by Kurt Caswell
He paused then, waiting for a response.
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh,” Bob said. “Well, that’s it. That’s the end of the piece.”
“The curtain comes down?”
“Right, the curtain comes down so I can take Ron off the rope and get him upright. He’s starting to get a little dizzy by now. So I help him down off the rope, and then we change costumes and go on with our show, which usually includes six or seven short pieces like that.”
Ron nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Sounds interesting,” I said.
“Maybe you can catch one of our shows if you’re ever in Chicago.”
“I’d like that.”
The ferry landed in Ceuta, a city of some seventy-five thousand, and a Spanish territory, a holdout from the old days (1640), from the give-and-take, the push-and-pull that cycled on between the Muslims of North Africa and the Christians, specifically Roman Catholics, of Iberia. Both Ulysses and Hercules traveled through Ceuta, but it was Hercules who fashioned the Strait of Gibraltar, through which we had just passed. One of his twelve labors was to fetch the cattle of Geryon far to the west, and when he came to the great Atlas Mountain between what is now Spain and North Africa, he broke through it, thus opening a passage between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. The Pillars of Hercules, then, are the points on opposite shores of the strait, the Rock of Gibraltar on the Iberian side, and on the African side, though disputed, Monte Hacho in Ceuta. The Pillars stood as a gate at the western limit of the known world, a gate beyond which, Plato claimed, lay the mythic city of Atlantis. To travel beyond the Pillars was a reckless endeavor, sure to result in loss and death, even the story of which would never be known. So they bear a warning: Nec plus ultra, or “Nothing farther beyond.” The Pillars became a powerful symbol and were adopted by Charles V, Holy Roman emperor and king of Spain during the early exploration of the Americas, for his impresa. He modified the warning to read Plus ultra, or “farther beyond,” an invitation, or a compulsion perhaps, to explore and conquer.
I walked with Bob and Ron from the ferry port straight to the border of Morocco. We passed through several checkpoints, offering our passports each time, until the hot, dry dust of North Africa blew in over us like a christening. We had arrived. As it turned out, the border was a rather dull-looking place. A flat plain stretching this way and that. People wandering about in all directions. A few taxis waiting for passengers. And then there was Ahmad. Later I would learn that the name Ahmad means something like “most highly adored” and is a variation of the name Muhammad, the name of the prophet. But for now, Ahmad seemed more like a fly buzzing in our ears.
“Ah, hello, hello, Americans,” he said. “Come this way, please. I am your guide. I take you where you want to go. I will take you to a good place. You need a hotel? I know a hotel. You need something nice to eat? I know a place. You need something to smoke, eh? Something real nice? I know something. Come with me. This way, please.”
“I don’t think so,” Bob said.
“Come,” Ahmad said. “You can trust me, of course. I am your guide. I will take you where you want to go.”
Ahmad, who looked to be in his late twenties, wore jeans with white socks and black slip-on shoes, a black boiled wool overcoat and a dark collared shirt beneath. His hair, tightly curled against his head, accentuated his broad flat nose, and one, perhaps two of his front teeth were missing. He ran his tongue through the gap there, speaking to us as fast as he could. He wore a little mustache.
“I am Ahmad,” he said. “You tell me your names so we can be friends. Then I will guide you where you want to go.”
“I don’t think so,” Bob said.
“Come. It will be good for you,” Ahmad said.
“How much?” Bob asked, almost reversing his position.
Ron nodded, but didn’t speak.
Ahmad looked at me. “He wants to know how much. How much do you think?”
I ventured a guess. “One hundred.”
“One hundred dirham,” Ahmad said. “Hmm. That is not much for you in dollars, is it? And you?” he asked Bob.
“Two hundred,” Bob said.
“No,” Ahmad said. “Not one hundred. Not two hundred. It will cost you nothing. I will be your guide. No cost.”
“No cost?” Bob said. “Come on. I don’t think so. We’ll be all right on our own,” and he marched off ahead.
