This boy.

He has redeemed this place for me.

A few weeks ago I had an unsavoury experience just outside my front door, which I then conflated with every other unsavoury experience I’ve ever had here, resulting in the uncomfortable feeling that Morocco and I have utterly failed each other.  I wrote an eloquent, yet unpublishable blog post about the experience, and then started packing my bags for Canada.

And then I met this boy, and the man I assume to be his father.I was about 350 km from the mayhem of Casablanca in a perfectly-sized city called Tetouan.  My cousin recommended it to me with the declaration that “there are few tourists for no good reason.”  I had hoped to spend my final long weekend abroad in France, but when my plans to visit a friend fell through, I went against my own good judgment and booked a solo trip around the North of Morocco instead.  No tour guide.  No travel buddies.  No guarantee.  Just one last hurrah in this country that has hosted and haunted me for the last four years.

As intrepid as I am when jumping out of planes and zip-lining through the Alps, I was nervous about travelling alone in Morocco.  But taking the taxi, the train, and the bus to Tetouan was easy.  Easier than boarding a bus in Slovenia, that’s for sure.  Finding my way to my riad in the ancient medina was also easy.  Some guy walked me right to the entrance, without expecting compensation.  I entered my darling blue room on the top floor and had a nap.  Easy.

Then I went to the guy at the front desk and said, “I live in Casablanca.  I am here to experience the opposite.  I want to go for a walk in a peaceful, beautiful place.  Where should I go?”

He wrote this word on a piece of paper, and I’m so glad he did.  Partly because I could neither pronounce nor describe it, but mostly because it was where I began liking Morocco again.

I showed the paper to a taxi driver, and off we went.  Again, it was easy.  Pleasant, even.  And when I got out of the taxi and started walking up the dirt road towards a little café, I decided to skip the refreshments and just keep walking.

“Is it safe?” I wondered.  “I’ll just walk up to the next bend in the road and find out.  And the next one.  And then I’ll turn off the road and wander a little ways down this path.  I won’t go far.  Is that running water I hear? How pastoral.  Look at the tree blossoms! Look at the mountains! Look at the gurgling stream! The sky is perfect.  The sun is perfect.  The breeze is perfect.  It’s all just as it should be.  I think I’ll stop and stay here for a while.”

And so I did.  I sat on a rock by the creek and contemplated the life force in evidence all around me: the gnarled trees, still somehow graceful and elegant, and the delicate seedlings sprouting inexplicably from the immoveable rocks.  “Who am I in this world?” I wondered, “and who will I become?”

In the midst of these and other existential musings, I saw two human figures making their way towards my little oasis, and thought that perhaps I should be going.  And then I looked a little closer.  One of them, a jubilant, round-ish boy, called out a friendly “Hi!”, and I surprised myself by waving back.  Then, his adult started calling out in Arabic, and for some reason, instead of walking away, I turned toward him, and indicated that I did not understand.

That was a pivotal moment, in the day, and in my heart.

I entered this country four years ago assuming the best of everyone, and quickly learned that not everyone was to be trusted.  For four years I have been trying to figure out how to gauge another person’s sincerity, and failing on most counts.  I often worry that living here has turned me into a person who fears the worst in others because I no longer trust myself to recognize their goodness.

But this boy: he was incapable of guile.  He was perhaps 10 or 11 years old, but with obvious cognitive delays.  And there he was, in the middle of nowhere, delighted to have found a stranger sitting by a stream.

In that moment, my intuition returned to me after years of dormancy.  This happy boy means me no harm.  And his adult loves him.  I can tell.  What a refreshing twosome they are, walking hand in hand.

To better hear the man, I had to leave my rocky perch and make my way across the stream.  When I got to the other side, the man offered his hand to help me up the rocks onto the path.  It was evident very soon that neither of us understood a word the other said, in any language.  But we understood the boy.  And that was enough.

I think, by the man’s insistent gestures, that he was indicating that it was not in fact safe to sit by myself beside a stream, and that it would be a much better idea to follow him down the hill instead.  And I did so, watchfully, but without hesitation.  Of course we were headed back to the café.  I knew we would be.

The boy tried out his very few English words on me by way of greeting, and then gasped in wide-eyed surprise when I answered his “Salaam alaikum” with an easy “Wa’alaikum salaam.” 

