Ride in a chickencoop
I am in Nzala Ben Amar. A small agriculture city in Morocco. It wouldn’t be very long anymore until sunset and I have to find a place to pitch my tent. I am still a little angry, because one distance in the card isn’t correct, so I did a lot more kilometres then expected.
I am on the crossing of two routes and wonder which one I shall take. 17km over Mountains or 24 around it. An old man, about 55 years old finally helps me and invites me for a tea. Even though I have to find a camp spot, I agree. We sit down and start chatting.
Alamy, Alamy, c’est la vie, he says this again and again, while we talk about this and that.
I am suspicious. My experience tells me that people who repeat themselves often and who aren’t really helpful often just want money. But somehow I get convinced that this is an honest man. Not just because he pays for the tea, but also because what he tells me is right and helpful. Alamy is his Name and he tells me that he went through Canada and Europe as a truck driver but now drives a tractor in Morocco.
I ask him again about a good campingspot and he invites me to his house. He tells me, that he is waiting for the driver of the blue camion and as the guy arrives, we go over to the truck. The doors open and surprise: This is a driving chicken coop. There is straw on the floor and some small benches attached to the walls. We wipe away the chicken shit and put my bike inside. Alamy, Me and two other guys take place on the benches. Alamy sits at the end of the truck and holds the door open. Whether he wants some fresh air or just want to keep door from falling of will I not find out this day. We drive the route back, where I came from and then head to a small village at the edge of a hill. Alamy sometimes opens the door to show me something and we frequently stop. Sometimes a guy gets on the bus, or there are sheeps on the street, or the driver just delivers some bread.
We finally arrive at the village. There is a big minarette, and a lot of houses. I walk with Alamy to his house, greeting everyone we see. Everybody seems to know and like him and I try to use my Arabic to greet them too. Assalamu Aleykum, By Khayr, By Kayr, Hamdulyllah, alhamdulyllah and so on. In the end I mix up the correct order but the people still smile when I try my best.
Alamys house is surrounded by a fence of reed.
Blank white walls, empty rooms without doors, a small space to wash, some tins and glasses in the kitchen, a mattress on the floor and some pieces of clothes laying on the naked concrete floor.
On the first floor, at least a couch and a table and a bed. Empty, white walled rooms. He shows me the terrace, from which we have a stunnig view of the surrounding mountains and hills and in the fading light it looks just amazing.
We go back in to the village to buy some vegetables and once again we greet everybody. Back in his house we cook a tajine on the naked concrete floor on a gas cooker. While we wait for the tajine to get done, we chat with each other. He tells me that he only earns 5 Euro per day and the water and electricity cost an arm and a leg, but there is still some money for a few cigarettes a day and something to eat. But he is nevertheless happy, with the few things he has. Al Hamdulillah,(Thank to god), Bysmyllah(In name of God) he keeps repeating. And I understand. A man with such a few to live on must be thankfull for everything he has.
We eat together on the first floor on the couch and afterwards we go back to the village for a coke. We still greet everybody and right now, all the village should know me.
We enter a house, a small stair and a small room with white walls and one window. There is only a carpet and the men of the village are sitting there and watching tv. A pretty small shelf serves as a bar. Just big enough to make some tea. We sit down and lean on the floor. The men are all red eyed and while one is busy sorting out his marijuana, is Alamy chatting with the others. Even though they are all high, I don’t feel scared. The atmosphere is friendly and I feel under friends. They laugh when Alamy try to teach me some Arabic and I like it. Even Alamy smokes his pipe. Not much just a little.
They take some cardgame and start to play. It is similar to a typical swiss card but I just can’t get behind the rules. But it’s just a game, and no one cares at the end as something with the counting doesn’t match.
We say goodbye, walk back to the house and admiring the clear, dark blue sky.
Alamy lets me sleep in his bed while he takes the couch and I sleep very well this night.
In the morning, he serves me some hot tea and we say a short but hearty goodbye to each other.
I will miss that friendly, poor guy who was still happy with what he had and loved to share with a traveller like me.