Ron and I followed him, leaving Ahmad behind. I looked back to see him standing there, and he wore a sour, lonely look on his face. Then, as if by magic, Ahmad appeared before us.
“Now, fellas,” he said. “I am your guide. I will show you everything. No cost.”
“Leave us alone,” Bob said.
“No cost at all. Maybe you can’t believe it. But it is true,” Ahmad insisted.
We kept on walking, headed for the row of taxis. Ahmad came up behind us again. “Now, fellas. You will need a guide like me. So why not choose me? I will show you everything. I will take you where you want to go. Please, follow me. This way.”
Bob turned sharply away from Ahmad, and Ron and I followed him. It became a funny little game in which everyone was following Bob.
“Leave us alone,” Bob said.
Ahmad came up behind us once more, running this time, and snatched Bob’s passport from his hand.
“He just took my passport,” Bob said.
“Motherfucker,” Ron said, his first words. “Go after him. Let’s go.”
But Ahmad turned an arc in front of us and came jogging back. He handed the passport to Bob.
“Hey, it is a joke,” he said, a little breathless. “I am only kidding. Come. I am your guide. This way. Here is a taxi for you. Let’s go into town, and I will show you a nice place to sleep. A good restaurant. It is Ramadan, you know. I will not eat. But you may eat. I am a good man. I returned your passport, eh? I will show you the town. You will like it. Just here,” he said holding open the door of a taxi. “It is the best thing for you. Please do not delay,” he said. “The taxi is waiting. Please get in.”
“No cost, huh?” Bob said.
“That is my word,” Ahmad said. “No cost. Now please. Get in.”
So we did.
Tetouan is a desert town, but it is also a river town set close to the sea and backed by the Rif Mountains, where the Berber tribes have roamed since the first man and the first woman walked north out of the shining deserts of Ethiopia. Like many towns and cities on the edge of the great historical conflict between Christians and Muslims, Tetouan was built and destroyed several times, beginning with its first inception in the third century BCE. After the Reconquista in 1492, the city became a refuge for both Muslims and Jews expelled from that star of Moorish Spain, Granada. A bit later, in the seventeenth century, Morocco’s famed King Moulay Ismail Ibn Sharif built Tetouan’s defensive walls. His fame extends not from this minor achievement, however, but from two others: (1) he holds the world record for fathering children, which stands at 888 (not all with the same woman); and (2) his cruelty earned him the nickname “the bloodthirsty,” as he is said to have adorned the walls of Meknes, his capital city, with ten thousand heads of his slain enemies. Enemies are one thing, and nearly forgivable, but apparently he went about lopping off the heads of his servants and workers too, with the greatest of ease. What an asshole.
Though Tetouan is not a border town, it thrives with lowlifes and hustlers, touts, many of whom, like Ahmad, present themselves as guides but actually work for a number of restaurants and shops, namely rug shops. The 1991 Gulf War savaged the tourist economy in Morocco, so guys like Ahmad, and the merchants he works for, became especially desperate. But what you don’t know, you don’t know until, of course, you know it, which is almost always after you need to know it. I was green and innocent, and so, like a dry leaf from an almond tree in a heavy spring wind, I was swept into North Africa and into the waiting hands of Ahmad.
As we sped down the highway along the
Alboran Sea, Ahmad pointed out the features of the country that he thought fellas like us would enjoy. “Look, a camel!” he said. And sure as shit, there was a camel. “You see all the sand of the desert,” he said. And we did see it, lying about everywhere as it had since the beginning. “There is a man driving a cart with a donkey,” he said. And so it was.
“Hey, Ahmad,” I said. “What hotel do you recommend?”
“Hotel? Yes, I am taking you to the finest hotel. I know the way. I will talk to this driver and he will take us there. Please do not worry. I am your guide.”
“I understand,” I said. “But which hotel? Which hotel is your favorite?”
“Ah, which hotel. Personally, I recommend the Hotel Iberia,” he said. “It is the finest in town. Also very cheap.”
Bob was turning pages in his guidebook. He nodded to Ron and whispered, “It’s OK. I see it here on this page.”