“Arabia! Arabia!” he cried, and gazed at me, and at his adult, and back at me, wonder-filled at the idea that a white lady by a stream would be able to say some words that he could recognize.  

As we walked, the boy took my hand and swung it happily as I parroted his Arabic words back to him.  He patiently broke down each word into its respective syllables, correcting each barely perceptible error in pronunciation, giggling when I got it wrong and cheering when I got it right.  His adult laughed gently at the two of us, and I laughed back.  The mountains smiled.  The world smiled.

Back at the café, we sat at a table tucked into the side of the hill and continued the game.

The man disappeared briefly, and moments later someone returned with mint tea that I actually liked.  The boy turned out to be not entirely without guile, because I suspect that more than once he compelled me to parrot back an inappropriate word or two; but his adult stopped him, and so became the guileless one. 

The boy expressed concern when I indicated that I do not pray as he does.  I recognized some “Mohamed”s and “Allah”s in his language lesson, but again, his adult stopped him.  “She is not Muslim.  Don’t expect her to say those words.”  This I understood perfectly from his gestures and his respectful demeanor.  Again, the man intervened when the boy expressed concern that he could see my blondish hair peeking out from under my decidedly Western hat.  There was no disapproval from the adult.  Only a calm respect.  And the boy shifted his attention to the cats wandering up to our table.

“Shhh!” he said, finger to his mouth, creeping up to the cats with arm outstretched.  We became silent conspirators in the feeding of the cats.  The man laughed again, at the secrecy of the boy, and at the hilarious fact of feeding cats hobz (bread) instead of fish.

This intuitive understanding among us continued for some time as we sipped our tea, and I wondered what it would be like to live this life, instead of the life I now lead.  It cannot possibly be easy to raise a child such as this in a country without social services or specialized schooling.  In Casablanca, people with disabilities are confined to a life at home under the care of a parent or grandparent if they are lucky, and they end up on the streets when no one is left to support them.  But here is this boy, so clearly cherished, walking down a dirt road in perfect, blissful liberty.  Here is a boy who is going to be okay. 

It would be naïve to think that his family has an easy life; but there is a simplicity to it that I crave.  There is nothing necessary to this child’s happiness but the feeding of a kitten on a sunny afternoon in the hills.  And the man I take to be his father is happy, just to see the happiness of his child.

After a time, it occurred to me that there wasn’t a taxi in sight, and I had no idea how to go about getting home.  I carry the business card of my riad with me for times like this, so I have a way of indicating where I need to go, but the man (his name was Younes, I now know) took it to be an exchange of contact information, and offered me his phone number.  This I took, and gave him mine, without a qualm, knowing that a) an attempt communication by telephone would be utterly fruitless, and b) I’ll only have my Moroccan SIM card for one more week.

And so I took my leave, with a pleasant shaking of hands, and a bear hug from the boy, and walked to the café, where not a soul understood that I was in need of transport.  Having given away my business card, I could not indicate my desired destination.  But everyone was friendly and kind.  They indicated that I could sit down and have some tea, and were not at all offended when I declined.  Eventually they found an elderly French-speaking man, who understood my predicament immediately, and offered to drive me home if I could wait for half an hour.

Again, I considered the situation prudently, and my intuition led me to his car.  He was there with three remarkably well-behaved children and a clearly respectable young man.  He lived in Belgium, he explained, and was in Morocco visiting his nieces and nephews.  He was to be trusted.  I knew it.  An hour later, I was standing outside my riad in perfect security, not having dispensed a single dirham to a single person (because they only laughed and declined when I tried). 

And I felt human again.  I felt that “human” was a worthwhile thing to be, that there was, in fact, a preciousness about it.  That the people around me were precious.  That all would be well, in my heart and theirs.

I am returning soon to a different sort of landscape, where the human drive is one of survival and gain.  Where class disparities are deeply felt and opportunism is rampant.  Even here, in golden Tetouan, I must be wary of this possibility.  But I can return to the world with the conviction of a redeemed humanity.  Unsavoury experiences are only one small part of a bigger, broader reality.  My capacity for trust has returned, just in time for my exit from this place.

It was this boy (I know his name now) that cracked open my encrusted heart.  Thank-you Zayd, and thank-you, Younes, for decalcifying me.