A Single Swallow (30 page)

In the hotel that night I ask a man in a big leather jacket for a light. Ali is smoking a cigar. We talk, and he looks distressed that anyone should contemplate eating in the dining room when there are better places in town. We are soon in a taxi, whose driver Ali knows, and then in a dark street near the port where Ali rings a bell. A door opens, cautiously at first, then is flung wide when he is recognised. Inside, we pass through light and warmth and a press of men drinking beer to a staircase which leads up to a room in which men and women crowd around a U-shaped counter, which surrounds a smoking grill. We eat succulent lamb chops and drink lager as Ali talks of the wonders of Algeria I will not have time to see. The Kabyle, he says, in the north-west, is like Paradise. Fruit trees, orchards, valleys of flowers, sharp-crested mountains, virgin coves fringing a crystalline sea: ‘You must go to the Kabyle!' he cries. ‘But you must go with me or someone who knows it, a good driver, because there is still trouble there. They hate the
Pouvoir
.'

And Oran, he said, you must go to Oran, and beyond, round and down into the desert, where his family lived, I would always be welcome there. Ali was a businessman; I was never quite clear what his business was, exactly, except that it took him to France, to Lyons,
often, and to Marseilles, which he loved because it was like Algiers, and to our hotel, where he stayed when he was in town.

‘This man', he introduced us, ‘is the patron of this restaurant. His father ran it before him. This place has survived everything – this is the true Algiers!'

There was an air of freedom and relish laced into the meaty smelling smoke from the grill. Women swigged bottles of beer, men laughed and flirted; we all seemed to smoke, eat and drink at the same time.

‘In Algiers no one says “go for a swim” but rather “indulge in a swim”, Camus writes. ‘The implications are clear.'

I thought of places where I wanted to live, of Tsumeb, of the valley between Zambia, Mozambique and Malawi, and of Makoua, and I thought of places where I have lived, like London, Palermo, Grenoble and West Wales, and it seemed to me that I could find something of all of them in Algeria, and I did not want to leave. The next morning my visa expired.

The border between Algeria and Morocco is closed, the consequence of an old dispute about Algeria's support for the people of the western Sahara whose land has been annexed by Morocco. One can only marvel at this mighty handicap to the entire region's development: Algerian resources and Moroccan connections to Europe and the West would be a formidable combination. The only way to the Straits of Gibraltar, the great crossing point for people and birds, is via air. My flight went to Casablanca. At the airport they returned my binoculars. I will come back, I swore, I will come back by sea, accompanied, when I have found her, by the woman I will marry, and I will give something of my time to Algeria.

 

IT IS LATE
March, springtime in the Mediterranean. Fleeing the horrors of the European winter, which this year has been cold and brutal, refugees from the higher latitudes converge on the rim of North Africa. Exhausted by their jobs, drained by the strain of months of rain, darkness and prolonged exposure to newspapers, the travellers, tourists, families, lovers and bargain hunters come in their thousands, heading for the Jerusalem of the Leisure Age, Marrakech, the city under the High Atlas. For the fortunate majority, a swift cheap flight brings relief, and freedom. But for those who are not so lucky, or more curious, or who simply hold their lives and fortunes less dear, there is a notorious stopping point on the way to their year's first sun: the greatest port of the eastern Atlantic – Casablanca!

‘Where are the swallows?' I kept being asked, in text messages and emails, during those days in Morocco. Friends and family in Britain were waiting for them, straining to see them, worried about them – and I laughed. I knew exactly where they were. The television forecasts showed rain and snow over Britain, storm systems over western Europe, and a clear break, like a bubble of warmth and fair weather over Spain, the Maghreb and West Africa. The swallows were moving with this bubble, as surely as if guided by an unseen hand. The vanguard were all around me; on the road from the airport to the city I watched them hunting the edges of fields, cutting in and out among tall trees. In rainy weather when there are not many flying insects, the birds sometimes brush trees and bushes to dislodge prey.

I had been to Casablanca before. The first time I arrived, the taxi drivers at the airport refused to take me into town, saying it was too expensive – why not take the bus? But things had changed; now it was all hard bargaining and my driver was moody, unsatisfied at the price we had agreed. Casablanca is the most European of Moroccan cities. The traffic and the pace of life have a European bustle about them. It is as though, so close to the bright lights and bank accounts of Europe, something of Africa's ease and philosophy have been burned away, as though our wealth acts like a fire, searing away the human in favour of the economic. At the same time, Casablanca is and always has been a trading town, a centre of business and commerce, and it is home, I knew from experience, to the champion hustlers of all Morocco. The second time I came here I ended up financing an impromptu holiday for two girls, one brother, two children and a cook. This time, having come so far, I was confident that I could take care of myself. I was, in fact, overconfident.

Edith Piaf used to stay in the hotel I chose: perhaps I was lavish. Certainly I went out for lunch, without change. The beautiful blue 200 dirham note is a flag with ‘eat me!' all but written on it. I tried, at a very pleasant little hole in the wall full of students where a charming kebab-seller prepared a delicious kebab and a helpful young man was doing bits and bobs: tearing up paper for napkins, etc. The bill was 15 dirhams (including a drink and all the trimmings); I gave the young man the note and never saw either again.

I was furious and the kebab-seller most distressed. He had no idea who the boy was, he protested. I waited, hunted about a bit, went around the block, stalked the hole in the wall like a tiger creeping up on a lamb . . . It was barely therapy. And there were still the 15 dirhams. I said I would pay tomorrow, after I had caught the bastard, and strangled him. Smiling sadly, the kebab-seller said I could have it on the house.