“You mean it is the finest and also cheap? Or that it is the finest of the cheap hotels?” I asked.
“Very smart question,” he said. “You are very clever. But you do not need to worry, my friend. I will arrange it all for you. You will be very comfortable.” And then he pointed out the window again. “Look,” he said, “another camel.”
Ahmad left us at the Hotel Iberia, situated at the city center on the Place Moulay el-Medhi with a promise to return in one hour. “I will take you on a tour of the city,” he said. “No cost.” Our room was a spare monstrosity with eight beds covered with clean white linens. A few white curtains hung from the ceiling to cordon off sections of the room for more privacy. Bob and Ron took up a far corner but chose against cordoning, and I took the bed closest to the door.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” Bob said without warning, “but we’re a couple.”
“I had noticed.”
“And is it all right with you if we sleep together?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I need a nap,” Ron said, as if the word sleep were the thing itself.
We heard a knock.
“Ahmad,” Bob said, opening the door. “You said one hour. It’s only been twenty minutes.”
“Yes, I know,” Ahmad said. “But soon I must do some things for my grandmother. So I am in a very great hurry. Shall we go now?”
“Where are we going?”
“I will show you the city, of course,” Ahmad said. “Please bring your valuables with you.”
Bob looked back at Ron.
“I need a nap,” Ron said.
“I’ll go,” I said. “Let’s have a look around.”
“All right, Ron. Why don’t you rest here,” Bob said, and then turned to me. “Let’s go.”
The sky had grayed over, and the city center looked drab and forgotten with its collection of palms and quiet streets. Ahmad led us into the medina. He walked at a furious pace.
“Please keep up,” he said. “I will show you the old city, and we will see the palace where the king will stay when he visits Tetouan. He is King Hassan II, a great and powerful king. There it is,” he said triumphantly. “We are passing it now. You see, this is the palace. You see how wonderful it is? All right. That is enough. Come this way. Please keep up.”
We wound through the maze of streets, the whitewashed buildings looking not white but gray under that gray sky, until we came to the market where fish and eel lay on open tables among a few fresh tomatoes, and the spice stalls with their many sacks of colored spices set against doors swung open and hung with plastic schlock for sale, and vegetables at other stalls, root vegetables and onions and other hardy stock, and iron bedframes and shoes and bags, and along through a section of sewing shops, where men, sitting on rugs and wearing rubber boots, made thawbs (traditional ankle-length garments) by hand, and then we arrived at the mosque.
“Here, we have arrived,” he said. “This is the Great Mosque. Please have a look through the door, but do not step inside. And do not take a photo. It is forbidden.”
We peered in through the iron door, and a few people peered back at us.
“That is enough,” Ahmad said. “Follow me. We will go now to the roof for a special panorama of the city. No cost.”
Down a few streets and up a few streets we walked at a furious pace.
“Here,” he said.
We entered a door and arrived inside a dark little courtyard that smelled of manure.
“Donkey parking,” Ahmad said. “This way, please.”
We ascended a flight of stairs to the roof. There the thickening fog and low hung clouds gave the scene a feeling of despair: an ending, perhaps, but not a beginning.
“Please look out onto the city. You see the beautiful mountains and the white houses going up the mountainside there. What a nice scene. Don’t you think so? All right. That is enough. This way.”
Ahmad led us across the roof and through another door, down a flight of steps and into a reception. Two large men met us there, one with a tray set with tumblers of mint tea.
“I must leave you now,” Ahmad said. “These men will serve you this delicious tea. Please enjoy as much as you can. I will be back very soon. Do not worry. I am your guide. I will be back to show you again to your hotel. Please drink this tea.” And he hurried out through the door.
A man came out from behind the counter. His face was pitted from what must have been a Herculean bout with teenage acne, and he wore a trim little black mustache.
“Ah, welcome, Americans,” he said, in a tired sort of way. “I am Fahd, and here is my shop. Here you will buy a beautiful rug to take home with you to America. Many beautiful rugs are here. But first we will have tea together.”
