A trip a long time ago.
On my own. Just the backpack. And a few ideas as to where the journey might lead.
To the south. Where the desert lures. The endless ocean of sand. The end of the world.
But sometimes things tend to develop their own will.
And so I missed the desert. Because a bus that was supposed to take me south did not show up.
But another bus turned up, and I was rewarded with something much more important.
A wonderful story.
I have written it down.
Here it is.
A Handful of black Dates
Salaam aleikum
Salaam aleikum or something similar, the poorly shaved, pockmarked man mutters, while he – with a sigh of relief – sits down next to me. I nod something welcoming – more out of surprise than out of courtesy. Bonjour.
I do not speak Arabic, I am not even sure if it is Arabic or one of those strange dialects spoken here south of the Atlas. So there's only French, the language of the conquerors, even if they have long since retreated, and I hope that this does not offend the man. "Ca va bien?" The silence following the greetings in my bumpy French is interrupted by the cawing of black birds flying over us with a mighty flap of their wings.
A gray-blue sky merging into shimmering stripes on the horizon is reflected in a half-blind window across the street. The strong, not to say acrid smell in the air is reminiscent of old schoolyards, of long forgotten barracks areas. Leaning with my back against the wall of a half-ruined house, I am waiting for the bus, which is hours overdue. But impatience is out of place, maybe it will arrive after all. Nothing is the way it seems.
I'm in Ouarzazade, Morocco.
The man is dozing with his head bent forward, his chin dropped to his chest. Quietly, his upper body sways back and forth. I watch him furtively out of the corner of my eye. The porous skin on his surprisingly muscular, shaved neck wrinkles as a coughing fit attacks him every few minutes. Occasionally, his hand reaches over his shoulder and carefully scratches his back. The hair is beginning to turn gray. I wonder how old he might be. A few years older than me in my thirties? He looks more like he's fifty. That's probably due to the climate, the poor diet, the struggle for survival. But he also radiates something that we Europeans have long since lost. A serenity that rests in itself, a distance from the things of this world.
Where is the bus?
I rise with a sigh and stand challengingly at the roadside, as if I might conjure up the bus. It is strange that we are the only ones waiting for the morning bus to Zagora. The bad-tempered patron of the hotel has assured me that it is advisable to get to the bus stop as early as possible. And with southern persuasiveness he reiterated several times that the bus to Zagora is never late, certainly not on a weekday. Today is Wednesday, you can't imagine a better weekday. Well, let's wait a little longer. Groaning, I sit down again. The man looks up briefly, his eyes veiled with fatigue. I shrug my shoulders and try to smile.
It is quiet, almost a little scary. In the distance the noise of clattering steps on the pavement. A door is slammed shut. A dog yelps and falls silent as a lordly voice calls him to quiet. An engine hums, is geared up, and fades in the distance. From time to time a silhouette emerges at the crossroad, only to get right back into the shadows round the next corner.
My taciturn friend continues to doze. Nothing and nobody can bring him out of his serenity. Well. Let's see how long my own serenity is going to last. There is nothing better to bridge the waiting time than a book. As I carefully search through the depths of my travel bag, I hum a song that has followed me for days. "Imagine me and you, I do, I think about you day and night, it's only right, so happy together."
Timschel
EAST OF EDEN, a bargain in a bookshop in Casablanca, where I searched literature about the Berbers. I could not resist the temptation. It's one of those books I might take to a desert island.
TIMSCHEL. The magic word.
I'm approaching the page I've been looking forward to. Where the worthy ancient Chinese learn Hebrew to find out the true meaning of the word TIMSCHEL.
Lee laughed out loud. “Well, now this is going to be fun. I wouldn't dare tell a lot of people about it. Can you imagine four old men, the youngest in his ninety years, setting out to learn Hebrew? They hired a learned rabbi and began studying like schoolboys. Starting points, then grammar, vocabulary, and finally writing down simple sentences. You just have to see it: Hebrew letters painted with a brush and Chinese ink! Writing from right to left was not as difficult for them as it would be for other people, since we write from top to bottom. Yes, these are people who go all out! They went to the root of the matter. "
"And you?" said Samuel.
