Driftwood & Fortune

A series of fingers lead us to the edge of the city. Johann and I get off the bus and, stalling only momentarily, and momentarily again, begin toward the border. We walk in a wide dusty trough wedged between a small mountain and a series of closed booth windows. To our right stands a line of people in resplendent garb, draped heavily as the sacks that hang from their working hands. They wear jellabas, pointed hats, turbans, scarves, and leather sandals—all hand made and sold in the medinas. The line reaches the length of the corral that holds it straight, and farther.

We choose the low road and a guard tells us to turn back and take the high route. Up here, a guard tells us we should take the low road. The first guard smiles as we pass. We come to the line at the booth that stamps the passports and take our places at the backside of the half circle. Within twenty minutes we reach arms length of the window and with the help of a German who had been through this a few times before, we are ready to go within a half hour. At the final gate we have our passports checked again.

As all this takes place, beyond the colorful caged line, over the fences, and above the security guards—on the hill, streams a line of people carrying sacks, baskets, bags and barrels. On their shoulders, tied to their backs, hands full—they make their way in the same direction we have.

The guard, after close inspection, lets us cross. We enter a muddy lot with seldom a dry patch to place a step and a swarm of cars. We make our way to the right, following our German guide. A tarp fortress niched in the hillside provides a base for the hill walkers to stash and later distribute their imports. Cars come and go, choking as they breathe and full of commodities.

I ask Johann where we are going. ‘We just follow,’ he replies.

The German goes right for the taxi section that takes up a good quarter of the lot in front of the commerce hub. Surrounded with offers, he clearly states his own until accepted. We get in the car with him.

The taxi ride lasts 15 minutes, bumping along, as the German gives us insight on the whole place. On arrival in a small town, the German leads us to a mid-size bus—our only option to continue. We board and wait. Forty-five minutes later we arrive in Tetuan. From here we find transportation linked with the rest of the country.

CADÍZ.- A Moroccan security unit of the Marina Real stopped 15 illegal immigrants off the coast of Alhuceima that were trying to secretly reach the Spanish coast in a pneumatic boat.

In one of the largest waves of immigrants recorded this year, nearly 800 undocumented Moroccans were detained this past weekend on the Spanish coastline.

Pedro and Rosa had just traveled down through the High Atlas six months back. They recounted me their tales from their apartment in Elche. They spoke with a passion that put their pictures to shame and assured me I could stay with locals.

Pedro gave me directions to the same Berber village where they had stayed. They lived with one family for a week and learned to milk cattle and tend to the house. The meals were plentiful and the days—casually packed. They had no common language with their host family, yet they spoke lavishly of their communication.

“Be careful,” Pedro said. “Don’t let them know you have money. Little things show a person’s status, like the crisp color of your backpack or your nationality.” Their host family owned the only car in the village. I tell my host family I’m from Spain.

The children showed Pedro and Rosa the village and how the town came to life, sound by sound, at sunrise. First, the roosters awoke, followed by a conversation between neighbors, and the creaking of the bucket being pulled from the well on the kitchen patio. In the afternoon the children took Pedro and Rosa into the mountains to see the nomads. The nomads live in caves. They survive from foraging with their donkeys. Some families in the village have a donkey. Many have sheep.

I am given a yellow jellaba to wear during my host family’s ceremony for the slaughter of Abraham. On this day, each family sacrifices a sheep and celebrates. While in this robe, a girl from the village approaches me. She also wears a yellow jellaba. Her brother relates her message to me in English. She asks for my hand in marriage. He assures me that she makes good kefta and tajine, and that I would get the chance to learn Berber, Arabic and French. I would have to move to Ouarzazatte where her family resides, and I could accept by taking her outstretched hand.

Rosa warned me to always negotiate the price beforehand. ‘No matter what,’ she said. ‘In Morocco, all prices are open to discussion.’ From clothing to lodging—even the weight of peanuts and oranges—I argue the price. Rosa told me to blend in the best I could. She said Johann and I should take the ferry from Algeciras; the Moroccans leave from this port and it costs less than Gibraltar.

Pedro assured me I would be safe. ‘Just give the locals respect,’ he told me. ‘Here in Spain the people don’t give them respect. They are smart.’ I meet people who speak five languages and know the seasons like clockwork. ‘The Berber are wonderful people,’ Pedro said. ‘People are just trying to survive.’

MADRID.- Eight pregnant women, 2 children between 6 and 21 months, and 183 other immigrants ‘without papers’ were detained yesterday after they reached the Spanish coast in Cádiz after crossing the straight in fragile pneumatic boats.