I looked at Bob. Bob looked at me.
“Please,” Fahd said. “No cost.”
Bob and I both reached for a glass of tea. Fahd then selected a glass for himself.
“Please sit here,” he said, showing us to a low bench with decorative pillows. “Now, how was your journey?”
But before either of us could answer, he brought out a black ledger book.
“Have a look inside this book,” Fahd said. “You will notice the many fine guests who have come away with beautiful rugs. It is entered here that Miss Yumiko Tanaka of Japan has purchased a rug for 2,100 American dollars. You see it is entered here. And here is Miss Alice Maywether, who is from Britain, and she has paid 750 dollars for a very nice rug. And one more if you notice, Mr. John Dagner, probably American, who is here written to have paid 4,000 dollars for three fine rugs, which he is said to take home to his business partners. So you see, many people like to buy a rug from me.”
He reached for his tea.
“Please don’t hesitate to turn the page and have a look some more,” he said.
I did, turning several pages to notice the names and the prices they paid. “Thank you,” I said, closing the book.
“Very well,” Fahd said. “And now you will buy a rug of your own. Please, this way.”
Fahd led us up a flight of stairs into a showroom, with the two large men trailing behind. Once we were all inside, one of them closed the door, and they stood as sentinels on either side. Another Goliath was waiting in the room, and Fahd took a seat in the corner on a little stool across from us, where we sat on little stools. The walls were hung with rugs of many sizes and colors, beautiful things, all, and the floor could not be seen for the rugs. They were rolled open and piled in huge stacks, each stack about four feet high. Goliath began to lay rugs out in the center of the floor to the tune of his master’s voice.
“These rugs were made by mountain peoples,” Fahd said. “They are the nomads. Very far into the mountains, they make these rugs and bring them to me to sell. When you buy it, you help the mountain peoples.”
He meant the Berber tribes of the nearby Rif Mountains, the people who hold ancestral claim over this land and who are said to be descendants of Oranian and Caspian Man, dating back ten to fifteen thousand years. When the Romans controlled much of North Africa, the Berbers maintained
their autonomy, secreted away in their mountain fastnesses. They were the people who invaded Iberia in 711 and built the great mosques in Cordoba, Seville, and Granada. Later, under two separate dynasties, the Berbers ruled the region (from the mid-ninth century until the early thirteenth), but they have mostly lived outside the rule of the state, and the name they give themselves, Imazighen, means “free and noble people.”
Their home, the Rif Mountains, which rise to just over eight thousand feet, are lush and well watered. Woodlands of cedar, fir, and juniper, as well as oaks (both cork and live oak), offer a sanctuary for some birds, especially storks, and also fox and boar. But overhunting has been devastating for wildlife in Morocco, and the great Barbary lion, which the Romans used in amphitheaters and the kings of Morocco put to use devouring their enemies, has been extinct for fifty years. The Rif Mountains are now better suited to cultivating hash, also called kif, a skill at which the Berbers have grown rather adept. Weaving and selling rugs to tourists and for export is a good business, but with a ready drug market across the strait, kif is better, an industry valued at about $2 billion a year.
“You see I have many types and kinds,” Fahd said. “These rugs here are very nice in the living room of the American house. You will enjoy them for many years. Now, which of these rugs do you like best?”
“I don’t really care for any of them,” I said. “I like them, but I don’t want one.”
Fahd nodded to his man, and he laid out more rugs on top of those already in the center of the room. The pile grew up from the floor.
“Now these here are a weave of silks and wools, and you can see they are very colorful. Very nice for your American house,” Fahd said. “Or if you like, please have two, and give one to your most beloved friend. Now please tell me, which rugs do you like?”
I said nothing. Bob said nothing.
Fahd nodded again to his man. More rugs came out and the pile grew and grew.
“Now is the moment,” Fahd said. “We will go through them again. My assistant will roll the rugs back up from the pile, and you must choose your favorites. Please,” he said, “which do you like?”