“I joined in, amazed again and again at the glory of their lofty, clear brains. I began to love my race; for the first time I had the desire to be Chinese ...
A shaggy dog sniffs gently on my shoes. His eyes glitter in a strange light. Hunger. From afar a roar.
Marrakesh instead of Zagora
The monstrosity that turns the corner with a mighty roar is indeed written on, with barely visible letters and a thick layer of dust covering it, but if I'm not mistaken, it doesn't say ZAGORA - as eagerly expected - but MARRAKESH. It just can't be true. I gently nudge my sleepy companion, who has been calmly watching the arrival, with my finger: "Zagora?" The smile appearing on his face is so wide that I start laughing. He shakes his head violently. "Marrakesh"he mutters, and this time I have no trouble understanding him.
The driver is a tall, heavy man with a huge mustache; his clothes are baggy and full of stains, and his belly bulges out from under his shirt. At least - Ramadan might help him to get a better waistline. He is loading boxes into the luggage compartment when I try one last time. But the question receives a pitying shake of the head."Et le bus à Zagora?" The shrug tells everything. "Peut-etre un peu plus tard."
There it is now, the big question. ZAGORA. That means desert, the last place before the mighty wasteland. Gate to the Sahara. The dunes of Tinfou. The name melts on the tongue. Or MARRAKESH. Even more secrets. Djema al Fna. The place of the storytellers, the water sellers. The thousand varieties.
The last passengers get in. My friend packs up his belongings, but before entering the bus, he turns around. "Marrakesh?" he asks. I shake my head, still undecided. He taps on the dusty body of the bus. "Marrakesh!" he repeats urgently and smiles invitingly. What can I do against such persuasiveness? And besides - maybe the bus to Zagora will not come today. The prospect of another night in the bug-infested hotel is the final deciding factor.
Ben Hur. The Ten Commandments. Spartacus
The countryside floats by, in intense almost artificial colors, and yet archaic, somehow biblical. Almost like in old Hollywood movies. Ben Hur. The Ten Commandments. Spartacus. It wouldn't be surprised to meet Charlton Heston on the next turn, dressed in a toga and a spear in hand. Next to Kirk Douglas, with a grim expression on his face and a dimple on his chin.
I'm sitting in the back. I love the swaying, the swinging over the wheels which makes a lot of people seasick. My companion from the bus stop is sitting in front, where it's narrow and stuffy, but where everybody wants to sit. Not me. It will be a long ride, long, hot and uncomfortable. The springs, or whatever is hidden under the worn-down seats, painfully push through and turn sitting into a permanent torture. On the other hand, the car is quite clean. Even the windows, although covered with scratches, have recently been washed. So nothing stands in the way of curiosity, the desire to observe pictures racing by.
Tiny Villages like Jewels in the Middle of the Desert
There are only a few trees, like signposts in the barren landscape, and they bear witness to past times when the land was covered with forests. Then suddenly and unexpectedly houses appear, tiny villages shimmering like yellow jewels in the middle of the wasteland. One could almost call them beautiful if it weren't for those shabby dwellings that surround the village like sick growths. Every now and then a somebody at the roadside, with a serious thoughtful look, sometimes a crowd of barefoot children, laughing and noisy, following the bus until they disappear in a cloud of dust.
While the afternoon sun is burning down on a fantastic landscape, my thoughts wander back to that little estate in California … The true meaning of the word TIMSCHEL is still being debated.
With a trembling hand, Lee refilled the fragile bowls. After he had emptied his in one gulp, he called: “Yes, don't you notice? The American standard text commands man to prevail over sin, and sin can also be called ignorance. The King James Translation makes a promise in its "You will - thou shalt," which means that man is certain to prevail over sin. However, the Hebrew word of the original text, the word "timschel" - you can, thou mayest ", leaves a choice. It says the world is open to you. It relocates the decision in people. Because if “you can” is right, then “you can't” is also right. Do you understand?"
In my tired mind, the inner and outer worlds merge into one fantastic painting: Morocco, the Atlas Mountains, the venerable ancient Chinese, Lee, beside himself with excitement, and Samuel, riding over the prairie, and in between the reflection of my face at the windowpane; everything mixes, everything becomes one. I must have dozed off, because when I awake with a jerk, the sun has moved on quite a bit. I slept while driving by the top of the pass. It's downhill again, towards the wide plain, where Marrakesh lies.
