their seats. The conductor signaled with his eyes to me. “K, you’ve got to go down. Follow me. You can stay a riad.” I couldn’t control my complex emotion; I had to say something to … I brought my fingertips together before me, bowing slightly.
