1987 The beginning of the journey, Chefchaouen captivates the minds of its guests, how beautiful it is
Part 2
In 1987, I obtained my agricultural qualification certificate during the summer, at the end of the school year. I returned to Khouribga, but all I could think about was traveling and searching for work. I decided to begin my journey like a bird leaving its parents’ nest for the first time. I asked my father for travel money. I remember he sold a quintal of barley and gave me 80 dirhams. It was 5:30 PM when I decided to leave. I went to the bus station, bought a train ticket from Khouribga to Rabat, and boarded the train. I remembered my mother and siblings, and on the other hand, my fate and what would happen to me during the journey. I had no previous experience. Sometimes I controlled myself; other times I gave in to weakness and cried silently. If people were not around, I would have screamed to relieve my heart.
When I arrived in Rabat, I sat at the bottom of the station for a while. When I got up, two secret police officers stopped me and asked for my ID, but I only had a delivery note. After several questions, they let me go and directed me to a café that stays open all night in Bab Al-Had. I arrived and sat alone at a table among many people inside and outside the café. I ordered a cup of coffee and sat quietly. It was cold, and sometimes a cold breeze passed by. I shivered and noticed a man who caught my attention since my arrival; he was sitting in another chair far from me but kept moving closer each time I nodded off or was distracted until he sat opposite me at the same table. He greeted me and ordered tea for me. He began asking questions as if trying to trick and spy on a small child to get what he wanted.
He said, “Why are you staying here when I have a place to stay, food, and everything?” From his military uniform, I understood he was a soldier working in a high-ranking officer’s household. I refused to go with him, but he kept pressing me with words. Around 2 AM, people began leaving. He grabbed my backpack and started walking ahead of me. I asked him to leave me and my bag alone, but he didn’t stop. Suddenly, I saw a blue light that caught my attention. I approached and read the sign on the gate: Police Station. The man was about to cross it, so I screamed, “Help me, help me!” He threw my bag and ran away. Luckily, no one from the police or others came out. I ran back to the café, sat until dawn, and then took a bus to Ouezzane, arriving at 9 AM. It was the weekly market day. I rested away from everyone and started hearing mountain songs playing from loudspeakers at cassette and medicine vendors. I felt lonely for the first time and cried alone, feeling a heavy heart. I raised my hands to the sky, begging God and crying:
“O Lord, my injustice is known only to You. I am in a land where I have no protector except You. I have no help to overcome hardships but You. Guide me to a land where I can settle and protect me from the evil You created. You are capable of everything.”
A bus arrived, and someone shouted, “Chefchaouen, who’s going to Chefchaouen?” I approached quietly and asked about the ticket price. I bought one and learned that the tickets had almost sold out since I only had 8 dirhams left. I arrived in Chefchaouen and, speaking French well, I went to a café and sat alone. A French tourist sat near me, playing with a beautiful ink pen on the table. Three children aged five or six asked her to give them the pen. She asked me with a smile, “What do they want?” I said, “They want the pen.” She said, “No, I won’t give it to them.” I told the children what she said, and they left. I stood up and left her.
I then met two men in dirty, ragged clothes. I asked them to help me, even if it was only by telling me the way or where to go later. They asked me where I was from. I said, “Khouribga.” They felt sorry for me and asked me to join them. Before that, another man from the area joined them. We entered the café. One of them took a plate of bean soup floating with spices and olive oil and bread. After I ate, they gave me a big glass of green tea with mint. They bought me a pack of Casablanca cigarettes and gave me 10 dirhams. I bought a ticket to travel to Tetouan. But I spent the night with them in a large mosque well known in Chefchaouen, where many people stay. After Maghrib prayer, a guard distributes mats made of straw. That night was the best I saw on my journey: people with lanterns glowing with different lights, some powered by gas and some by candles, and voices echoing beautifully, reflecting the local customs and traditions. The place was outdoors.
We slept in that place exactly. My new friends sold rat and scorpion poison, mixing it with cheap flour to make profits. That night, they mixed it again. After the dawn call to prayer, we gathered everything. I drank harira soup, ate bread, and drank tea, then said goodbye. They left before me. A bus came that morning heading to...