Ramadan
The bus stops moaning; for a moment the engine vibrates at idle, then it dies. It is quiet all of a sudden. „Trente minutes.“ The chauffeur holds his hands in the air and shows the passengers what he understands by it. Thirty minutes stay. Stretching one's legs, breathing, massaging the painful back. Drinking something, secretly of course, so that nobody notices and gets annoyed. I don't want to annoy anyone.
The first cigarette, carelessly lit in the bus, had been pursued with covetous glances; but I noticed with astonishment that the male passengers seemed to follow the trail of smoke with bloated nostrils. But the rustling of the paper in which I had wrapped bread and dried meat made the murmuring die. The white-haired man, sitting in the row of seats next to me, turned his face. His previously peaceful expression disappeared in a matter of seconds as a hissing of indignation escaped from his toothless mouth. Several heads turned to me at the same time; my right hand, which was about to lead a deliciously fragrant piece of bread to my mouth, froze in the air. And then, finally, when the passenger sitting in front of me correctly interpreted my astonished facial expression and said in a hoarse voice the one word that explained everything, I understood.
Ramadan.
Delicious flavors
Most passengers get off; laughter and shouting accompanies them as they set themselves in motion. I look around. It seems to be a small town, in the distance the half-decayed remains of brown walls. A minaret, somehow pudgy and not as slim as most of the ones I have seen, rises like a hen above a flock of chicken. Some dust-covered cars honk between the people who, in dense clusters, are heading for a common goal. The air is filled with delicious aromas, the scent of spices, exotic fruits and roasted meat. My stomach contracts painfully. I haven't eaten for hours. The reason is simple, but it took me a long time to realize what was going on.
A colorful, sounding, fragrant Wave
Now, a few hours later, a kind of sympathizer in the secret confederation of fasting people, I feel quite proud at having successfully resisted the desire to eat and drink and smoke. Even though there's quite a doldrums in my stomach area and the idea of inhaling a cigarette deep into my lungs is almost mystical. The other passengers have long since disappeared around a corner. As I turn into the narrow alleyway, I suddenly hear the sound of music, the uniform humming of many voices, and I accelerate my steps involuntarily. A lot of people come towards me, carrying bales of cloth, clothes, crockery, tools over their shoulders. I squeeze past them and turn around the last corner.
I stand still for a moment, eyes closed, and take a deep breath. Long forgotten memories from childhood reappear as the impressions roll over me like a colourful, sounding, fragrant wave.
Amazement and Wonder
Then I open my eyes, full of amazement and wonder, and immerse myself in the vibrating crowd of people and let myself drift willingly, along the market stalls, where shiny dark children play, along coloured cloths spread out on the flat earth, behind them dignified women smiling at me, whispering and giggling behind my back. The market people shout and roar, guttural scraps of speech wash around me like sea spray, and somewhere in the distance, hardly perceptible, I hear the fat lazy sound of an organ or perhaps a hurdy-gurdy or some exotic musical instrument that I cannot identify. I don't care, because the feelings at this moment come closest to what I mean by happiness.
It is infinitely hot, a heat that hangs threateningly and heavily over the world, but perhaps only for me, because everywhere I look I see only relaxed laughing faces. People seem to come from far away to participate in this market. In the background, where the shade runs along the houses, there are vehicles and the animals. Now I remember the cars pulled by donkeys and mules that struck me on the way, the clouds of dust that pulled them behind me like sluggish haze.
A special Magic
It's a special magic. I let myself drift, freed from gravity, and float above the ground in a kind of enchanted trance that easily makes me look like a butterfly, and in everything I see, smell and hear I feel a strange familiarity. I follow my sense of hearing, the invisible soundtrack that leads me along the narrow streets, along fantastic accumulations of all imaginable sounds, from the big clear BUMBUMM of a drum to the soft, almost inaudible sound of a flute that a little girl plays, lost in thought, completely persevering in her own world.
