Moroccan Lullaby

Sitting out in the gorgeous, fall Texas weather for lunch, the flavor and scent of my Moroccan beef stew takes me back to meals cooked over camel dung fires by gracious Bedouins...

I'd gone to north Africa seeking World War II relics since demand was up and supplies were down. A friend of a friend of a distant relative told me of lost Nazi weapons cached in abandoned outposts. My niece, Desiree Rose, loved to travel and had just graduated high school, so she went with me.

The bus ride along the coastal plains from Tangier to Rabat was wonderful. We knew a little French; between that, hand gestures and drawing in my journal, we swapped introductions and stories with those around us, mostly locals. On the road from Rabat to Casablanca, we stopped in the middle of nowhere, presumably to take on passengers. A half dozen masked men with pistols, carbines and knives got on. They demanded identification from everyone. When they saw our US passports, their eyes lit up. Blindfolded, hands zip tied behind us, Des and I were marched off the bus. We never saw our wallets or passports again.

Our captors led us, stumbling, across dunes toward the sea. We ended up on the beach, breakers mocking us as they crashed, wild and free, onto the shore. We were shoved into the back of a truck. A couple of rides and hikes later, we were given something to eat and drink. Apparently it was drugged.

I woke up with the mother of all headaches to swaying and clacking, a demonic train horn piercing my ears, squeezing my skull. After a while I could think clearly and croaked Desiree's name. She croaked something back. We wiggled around on the floor until our hands were at each others' heads and got the masks off. I talked Des through getting a key out of my pocket and walked her through releasing my zip tie; then I released hers.

We had no idea how long we'd been unconscious except that we were starving (yet queasy) and thirsty. We drank from the sink. As I opened the curtains to look out the window Des noted the train was slowing. A sign flew by; we were entering Marrakesh. We tensed up as voices approached in the corridor, but they continued past the door and faded. We had no idea who or where our kidnappers were. Des locked the door. The train slowed more. I opened the window.

We stopped jerkily, the horn blowing repeatedly. Probably someone or something on the tracks. We were on the outskirts of Marrakesh. With nobody in sight close by, I went out the window and helped Des down. Just before we made it around a corner I heard a shout and a shot. Stone splinters splattered a foot above my head. We ran.

Fifteen long minutes later, winded, weary and wary, we found ourselves on the edge of town. It was late in the afternoon. We decided to hide in the desert until after dark. It was mid-day. Fortunately we still had our hooded jackets. We were sweating like pigs, but we wouldn't burn.

An hour after sunset, we wished we had something to burn. The desert cools quickly once the sun goes down. Just as we decided to start the trek back to the city, howling somewhere ahead of us froze us in our tracks. Morocco has jackals. Did it have wolves? Neither of us knew, but we heard several canine voices, and they seemed to be drifting closer. We headed away from the city.

The howls tracked us all night. By morning, exhausted, we found some rock formations with a shallow cave. We dragged rocks up to make a wall and collapsed as the sun came up. Late in the day I awoke to find a small fox staring at me. Somehow I managed to kill it with a rock before it got away. Raw fox is nasty, but we were desperate. We didn't just thank God for the food, we prayed for our health. We felt rather less hungry, but only slightly less thirsty. We set out before sundown, carrying stones, hoping for another fox, or even a jackal. Out of all my nieces, I thanked God Des was with me. I don't think any of the others would have handled things quite as well.

By dark, we could see lights in the distance; those had to be Marrakesh. We started that way. A couple of hours later, sloughing over a sand dune, we stopped. There was a fire. There were tents and camels. Men, women and children. Men with rifles. Hands up, starving, we called out and stumbled down through the sand.

As we got closer, rifles were lowered, and hands reached out to help us. Soon we were sitting on a hairy, skin rug of some sort, eating goat and drinking thick, rich coffee. Our Bedouin hosts asked nothing until we, and they, had finished eating. One of them spoke broken English, and called for our story. I looked at Des. She arched her painstakingly sculpted eyebrows, grinned slightly and shrugged.

I took a chance, and told them our whole story. Abduallah translated. When done, they asked questions, then introduced themselves. They were the Al-Sabal amm, a lesser branch of the Bani Khalid tribe, but well known and respected. Shaykh Muhammad ibn Abd Al-Sabal explained that kidnapping was common at the moment, and offered to let us travel with them. Only then did we realize they were breaking camp. They preferred to travel longer distances by night, navigating by the stars.

I won't say much about traveling by camel except to note that Des tired of it almost as quickly as I did. It was a week or so before we truly got used to it.

Abduallah explained that we had probably heard golden jackals. We'd have likely been perfectly safe heading back to Marrakesh. I noted that safety from jackals didn't mean safety from kidnappers. Abduallah grinned. Now we were heading away from Marrakesh, more or less east. The Shaykh said they would hand us off to a group headed northeast toward the coast in two days.