The majority of them have been transferred to the police station in Algeciras where they will be returned to their respective countries. The women remain, along with some injured in the Punta Europa Hospital in Algeciras.
Laurent rang me back from Paris on a Wednesday. ‘Essaoira is beautiful and you should go there. Everywhere you look you’ll just want to take pictures. But be careful, cause you’re not supposed to take pictures of women. Actually, they think photography steals their soul.’

I learn that I can take any picture—teapots, graveyards, women—all I must include is a small donation. This donation is made larger if whom I take the picture of, or whom I take the picture near, follows me long enough. I tell them I can’t speak English because they tell me they can.

Laurent warned that no matter what the item, since I am a tourist, the price will be ten times as much. He informed me that I would reach a point where I become exausted and won’t even want to eat. ‘Be prepared,’ he said.
‘ If you travel between cities, it’s better to take collective taxis. You can find them right on the outskirts of the cities.’ The collective taxis are also more efficient because no matter what the bus schedule says, the bus leaves when it becomes full. Of course, I have to dispute the price but there is no other way. Laurent speaks French; I have no local language in which I can argue.

I learn that agreeing on a price does not mean agreeing on a number of people that can fit in the taxi. The taxi stops often, sometimes to fill the radiator, sometimes for another rider. Every person receives their own price. The driver laughs only once as we cross the desert when a man stops in the middle of the road ahead of us, throws a long walking stick, and pegs a running camel in the backside. After a sideways hop, the camel keeps running to our right as we pass. The man raises his hands in anger. His herd forages to our left.

Laurent recommended me a hostel in Fez where he spent several nights. With the warm evenings you could drink tea late and chat with other travelers on the terraced roof. ‘Ask for room 27; you can relax up there,’ he said.

ALGECIRAS - This morning in Tarifa, the Guardia Civil stopped 56 undocumented Subsaharan and Magrebian immigrants when they tried to secretly reach the peninsula on board a Zodiac in which they used to cross the straight. Among them were 12 women.

According to a spokesperson of the Red Cross, the immigrants, which apparently included one pregnant woman, were found in good physical condition.

When Cristina’s mother wouldn’t tell her what lie on the dinner table, her appetite waned. She always wanted a horse and eating one did not do away with these dreams. Cristina explained to me that her parents taught her to eat when food was available; money was hard to come by and her father did all he could.

Every six months the family’s visas needed to be renewed. At first her father took the whole family up to the border to renew the papers. Quickly, he learned the local culture. Much trouble could be saved with a little persuasion. He began making the trip to Tangier and back, alone—with the family’s five visas in hand.

At first they turned him away at the counter. With a little persistence, he could convince them to a cup of tea in the back room. The Moroccans are passionate about their tea.

The tea ritual happens more frequently than the call to prayer. A single customs official will go to prepare it. Once the teapot boils he will bring it to the table. A very large amount of sugar will be added. The first cup is poured from high above the glass, and then back from the glass into the teapot. This is done two or three times. Now the tea can be served.

In the back room, Cristina’s father would ask them again to stamp the visas. They would say no and return to chatting over tea. For hours they would say no and for hours he would calmly lean forward, push his pile of visas across the table, and return to his tea.

Cristina’s family lived in Marakesh for three years under tourist status. Her father worked with locals, selling carpets and contracting improvements in small villages. Over dinner in Granada, her family told me stories of their stay. They foretold of the beauty I would find in the people, the lively bustle of the marketplace and the syncopated roar of the call to prayer, five times a day.

Her mother suggested that Johann and I enter through Ceuta; she said the cultural transition would be easier in a typical Mediterranean city and customs is done on land. We return via Tangier—our other option to cross the border. Customs for the Tangier route is done on disembarking the ferry.

GRANADA.- Seven North Africans were caught in the back of a freight truck in Andalucia. The truck had a hollow shell with just enough space for the group to travel standing and carry a bottle of water and something little to eat in their pockets. See diagram.

We return to the port in Tangier fleeing—two days earlier than planned. As we approach the front of the customs pile in Algeciras, an Arab, who has already passed through, raises his voice as a security guard grabs him. Four more guards help drag the man to the ground.

The group of us who had yet to cross says, “Ooooh.” One of the guards circles in front of us and, as he holds a calm palm in the air, says, “Tranquilo.” The man is then allowed to get up, and with his bleeding head, grab his luggage and continue with his day.

TARIFA - President of the Council of Andalucia asked for an investigation into the death of an immigrant last night in Tarifa which resulted after he was pursued by agents of the Guardia Civil.

The president regrets that another attempt to cross the Gibraltar straight by those who have hopes of arriving in a ‘Paradise’ far from their homelands, only results in death.

I skipped two weeks of my twin size bed to take this trip. I fought over prices and cursed at those who would not leave me alone when I asked them. In my new sandals, I left the country with haste, bought three of my favorite pastries as I left, closed my eyes as I crossed the border and as the bus started for Madrid, I reclined the seat and exhaled.