A tremendous Roar of Trumpets and Drums
The clock shows three o'clock; soon it's time to go back to the bus. I turn around and walk back down the narrow alley between the market stalls. At the next turn-off I hesitate as I hear strange sounds from a little further up. I turn right and approach the upper part of the square, where there is a big crowd. A huge roar of trumpets and drums drowned out the noise. I squeeze myself between the people until I stand in the front row.
The man, with a bushy black beard and naked torso, stands motionless in the middle, his arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be made of granite: despite his average body size, he looks huge, with square shoulders and a swelling belly. His bald skull shines like a skull. Next to him sits a dwarflike little creature with crossed legs on a stool, blowing false notes on a trumpet and at the same time hammering onto a battered child's drum full of zeal. Then it becomes quiet. He puts the instrument aside and begins to speak with a loud, shrill voice. Then he falls silent; a wall of reverent silence surrounds the two.
The fire-eater still stands with closed eyes in the middle of a circle painted on the floor with yellow chalk; although it is pushed from behind, the magic circle remains untouched. Then the man opens his eyes as if he were returning from a distant land, claps his hands, and suddenly it becomes quiet. I have the impression that the noises in the background, which have nothing to do with the spectacle, are also softer, swallowed up by the strange atmosphere spreading among the numerous people. Then the fire-eater takes a torch and lights it; seconds later the resin hisses to the ground, and a yellow-black plume of smoke rises to the sky. Many pairs of eyes follow the rapidly flying swaths. My glances stick to the artist, who unnoticed lifts a bottle of a transparent liquid to his mouth. Then, when all eyes are on him again, he moves the torch to his mouth with a quick movement, and a mighty roaring flame rushes upwards.
The audience follows the performance with an open mouth. An awesome murmur swells up for a moment. The glances remain spellbound on the blazing fire. The sight of the flames jumping out of the mouth of the fire-eater and going out crackling moments later make me forget everything around me. The noises become quieter, can only be heard through cotton wool. I think I am under water, at the bottom of a deep sea.
A dark voice, which seems to be familiar to me, releases me from my trance. A hard fist grabs my upper arm and the voice sounds again. When I turn around, frightened, my gaze falls on the gently smiling face of my silent travel companion. He points to my wristwatch and in the direction of the bus stop. Damn it! With long jumps we hurry down the alley. The chauffeur stands with his arms crossed in front of his bus; blue diesel clouds escape from the vibrating exhaust. It's time. An ironic smile is drawn across his face for a moment; the wink shows me that he has understood. I smile back and get in. The bus begins to move, rumbling and swaying sluggishly like an overloaded Noah's Ark. On a hill, where the city sinks into the valley, I look back one last time. Somewhere between the houses I think I can see a dark cloud of smoke rising slowly into the sky and being tousled by the wind.
The Sun slips away
The sky's getting moldy. The redness of the setting sun fades, slowly only, in tiny, barely perceptible steps, and yet it slips away. The monotonous roar of the engine has been the only sound during the last hour. The cheerful voices have fallen silent; some passengers are dozing in their seats with an unexpressive face, others are sinking down, asleep, dreaming, perhaps of the food that awaits them tonight, perhaps of their first cigarette, of a glass of cool water.
"Me too," said Lee. “But in the afternoon I smoke my two pipes, no more and no less, as the people in front did and do. And then I feel like a person. And I realize that man is a most significant thing, arguably more significant than a star. This is not a thelogy. I have no preference for the gods. But I have called a new love for the sparkling tool, human soul. A wonderful, a unique instrument in space. It is always exposed to attack, but it is never destroyed - on the basis of the "You can, thou mayest."
I lean my hot forehead against the window pane and watch the sunset, this daily miracle, as if it were the first or the last time. A feeling of shame is stirred up for a tiny moment as I notice the tears gathering in my eyes. But how can we face this pathos, this daily celebration of the transience of beauty and the beauty of transience other than with tears?
The moment of truth has come. Dark veils cover the last rust red rebellion of light on the horizon, suddenly the world loses strength and stability, becomes transparent like a ghostly veil. The prophet says something about the moment when a white thread can no longer be distinguished from a black one. Then – finally – the daily fast ends.