I've always loved moonrise, no matter the time of day or night, but moonrise over the desert is my favorite. Tonight the moon was just past full, a huge, brilliant orange disk on the horizon as we crested a hill. I saw Desiree's face light up. I asked what she was thinking. She laughed and remarked how boring home life was and how much larger the moon seemed here. We were both strangely content.

Pitching their tents was easy for the Bedouins, trickier for us. They left is to our own dwelling, never quite laughing in our presence. We finally finished a half hour after everyone else. We collapsed and fell asleep long before it got too hot.

That night, using rifles borrowed from the Shaykh, Des and I each killed a wolf. Having little else to give, we gave the skins and meat to the Shaykh as gifts, since he insisted we owed him nothing. He beamed and had his wife, Noora, give us kufiyya. Throughout Arab and middle eastern culture this is traditionally male headgear, but the Al-Sabal all wore them. When I asked why, Abduallah smiled and gave me a non-answer. Whatever the reason, the women here were treated far more equally than I'd seen elsewhere. A couple of them carried rifles, which is Des had been offered one.

We met up with the Al-Saribn at an oasis. The Shaykhs talked at length, looking at us every now and then. Muhammad waved Abduallah over. After a moment he called for us. The new Shaykh, Labad ibn Abu Al-Saribn, bowed and smiled. Muhammad wore an odd expression. Abduallah explained that the Al-Saribn would be happy to take us to Jerada, near the coast, if his son could wed my niece. Seeing Desiree's expression, I immediately bowed low and apologized, explaining that she was already sworn to another. Des managed not to bust out laughing, rightly guessing I meant Jesus. I added that we apologized for bothering them, and would be happy to walk to the coast.

This, of course, was patently absurd to everyone and Muhammad roared with laughter. Labad asked through Abduallah what else we might have as payment. Muhammad broke in, noting that he'd given us rifles (a surprise to us!) and that we were expert shots. Labad's group had suffered several deaths the past year and needed more hunters. If we could do our share to keep pots filled, they would take us. We thanked Muhammad profusely. He then presented me with a khanja-- the traditional, curved knife carried by Bedouin men. Noora presented Des with one as well, drawing glares from some of Labad's people.

Despite a much longer time with Labad's tribe, we never felt as close to anyone there as as we had with Muhammad's people. Labad's were more traditional, and prouder. I think they were still a bit miffed that Des was "spoken for" as well; her beauty is obvious in any culture. Then again, they seemed mildly annoyed that she was a hunter, nevermind a good one. She took off her kufiyya while we were with them; this seemed to help a bit.

Despite never feeling fully accepted, we ate like royalty. I haven't had many meals better than those cooked in huge, copper pots over camel dung fires-- especially Moroccan beef stew, goat milk cheesecake with pomegranate syrup, mysterious wines and thick coffee. To my great surprise, I even liked snake. The Bedouins refused to eat it and seemed somewhat in awe of us for eating it. Neither Des nor I intended to eat the thing, but we were in a fey mood under a full moon, and dared each other into it.

We spent weeks crossing the desert and hills of Morocco. By the time we neared Jerada, Des and I were lean and tough, with darkened faces and hands. The seats of our jeans were nearly worn through from riding camels. We smelled like the camels. We smelled like last year's locker room. We smelled like burning camel dung. We wanted to burn our clothes.

Along the way to Jerada, Des and I had killed fifteen of the red foxes common to the area. We made a nice cape as a present for Burin, Labad's son. When we got to Jerada, Burin insisted on providing us with clean Bedouin clothing. We thanked the group, especially Labad and Burin. We gave them our rifles as gifts, bowed, and went in search of somewhere to bathe, thankful we still had a few Moroccan darahim and a few US dollars. After bathing and eating, we had about ten dollars between us. That wasn't going to do much.

Late in the day we met some Oxford college students heading to Oran in Algeria. Over a beer they told us their adventures (including being chased out of town by a khanja wielding snake charmer after Owen took him up on a bet he wouldn't touch the cobra; when Owen had discovered that the snake's mouth was sewn shut, he couldn't quit laughing, infuriating the charmer). Upon hearing our story and plight, the students offered us a ride to Oran. About then we watched a local bus plow into their car across the street. So much for Plan A.

I came down with a fever that night. I mostly remember dreaming of Labad asking for Desiree as wife to his whole tribe (including the women), and turning into a cobra when we said no. He sewed my mouth shut and made me dance to his flute and live in a basket. I dreamed this over and over. I vaguely remember waking up now and them in a car. Des pretty much just kept wet cloths on my face and slept the whole trip, so neither of us is sure how we crossed the border without passports. For that matter, the old, English couple who drove us never asked or gave names. They saw Des trying to deal with me in a feverish state, and offered a ride and penicillin. She said they were sweet, silly, in love, and very mysterious. They called each other Tommy and Tuppence, but Tuppence, at least, seems an unlikely name.

