Stirring Point

*Note: The main character in this story speaks limited English, and I speak nearly no Arabic. As such, I’ve adjusted the dialogue to refrain from using fragmented language or tawdry colloquialisms.

I’m unsure of what to do with this experience, so I thought I’d write about it. 

Presently, I’m sitting in an aging bus terminal in Agadir, Morocco. Flags from several countries like Japan, Argentina, and the U.S. hang limp above peeling, outdated wallpaper. Women’s cycling plays on a nearby television, while men sit with glasses of mint tea, smoking and staring in no particular direction. I stare with them, beyond the TV and through the concrete wall, thinking about my ride here. 

For the last three days, I’ve spent time relaxing in the small surf town of Taghazout, 30 minutes north of Agadir. I have a flight tomorrow from Casablanca to Algeria (via Rome), so I arranged a taxi to shuttle me to the bus station in Agadir, where I’ll catch a bus to Casablanca. I asked for Shahid, the same driver that brought me to town a few days ago, and he happily obliged. Rail thin with a shaggy beard, he’s kind and soft-spoken, and wears scratched aviators perched halfway down his bumpy nose. I pinned us around the same age—although life has an enigmatic way of turning the screws on our appearance, especially after years of hard living. 

When he pulled up, I tossed my bag in the backseat and slid into the front of his taxi. He was rolling the last lick of a spliff (tobacco and hash joint) and smiled as we bumped fists. Hash is illegal in Morocco, but common. Teens smoke it, men smoke it, cops smoke it, and people mostly look the other way. A few minutes into our ride, he popped the spliff in his mouth and lit the end with his lighter. 

“Where are you going next?” he asked. 

“Casablanca. I’m catching a flight to Algeria tomorrow.”

“Dangerous, be careful,” he shared.

“Which one?” I asked. “Casablanca or Algeria?” 

“Both. In Casablanca, they’ll steal your phone if you are talking on it in the street, so keep it in your pocket. Also, Algeria is dangerous for Moroccans. Not good.”

“Why is it bad?” I asked, knowing full well the two countries share bad blood.

“Algerians can come to Morocco, no problem. We welcome them, no problem. But if I go to Algeria? It’ll be bad for me. You? Just be careful.”

I knew that tone. Telling Moroccans I was headed to Algeria usually lifted a few eyebrows. But no one claimed it was dangerous for them, so I assumed he was exaggerating. I watched him lift the joint to his lip and take a long, chest-filling drag. The ember burned bright and fast, while sidestream smoke carved a thin line through the air before being pulled out through the window. The distinct smell of hash was pervasive, finding every olfactory neuron in my nose. But it was soft, like Nag Champa incense or a light aromatic spice. I turned my head towards the window and watched the sea stand still as we zipped along. I thought about its raw power and timeless grandeur. I thought about Morocco and how it’s been good to me.

His phone rang and he answered on speaker. Arabic spilled through the other side at a panicked pace, immediately forcing him to drop the spliff in the ashtray and pull the phone to his ear. His voice raised several octaves as he volleyed questions to the caller. A voice of concern requires no translation. It climbed octaves, stumbling into disbelief, then entering a range of despair.  I looked over to his face: mouth agape and tears shelved on his eyelids. When he dropped the phone, the levy finally broke and the tears poured down his gaunt cheeks and into his beard.

I fumbled for words. “Brother, are you okay?” I asked.

“My baby….my baby. She had to go to the hospital.” He choked back tears as he stomped on the gas pedal and shifted gears. 

“Hoya (Bro), drop me at the side of the road and go see your baby. I will find a taxi,” I said. “Or go straight to the hospital and I will find another from there.”

“No problem,” he said. “I will go after I drop you.” 

The tears clouded his eyes as he weaved through traffic, climbing in speed and blind with confusion.  His hands lifted, then fell heavy on the steering wheel–a gesture filled with strife, exhaustion and fear. There was bargaining in his eyes, the kind we make with the heavens when we’ll give anything to turn back time.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” The tears came streaming down his face, so I sat back. No time to ask what happened. It didn’t matter. Only the resolution was important. Let him think; let him sort the matter in his mind. 

The windows were down yet the car fell completely silent. I heard only the sounds of my swallows, mixing with his sniffling tears—paternal tears—tears I can’t yet understand.

He reached down and picked up the spliff, striking the lighter twice before it caught. He took two deep pulls from the end, filling his lungs with the cloudy mixture. Anything to numb the pain; anything to hit the killswitch on anxiety. He fumbled with his phone and opened to a picture, placing it on my leg. A little girl with dark curls and thick, cherub cheeks sat on his lap in a frilly pink dress. She smiled so completely, the way only a child knows how. The type of smile that has yet to discover self-consciousness or despair; despair in a moment like this one, when distress has taken hold and a father feels helpless to ease the pain.

“Drop me. Drop me here. I’ll find my way,” I said. I felt the moist sensation of early tears rising in me. 

“No, no. I’ll go after. My brother is going now. You are on the way,” he said. 

“Inshallah, she is okay,” I offered.

“Inshallah, inshallah,” he said.

We fell silent and I turned to the traffic in front of us. I saw everything around me but noticed nothing. Instead, I thought about a call I received from a dear friend a little over a year ago. His young son fell extremely ill and the family was forced to rush him to the hospital. He called me as he paced the emergency room halls, exhaling his fear and the weight of his helplessness. I recalled the sound of his cries, the pain in his heart–the dire wolf of despair hunting for his vulnerability. Again, I don’t know this pain, but I remember it nearly bringing him to his knees. And I recalled thinking how logical and resilient he is as a man, and how unbearably heavy the weight must feel when it comes to the well-being of your child.

I looked back to Shahid and his eyes were drying. He took a few deep breaths and his driving slowed down. 

“Achirii (brother/friend), are you okay?” I asked once more.

“I’m okay, my friend. Family is there. I’m okay.”

A minute later, he pointed to the bus station and I told him to pull over. I put the fare in his console, jumped out and grabbed my bag from the back. I slapped the taxi and he looked back offering directions on where to go and how to buy a ticket.

“Go! Go!” I said as he shot me a thumbs up.

“No problem, no problem,” he yelled, then shot off like a bullet back into traffic and towards his baby girl.