A Handful of black Dates
But it's still light. The strangely dressed man, probably an Islamic clergyman sitting next to the chauffeur, rises. The murmur of the passengers ebbs, a ghostly silence suddenly sinks over the colourfully mixed company. The man – he is tall and slim – reaches into his pocket, takes a wet shiny plastic bag out. For a moment his gaze floats solemnly over the person present, as if he wanted to preach a sermon … Then his gaze lowers, he reaches into the bag and takes a small object from it and presses it into the hand of the next passenger with a mumbled word. The passenger bends down and pleasurably puts the object into his mouth; the clergyman steps from row to row, slowly, deliberately, with great serious dignity. Again and again his hand slides into the bag, gazes into the eyes of the recipient of his gift for a brief moment, sometimes smiling.
As he approaches the back row of seats, where I have been sitting alone for some time, I suddenly notice that I hold my breath. A few more steps, I hear the muffled murmur of thanks, the bright voice of the man standing in front of me, whom I recognize now as a young man, barely as old as I am. Perhaps I am just confused, but I am not alone with this feeling as I notice his own confusion. I look at him, smiling, perhaps almost a little apologetic for the fact that I am here, I, the nonbeliever, the stranger, so out of place at this moment.
It has become even more quiet. The heads of the passengers in front of me are turned toward us. A pensive smile suddenly lightens the man’s face. He reaches into the bag, takes out one of the last dates, and places it in my hand. With a slight bow, he turns around and walks slowly back to his seat. Numerous eyes follow him as he lets himself silently sink into his chair.
The date in my hand is light and at the same time heavy like a stone. An unexpected feeling of happiness floods me. I stare at the date, almost a little awed. At this moment I feel connected with these strange figures in their shapeless dresses and wool hats on their heads. Perhaps man is indeed a highly important being, more important than a star …
And I still feel the sticky feeling of the date in my hand. When I eat it, only the memory remains. A picture emerges (another one), a narrative that seems wonderfully invented for me, though perhaps not true, and while I stare at the date in my hand, the bus continues as if nothing had happened.
Good old Friends
Later - it has now turned pitch dark - the bus pulls up in front of a dimly lit building and stops. Quickly and with astonishing elegance, the passengers, appearing tired and exhausted just a moment ago, leave the car and head for the interior of the building. It appears to be some sort of pub, as barely recognizable creatures move in the semi-darkness behind a dimly lit counter, sounds of dishes and pans accompanying their footsteps. People line up in an orderly fashion, more exemplary than outside a London bus stop, waiting for food. I get in line as well. When it is my turn, after a short hesitation - un étranger! - a bowl is thrust into my hand, and immediately the deliciously fragrant contents of an indefinable menu spill out right to the edge of the plate.
I sit down with my travel companion; quietly and happily we sit next to each other and eat the well-deserved meal after a hard day. I am so hungry that I am not even bothered by the strange taste, nor by the lumps that float on the surface of the soup, hardly recognizable in the semi-darkness, and which exude a peculiar smell. It will be okay. My maternal grandfather left me a stomach that would also digest stones in an emergency.
It's strange: we don't know each other, nobody knows each other's names, we can't talk, we both come from different cultures, we both saw each other for the first time today, and it's questionable whether we'll ever see each other again. Nevertheless, we just sit there like good old friends, eat, drink, smoke a cigarette, smile at each other occasionally, almost a little shyly.
Thou mayest.
The journey ends. I get off, alone, the bus is almost empty. At the window I recognize the narrow silhouette of my friend. I wave to him, he nods, smiles.
The bus disappears in a magnificent cloud of dust, spraying the night sky with fine sand. In the distance, the monotonous hum of the engine fades. And only now I hear the chirping of the cicadas, the soft sounds of the night. I can't resist a quiet feeling of loss, maybe it's just the loneliness that makes itself felt after the long hours on the bus. I take my bag and turn around decisively. In front of me lies the city, brightly lit, roaring and murmuring. Somewhere, between the walls, the houses, the streets and alleys lies my destination. Djema al Fna. The place of the storytellers. The water sellers. I breathe deeply. And once again there it is, the feeling of intimacy. Déja vu from another life.
Timschel. Thou mayest.
[The italicized sections are from East of Eden by John Steinbeck]
And here we go to one Roman, which cost me a lot of time and energy, but was still a lot of fun ...
