Welcome café with Hasan and the boy
On June 4th, 2018, we didn't cycle much, we took a tempo vehicle from Agadir and got dropped off, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, just beyond the Anti-Atlas. Our plan was to cycle towards Taroudant from there.
We got off the taxi, snapped our tandem together using the couplers. Tim and I looked at the sun and then at each other, we were just an hr or so away from sunset. It made no sense to try and cycle then. We weren’t near any big town and it being Ramadan, not many things would be open. We decided to cycle into the village and stay there for the night and have an early start the following morning.
We must’ve cycled about 25 feet and were stopped by a kid! He ran out of a mini shop screaming “Regarde le velo, regarde le velo” (see the bike). The boy must’ve been 9 or 10 yrs old. He was not Morrocan, but his deep African features shined through his albino skin. He asked us to stop and said, “Venez-ici.” Being totally intrigued by the boy, we decided to stop for tea.
Hasan, a middle-aged man, came out of the café and invited us with a beautiful smile. Before we knew it, he had offered us tea and snacks, while he was fasting for Ramadan. The boy was jumping with glee and wanted to know all about our travels.
We felt like gypsy magicians, out of a Gabriel Marquez novel, telling travel tales to a village boy.
Hasan asked the boy to calm down and let us rest. He said the boy was from Guinea and was brought to Morocco by his parents. The boy studied at the village Madrasa, an Islamic school, while his parents worked in France. The moment I heard that, my heartfelt heavy even though the boy looked happy. I had read some stories of people with albino skin prosecuted in parts of Africa, as they were considered to be devils. But I found relief in the fact that the boy had escaped a horrible death. At least in the Madrasa, he lived a peaceful life.
The sun had set and it was time for the boy to return to his school. He absolutely wanted us to visit his Madrasa. Hasan discretely advised us not to go there. He subtly suggested that we might not be very welcome there. A rule in traveling — know when to listen to the locals! The boy left only when Hasan said that we’ll visit him the next morning. Although, I knew in my heart that I will think of him again and again, but never see him…again.
We continued our evening with Hasan. His hospitality was true to the name of his place, café Welcome! He didn’t ask us to purchase but simply kept feeding us. In fact, when we tried to pay him before we left, he refused and we had to force him to take the money. He also asked us to spend the night inside his shop. I was a little hesitant, I had never slept in a stranger’s home, leave alone in a shop, ever in my life. But Tim looked confident and we stayed.
The evening went smoothly, he took us to his friend’s home to pick up some vegetarian stew for me, for dinner. Then he said his daily prayers and we sat down for a simple delicious meal. Hasan told us about his life in Ida Ougnidif. He had never married and when we asked why, with a glint in his eye and a smile on his lips, he said — “ Nobody is ready to give me his daughter as I do not have enough wealth… but one day perhaps, you never know.” Moroccans who had made a better life for themselves had bought land in this part of the country and set up a café shop for the village. Hasan was just managing it and was dependent on these foreign-settled people to pay him a salary whenever they visit.
After dinner, a bunch of people (only men) came to his shop. They smoked but didn't drink, as it was Ramadan. They also played cards and joked around. I noticed that Hasan was looking at me from the corner of his eye… he wanted to ensure that I’m wasn't disturbed by his customers.
Café Welcome was actually a meeting point for the village locals, men, and animals, young and old. Although I was surrounded by men, it didn’t make me nervous and Tim was relaxed too. We met a young musician, who worked in Casablanca, but had come home to his village for Ramadan. He played us some of his favorites. I played him my favorite Sufi inspired song, by an Indian artist, sung in old Punjabi language. The musician enjoyed it and hope you do too. Here you go….
♪♪ Bulla ki jaana maen kaun…
Bulleya! to me, I am not known
Not a believer inside the mosque, am I
Nor a pagan disciple of false rites
Not the pure amongst the impure
Neither Moses nor the Pharoh….♪♪
–
Finally, the men went home and we retired to bed. Tim and I spread our mats on the floor and went to sleep feeling grateful for the new friendships we had made. Hasan put three chairs together and lay on it like it was nothing new to him.
Dear Hasan,
Meeting you was like meeting my uncle! You’re not a stranger to us and this cannot be the first time we met. You took care of us even when we didn’t ask for it, that’s what a family does. Thank you for giving us a ‘warm welcome.’ You showed us a way of humanity, beyond the sketicism and violence fed to us by the media. For this, we will remember you and the little boy …. You have very little and you gave us everything.
Khuda hafiz, Shukraan jazilaan lak,
Vasu and Tim