The fever broke the day we hit Oran; thankfully nobody else had gotten sick. Our host and hostess bought us supper and asked about our plans. We told them we planned to swim to Italy, but if we had to, we might work our way across on a ship. We never did learn anything else about them; it's strange owing a life debt and not knowing who to pay. They went in search of their hotel and we went in search of the docks.

The first ship we came to was surrounded by hostile, lean, Africans with scorpion tattoos and AK-47s. We kept going. We'd passed a number of men selling weapons out of crates on the way to the docks and saw similar crates coming off this ship. Des recognized the Somali flag flying over the prow. They were pirates, or close enough it didn't matter. We kept our distance and our eyes open. It was probably good we didn't look like westerners any more.

A few minutes later, I realized we were being followed. Two men from the Somali ship had taken an interest in us. Moving into a crowd, we hid behind some boxes and got behind our pursuers-- well behind them. When they gave up and headed back to the ship, we helped move cargo from another ship to get closer. We never found out what they were up to, because a Zodiac from their ship roared up to the dock next to us. Several men got out, looked arrogantly around, and carried a heavy box onto the dock and off into the crowd.

The salt air was suddenly thick with irony. Des and I looked at each other, grinned like thieves, jumped into the pirates' Zodiac, and headed out. We found plenty of gas, a hidden satchel full of various local African currencies, fish on ice, wine and water. The night air tasted more delicious with each passing moment. I cut the motor for a few minutes as we collapsed, laughing, in the boat. We hugged and cried, laughed some more, looked nervously around for pirates, and got moving again along the coast. By daybreak we were at the port in Algiers.

At Bizerte we waved goodbye to Africa, heading across the water to Marsala. We followed the coast around Sicily, around Italy's boot, to somewhere near Vlore in Albania, and up the coast to near Durres. Lacking passports, we beached in a secluded spot and hiked several miles into Durres. We stayed with missionaries I had met on a previous trip, not burdening them with our story or lack of papers. They were obviously curious, and I felt rude not explaining. But if we were arrested, I didn't want them in trouble.

Des and I both found normal civilization strange. The rooms David and Valbona had provided were simple, but after living in the desert and on the sea for almost two months, they seemed fancy, complex, and almost like a trap. Rather than climb into the confines of a bus or taxi, we hitched a ride in the back of a lorry to Tirane. We bought gas and lunch for the driver, so after he unloaded his machine parts he took us into town. Still mildly paranoid, we asked him to let us off a mile away from our destination.

Tirane! It felt like home. We walked through familiar streets in the mid-afternoon sunlight, reveling in the shade of trees we knew the names of. We stopped three times for macchiatos (espressos with milk or cream). We bought ice cream cones at our favorite Allucare, but sadly our friend was home with a sick child. At the Qendra Stefan, we had burgers and fries, Cokes, and hugs. We explained that our passports had been stolen; since they knew us, they gave us rooms, anyway, and one of them took some of our recently acquired darahim to exchange for lek (the local currency) . Des slept a day, went dancing with Peter from the hotel staff most of the night, then slept the second day. I blamed my recent illness for the fact that I slept two days straight.

Over the next few days, we met several times with US officials, proving who we were, telling our story, filing police reports, retelling our story, filling out forms, paying fees, retelling our story. The rest of the time we slept, visited our friends, and ate. We gained back a little of the weight we'd lost in the desert. Genti and the Ray of Light Church family threw us a huge party, with food, music and fireworks. Genti and Eviola took us shopping for clothes and toiletries. Chris and Fjo Brent cooked for us, and we took them out to eat, along with their son and pet monkey.

We slept and ate a lot.

We got our passports. We got plane tickets. We gave most of the leftover money to Genti to and to the Romas. Chris and Fjo drove us to the airport. We gave them some money for gas and "a taxi tip". We hugged them about ten times each, and kept slipping the money back and forth into each others' pockets. An hour later, we were in the air. The two hour layover in Munich turned into four, as usual. Once on the trans-Atlantic flight, the walls on the planes kept closing in, so we shunned the food and movies and slept. Breakfast in La Guardia... McDonalds tasted as bad as I remembered. Five hours later, we were finally back in Austin. When we got outside the terminal, I dropped and kissed the ground. Des pretended she had a video camera. She said it was a great cheesy movie moment, and she'd put it the imaginary video on youtube. We made some phone calls and grabbed a taxi. We were home.


That was a few months ago. But I can still smell and taste the Moroccan beef stew. The stew here isn't bad, but-- weird as it may sound-- it just doesn't taste right without the smell of a camel dung fire. And I desperately want an Albanian macchiato. I wonder if Des is ready for another trip.