It would have been a good moment to go down to the port, to kick through the sardine and diesel juice on the quays and admire the crews lounging about in the sun on their wooden fishing smacks.
Instead, bloody-minded, I decided to go back to Edith's, unpeel another note from the dwindling roll, and have the afternoon I had planned: a walk, a drink somewhere, maybe an adventure, who knows, a fish supper: it was Casablanca, after all.

‘Be careful!' said a voice, as I stepped into the road.

‘What?'

‘I said be careful,' he said, reasonably, as we crossed together. It was barely a street, more a break between two of the new town's shaded colonnades. He was a little taller than me, with a handsome nose, eyes like bright wet ink and a slightly threadbare tweed jacket.

‘The road.'

‘Thanks,' I said witheringly. ‘Like a baby?'

‘
Pardon?
'

‘
Merci bien
, but I don't need help crossing the road.'

‘Excuse me. It's just that round here they drive very badly. The roads here are very dangerous.'

‘I know. I have been to Casablanca before.'

The first and so far only car chase I have been involved in had begun less than quarter of a mile from where we stood, but though there is a certain flamboyance about Casablanca's highways, they cannot really compare with anything Nigeria has to offer. Those motorbike rides in Calabar, for example. I must have been crazy.

‘Oh, you have visited before?'

‘Yes, twice.'

We were walking along, chatting easily. He had a kind of rolling gait.

‘I thought you were new,' he said, giving me a sidelong look.

‘Do you live here then?'

‘I am from here but I do not live here. I am a sailor.'

‘Oh really? What sort of ship?'

‘Cargo.'

‘Wow! A proper ship!'

He shrugged. ‘I am a mechanical engineer – an electrician.'

Mustapha was born in Casablanca. When he was young he made friends with an older man, an engineer, who took him on as an
apprentice. He had lived in Holland for a while, on a barge, until his best friend's wife made a pass at him. Mustapha rejected her, but, scorned and wrathful, she said something to Mustapha's best friend, who threw Mustapha out.

‘And I did not say anything. Nothing! I thought this is your wife, I am your friend, but you have chosen to believe her. You do not think I am an honourable man, but I am. So I left and did not see him again for many years. Then one day I met him again. He had come back to Morocco. He begged me to forgive him. I said I did. He said he had come home one day to the boat and found his wife in bed with his brother.'

‘Do you still see him?'

‘No, I have not seen him for years. But that is life . . .'

Mustapha's ship was on a run down the West African coast; the next stop, at the weekend, would be Agadir, where Mustapha would see his wife and children again. We sat in the back of a café, drinking coffee and smoking, waiting for Aziz. The plan was that when Aziz showed up Mustapha would replenish his supply of hashish and then if I felt like it I was welcome to go with him to visit his boat. I could not wait. A proper ship in the port of Casablanca and a good conversation – sea stories no less! – and, if I felt like it, a shot of decent Moroccan hash: what pleasures.

We discussed dope. Mustapha had smoked it all his life. He never went anywhere without it, he said.

‘Look,' he had said, as we swung along the road on the way to the café, withdrawing his right hand from his pocket. Stuck to the tip of his index finger was a tiny blip of dark resin.

It did not look appetising.

‘But don't you worry about the damage that it can do?'

‘If you smoke it properly it is quite safe,' he said. ‘You need the very best hashish, and you only smoke two joints a day. One after you have eaten, and one before you go to bed. And Aziz only sells the best. He is a big dealer, but he sells me a little because we are friends. We always meet in Casa. I am lucky to know him . . .'

I was not really very interested; every stoner will tell you his hash is
the best, and his dealer is good, and he is lucky to know him, but I was polite. Oh really, jolly good, lucky you . . .

‘If you like you can buy some too.'

‘Oh, you're very kind, but I don't think I will. Perhaps you will let me try a little of yours . . .?'

‘Of course! It is up to you.'

We talked about the shipping business. Mustapha's ship was a dry bulk carrier. I was very interested in the trade routes – cereals coming over the Atlantic from North America, being unloaded at various ports down towards the Gulf of Guinea, and being reloaded with . . .

Aziz appeared. Slightly overweight, with a yellow-olive skin, glasses and better clothes than Mustapha's, he was sweating slightly, having hurried. Who would be a dealer? Poor fellow, really. It had obviously made him good money, but what a life. Always hurrying to a rendezvous. Being so careful with your phone. Having to make instant decisions about who to trust, and how far you could trust the trusted not to betray a confidence to someone who might talk carelessly; knowing that half the demands on your time and who knows how much of your friendships are based on desire for what you peddle, regardless of anything you are.

We were rapid and scrupulous in putting each other at ease. We shook hands. Aziz, laughing slightly shamefacedly, apologised for his breathlessness. I offered him a drink, he gratefully accepted a mint tea, and he told me as much as he could about his life. He worked from his car. He never used a phone. He only dealt to a small circle of people he knew very well, and he did not get involved in this sort of thing, small deals, because it was not worth it. But then he and Mustapha went back a long way. The two old friends were very pleased to see each other, and I leaned out of their conversation, politely, as they worked out their exchange.

‘How much do you want?' Aziz asked, after a minute.

‘Oh, nothing. Don't worry about me. Thank you, though! It's a kind offer . . .'

‘The thing is,' Mustapha said, reluctantly, ‘I am going to buy 800 dirhams' worth. It is pollen, the very best there is, and it really is
expensive, but Aziz gives me a very good deal. Do you want 400 dirhams?'

‘No, really, you are very kind, but that's too much.'

I was curious. Pollen. I had heard about it, I thought. Such a lovely word. And what would the effect be? A sort of hashish equivalent of Bollinger, I imagined.