Shukrī Muḥammad - Streetwise

A s I got off the bus I was accosted by a dirty, barefoot kid who couldnt have been more than 10 years old.

Looking for a hotel, mister?

Souq el Kubaybat? Where can I find Souq el Kubaybat?

Follow me.

He looked me up and down and then, glancing at my shabby suitcase, offered to carry it for me. I said no thanks, but I gave him 5 Spanish centimes anyway and he went off happily. The market was packed. There were all the usual food shops, and stalls selling clothing, both new and secondhand. Some people strolled about in the marketplace, while others just sat and watched in the early evening sun. I could hear the sound of Arabic-language radios coming from some of the shops.

After wandering round the market for a while, I asked one of the secondhand clothes sellers where I could find Mr Abdullahs caf. He gestured vaguely across the market, and then ambled off shouting his wares to all and sundry.

To the left of the caf door stood a wooden counter with falafel, fried fish, boiled eggs and a stack of black bread laid out on it, all swarming with flies. Indoors, next to the stove, was a long table with men sitting round it, playing cards. Others were sitting round smaller tables, and most of them were smoking kif. It was obvious from their faces and their clothes that they were poor.

A few of them registered my arrival. I sat at a small, dirty table over in one corner and ordered a mint tea from the man at the counter I presumed he was Mr Abdullah. The kif was being sold by an elderly man sitting next to me, who reminded me of Afiouna in Mr Mohs caf in Tangier. I bought some. He provided me with a shaqfa from his pouch. Whenever I asked him for a sabi, he passed me the shaqfa, filled with kif. I would then pass it back and he either drew on it or handed it on to one of the men sitting next to him.

When Mr Abdullah brought the tea, I asked if he knew the whereabouts of Miloudi, a friend of Hassan el Zailachi.

I havent seen him for at least three days.

As the evening wore on, homesickness and the combined effects of the kif and my hunger began to get the better of me. I chatted with the men in the caf. We shared our teas, passing them around. I felt comfortable with them. I told them about life in Tetuan and Tangier and they told me what was going on in Larache. One of them said:

Its like they say: people cry because theyve never seen Tangier but once youve seen it, then youll cry too.

The others chimed in:

A city with a history like that would win anyones heart.

The trouble is, the citys grown ugly, with all the prostitution.

Yes, but theres still a lot thats beautiful. And a lot of ancient history too.

I mooched around in the doorway, wondering how to get something to eat. Even nowadays, every time I find myself ordering a meal in a caf I remember those flies around the door as I went in. Mind you, under normal circumstances theres no food Id turn my nose up at.

I was getting fed up with sitting there and looking at all those stupefied, depressing faces. I was also having difficulty keeping my eyes open. By now most people had left the caf, and the chairs and tables were floating before my eyes in a kind of haze. I noticed that there were three rooms leading off from the caf. Two of them were locked, but poor-looking people were coming in and out of the third one. As far as I could see, it had bamboo matting on the floor for people to sleep on. I toyed with the idea of asking Mr Abdullah about the price of a bed for the night there, but I knew that I couldnt afford it. I needed to hang onto my money I had no idea what this town might have in store for me.

As I sat there half asleep, Mr Abdullah tapped me on the shoulder.

Were locking up now.:

There were still three men smoking kif around one of the card tables. I asked Mr Abdullah if I could leave my bag with him till the following day. He said it would be alright, but he wanted to check what was in it, so I had to show him two largesh framed pictures, a pair of trousers, two shirts and a pair of socks.

I wandered around the backstreets of the town. No sign of night watchmen or shop security guards. No cars either. Not like Tangier. By this time it must have been well past midnight. I carried on walking for a bit. A town like this wasnt the sort of place to scare you.

It was a mild, moonlit night. I strolled along the promenade overlooking the sea. The night lights were sparkling on the waves. I thought about the nightlife in Tangier, and the way the city lures you to the very edge of death. I thought of the sea-fishing. Places flashed into my minds eye: Ras el Manar, Mala Bata, the Caves of Hercules, Sidi Qanqush, El Marisa, El Ramel Qal.

There I was, completely on my own. The moon kept vanishing behind clouds and then reappearing. As I walked through the municipal park I bent down to pick a beautiful white flower, but it had no smell. A forlorn beauty. A flower with no scent. That was probably why nobody had picked it already and it had been left there to grow. In the end, it would either wither and die or be trodden underfoot. On that particular night, I felt I had nothing to lose. I was like that flower, I thought, as I crushed it between my fingers. I could sleep there, or anywhere at all.

The breeze coming off the sea woke me up a bit. I returned to Kubaybat and sought shelter under one of the arches around the square. I squatted against a wall, folded my arms across my knees and rested my head on them. There was no sign of anyone around, no sound of footsteps or anything like that. I dont remember having any thoughts at all. My mind was a blank, as if it had been washed out. Even when I thought about my favourite music, the tunes came into my head and then just disappeared. I had a slight headache, and a throbbing in my brain. It was as if I could hear the beating of my own heart. This was probably the effect of the hunger in my guts and the fact that I was stoned.

It was still early when I woke. My bladder was bursting and my urge to piss was giving me a hard-on. The Plaza de Espaa was slowly beginning to fill with people. I bought a pesetas worth of doughnuts. In the toilet of the Caf de Espaa my piss shot up like a fountain, wetting my hand and my trousers. I ordered a milky coffee. The caf was used by people waiting for buses. Mr Abdullahs caf wasnt open yet.

I caught a bus to Hayy Jadid, which was where I would find the Mutamid ben Abbad School. The area was pretty desolate all cactus and scrub and dust and garbage and wasteland. The housing there consisted mainly of tin shacks or brick-built huts, occupied by bedouin whose appearance was as grim as their tattered clothes. I watched their children shit and piss right next to the huts, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

When I asked the school janitor if I could talk to the headmaster, he asked: