Tom Foran Clark

The walls inside the Moroccan Customs Bureau were luminous, elaborately decorated with green and turquoise porcelain tiles. There were no officials in uniforms. There was a single balding, middle-aged man in a crisp, clean white shirt sitting at a metal desk. He stood when Emery entered and asked, in French, to see Emery's papers. He took Emery's Entry Card, stamped his passport, asked him his business ("What I’m doing is… I guess what it comes down to is… Well, basically -- I’m riding a bike"), exchanged a few dollars for dirhams, and Emery was in.

The road ahead cut straight across sparse grassland plains. Emery rode for two hours into the wind, and arrived at an olive orchard where he took shelter under one of the larger trees. It wasn’t until the evening that the gusts finally dispersed. He laid down under the stars and waning quarter moon and pondered existence -- not as a mystic contemplates being in the world, perhaps, but rather as an exhausted vagabond gives praise and thanks to God for not being murdered in Algeria.

Sleeping under that Moroccan olive tree that night, Emery felt like a precious treasure in a secure bank vault. He'd come so far -- so far. He could just about taste the nearness of Marrakech, where a replenishment of funds awaited him at the American Express Office -- and where Pike awaited him, fresh from his adventures in the Western Sahara. There was going to be a good time coming, yes -- so it then seemed to Emery.

In the morning, the winds came back. The sun was out of sight behind a silver haze. The encircling mountains were misty shadow-shapes -- blue-gray silhouettes. As Emery pressed forward, he saw pale, thin grasses growing sparsely in the rubble by the road -- also bent back by the winds. Entering Oujda, he rolled up to the reflecting pool at the main square, trimmed in windswept, frolicking spring flowers -- red, orange, and violet. He pulled in at a café for refreshment -- bread, cheese, and a cup of coffee -- then rode on through to the other end of town and circled back, coming in through a gate in the old city walls to enter the ancient Medina. The souks here were reminiscent of the buoyant, exotic corridors of Tunisia. Here were the meandering alleyways of booths, carpets, glimmering wares, jewels, dates, raisins, kids playing marbles, unveiled women throwing water out of buckets into the busy lanes.

Emery took a room in the Medina at the Hotel l’ Afrique. He shaved, washed up, washed clothes, hung these up, clipped his fingernails and toenails -- just generally took stock of himself, shoring things up. Then he went out for a good long walk -- back to the main boulevard of the ville nouvelle again, where the three and four storied banks, stores, and hotels made Emery think back on Tunis. He felt like he’d returned into the earth’s environs, breathing in the fresh baked bread fragrance in the air -- El hamdul-lah -- praise God. It wasn’t long before an adamant pitchman exchanging dirhams at Black Market prices was upon me, hawking his particular thing. Emery insisted he could speak only Irish Gaelic -- which he improvised on the spot -- and so got rid of this pitchman.

Strangely, the first thing Emery heard the next day was some crazy made-up banshee wailing he’d not yet heard anywhere -- "Ay-yee-ayy-ayeee-ye-ay-yee!" -- yet another washerwoman singing in the morning. Then came accompaniment from the loudspeakers atop the Minaret, that pained dawn chant -- "Yeowwl, ohhhh-woooooo, wam-pot!"

Emery went up on the roof of the hotel. The morning offered murky weather, dim and bland. He went down to a café to get saffron yellow semolina and a cup of coffee. Then he went back to the hotel, departed, and got out on the road going toward Taza and Fez.

There were low, small eruptions of rough hills out there -- not much else. Emery made good time getting to El-Aioun, pedaling at a steady pace, crossing the plains under cool, clouded skies. Towering Eucalyptus woods rose up all around the village, offering shade. "Touriste! Touriste!" the urchins cried out as I rode in, right around noontime. Emery rode through, crossed over a dry riverbed; and another; and then another; then others. Here was the land of dry riverbeds -- eroded plains, sinewy gullies, bike-swallowing potholes.

Fifteen kilometers short of Taourirt, as he crossed a shallow ravine, Emery encountered a man madly hacking the ground with a sword. Behind him, on a road, lay a sleek, silver-haired horse, toppled -- dead, or dying. Emery guessed the horse had been hit by a passing car -- a hit-and-run driver. The man was venting rage. Realizing he couldn’t offer any solace, also staying wide of anybody having both a temper tantrum and a sword, Emery rolled on.

As the sun was going down, Emery rose to a hilltop with a clear view to Taourirt, a lovely oasis village nestled in a fertile valley by a single high, dramatic bluff in an otherwise sparse, parched territory. He eased down toward this sweet haven amid palms, cypress trees, and olive orchards, crossing a bridge into the village, where he loaded up on fresh round bread loaves, cheese, green peppers, and tomatoes. Then he rolled back to a circle of Eucalyptus trees not far from the bridge, and camped there. Emery was lulled to sleep by the sounds of crickets, slow moving stream waters, muffled human utterances, and distant trains.

In the morning, he was awoken by great commotion on the bridge. It must have been a marriage celebration, with a grand procession of tambours, pipes, and drums. Dancers wore loose drapes of gowns in many colors, beautifully ornamented with jewels. On their heads were netted hats, and on the hats were fruits. The parade went into the village, taking in others, lengthening and widening as it went. Once the celebrants got far into the village and quiet again settled back over the outskirts, Emery headed out the other way, riding on to Guercif, which he reached by mid-morning. Cooled by a light breeze, he continued through a harsh, crusty landscape of jutting wedges and irksome cracks to the green and lovely mountains of Taza.

Emery took a side path off the main road and went through an arbor -- gardens. He leaned his bike against a tree. Some boys ran up and did their routine, pointing and dancing, then they ran off and came back with a beautiful young woman in cinnamon-colored flowing sashes who smiled and made at once a formal invitation. On behalf of her family -- herself, her brothers, and her mother -- she was saying it would be a privilege for them if Emery would be a guest in their home. The boys already had their hands all over his bike, lifting it over their heads and carrying it away. Emery felt he had no choice but to follow her and them.

Their home was in a neighboring jenane, a collection of huts amid flourishing fruit and vegetable gardens. As they passed through this jenane, Hafida introduced herself and her brothers, cousins, nephews, and others. They were praising Allah for bringing Emery to Taza. He felt like he was in a pauper’s version of the parade he’d seen that very morning in Taourirt -- yes, a lesser procession, but what a procession! -- led by gentle Hafida, followed by her frolicsome, high-bike-toting brothers, cousins, and nephews, then the welcome stranger in their midst.

Though wearing flowing sashes and ribbons, Hafida, with the help of her brother Abdallah, brought Emery's bike into the central court of their home in the jenane. He was led into the front room, a long, spare whitewashed chamber, and introduced to the mother, Zaleha, an old woman wearing a dirty white robe adorned with sparkling sequins and, on her head, a dirty white turban headdress likewise adorned. Her brown eyes were dark and piercing -- also shining, more subtly, with gentleness and affection. These Emery recognized her daughter Hafida had inherited. Zaleda, Hafida, Abdallah, an older brother, a cousin, and a coterie of other boys (most of them named Mohammed) coming and going at all hours, made up the family Kethouna. On a wall at the far end of the room hung a faded color photograph of a stern, leather-faced, middle-aged man -- the father of the household. "Mayit," his daughter Hafida whispered in Emery's ear after her mother, Zaleda, went out of the room. "Dead."

Zaleda returned with a tray, three glasses, and hot menthe tea. She then went back out of the room. Emery sat quietly with Hafida and Abdallah. At dusk, Hafida and Abdallah’s cousin Selim arrived. Zaleda brought in a large wooden bowl filled with cous-cous for five. Soon, Hafida’s friend Habiba arrived, wearing purple satin sashes and ribbons. With fingers, hands, and chunks of bread, the five -- with Habiba, six -- shoveled into the cous-cous. As they were finishing up this feast, Selim suggested they all should go to the movies. Zaleha excused herself, taking the bowl from the room -- with Hafida and Habiba close on her heels. It was clear that "all" meant Abdallah, Selim, and Emery.

The three ventured out past gardens, parks, and the central reflecting pool to the theater, an old movie house with red velvet walls and seats trimmed in gold. It was a double feature. The first film, In Malachi’s Company, was advertised in three languages -- Arabic, French, and English. The French actor André Montieux starred as a Dutch Jew assisting refugees in the French countryside during the Holocaust. The second film, Il Cantinni Calisarosso, took place in Italy during the time of Galileo. It was partly a detective story and partly a horror story. Unsuspecting village peasants, usually female, were disappearing unaccountably, stalked by wolves. Emery was on Abdallah’s side when he said the three should go. Selim did not hesitate to leave the theater with them, despite his wanting to see the movie through to the end.

In pitch black, they went back through Taza’s eerie, lonely late night streets. Arm-in-arm, with Emery in the middle, they arrived again at the Maison Kethouna. Asleep on the floor in the room where they’d eaten was Abdallah’s older brother, Kadur. Abdallah woke him up, in order to introduce him, but the sleeping Kadur was in no mood for that. He looked up at Emery briefly, then waved him away. "Geh schlafen, Amerikaner," he dismissed Emery. "Go to bed."

In the morning, Zaleda served bread and butter and coffee in the courtyard of the Maison Kethouna. Around them grew the fruits and vegetables of the jenane. Further out, lush green in early April, were the mountains of Taza. Along the austere ridges of the gullies and ravines grew emerald carpets. Abdallah and Selim, eager to show Emery the town and the grottoes, peaks, ravines, and falls of Taza, were waved aside, brusquely dismissed by sullen Kadur -- "I tell what he see."

They were sitting on the ground on mats enjoying the meal -- Zaleda, Hafida, Habiba, Abdallah, Selim, Kadur (and some second cousins or just boys who’d drifted in from other homes in the jenane), and Emery -- when Kadur stood suddenly and lifted Emery up by an arm, abruptly leading him away. Perplexed, Emery looked back apologetically. Zaleda and Hafida both gave me a look of reassurance. It was okay.

Kadur took him up to Taza-Haut, the hilltop ancient ville, providing Emery with his own grand tour of the Medina -- treating him to coffee in a shady café where Kadur was well known. There Kadur brightened, as he told Emery all about his travels in Europa where, he said, he’d slept with many blondes. He’d robbed banks in sleepy Austria. Armed with a machine gun, he’d robbed jeweler’s shops in Switzerland. He’d served five years in a Swiss prison. He’d spent time in Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Holland, Belgium, France, and Germany. He’d slept with blonde Norwegians, blonde Danes, blonde Swedes, and so on.

Still bragging, Kadur led Emery to the Grand Mosque, then down side lanes reaching deeper into the labyrinth of old Taza. The two wound down amid narrowing corridors of thriving souks to Taza-Bas, the new city, where he introduced Emery to his second cousin, Mohammed, a suave, gaunt, pallid tailor with a store on the Boulevard d’ Oujda -- a neat, cramped shop. They stayed all afternoon, sharing bread rolls and orange soda, conversing in French. "Aren’t the girls of Taza pretty?" the old tailor teased Emery. "Nothing like the blondes you see in Scandinavia!" Kadur set him straight.

The old tailor requested Emery sing for him some song or other in English, so he merrily set into "I’ve Been Working on the Railroad." You could see how the old guy just loved the refrain about somebody being in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on an old banjo. Kadur, having to listen now and not parade himself, boasting and regaling, winced and sulked through Emery's performance. Then he abruptly grabbed Emery's arm and led him away. Emery looked back through the shop window and saw the tailor nodding sympathetically, letting him know it was fine -- he understood.

Back at the Maison in the jenane, Zaleda and Hafida served up spicy potatoes, bread, and butter. In the middle of this meal, obviously irritated by the merriment, sullen Kadur got up and walked out. A heavy silence followed. Hafida and Abdallah shrugged their shoulders as if to say, What can you do? Hafida helped her now melancholy mother, Zaleda, clear away the meal’s accroutements -- a knife, a wooden plate, a wooden bowl. It wasn’t long before Abdallah and Selim got back their spunk, starting a faux argument, teasing one another as to who was the worse sauvage or animaux between them. They clucked and cooed and rolled their eyes. Pointing at one another accusingly, exchanging rib-jabs, they checked on Emery's reactions, drawing energy from his laughter. Then Kadur abruptly stomped into the room, scornfully gesturing toward Emery, indicating he should quit this nonsense and follow Kadur out.

"Something it is wrong," Kadur accused, lighting up a smoke in the darkening jenane. "There is good thing, I am recognizing," he acknowledged, "but there is something also, no? -- horrible? -- to be letting go of."

Emery shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t know what to tell you, Kadur," Emery lied.

"You are traveling from France, Italy, Tunisia, over Algeria to Maroc, and you have nothing more to be saying? C’est ne pas possible. This is not simple," Kadur summarized.

"Sometimes I doubted I would get this far," Emery volunteered.

"You are traveling alone?"

"No. I was traveling with a friend. He disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes. Vanished. We got as far as Ain-Sefra, in Algeria, and then he disappeared."

"You told this to police?"

"No. I was afraid they’d only make things worse. My friend said he’s going to meet me in Marrakech. That’s where I’m headed now."

"You are thinking he is being there?"

"That is not clear."

"You think he is maybe not being there," Kadur kept at me. "What reason could it give for this, that he is not being in Marrakech?"

"He’s gone to join the Algerians and the Polisario against Morocco in the fight for the Spanish Sahara," I blurted out. “He thinks this will carry him to Spain.”

"Ah!" Kadur said, dropping his cigarette, stepping on it to put it out. "You are having good luck no longer to be with him. Your bicycling friend is traveling on a terrible road, going in the exactement wrong direction."

"I have to go see," Emery said.

"Yes," Kadur agreed. "I am taking you personally to the bus stop! Leave your bike with family Kethouna and go on bus to Marrakech tomorrow. Is this not a good idea?" Kadur clasped Emery in a bear hug.

"Thank you, Kadur," Emery said into his shoulder.

"Is me who is thanking you," he said, looking into the night sky.

The next morning Zaleda again served bread and butter and coffee in the courtyard. Emery could see Hafida, Abdallah, and Selim were sad -- almost in mourning. Kadur had taken charge. Zaleda went solemnly from the room and returned with a large basket. Kadur instructed Emery to place into this basket anything he wouldn’t be needing in his ongoing journey. Emery put in some rocks he’d picked up along the way, two T-shirts, and assorted bicycle spare parts. He left his bike with the Kethouna family, in their care.

Hafida took his hands in hers and said, "Tawasal bis-salaamah." Zaleda took Emery's hands and said not a word, looking compassionately into his eyes. Habiba ran up in her sweeping purple ribbons, sobbing, " Allah yusalimak fee amaan illah." Hafida confided to Habiba she should not be overly sad -- AEmery would be back for his bike. Kadur, Abdallah, Selim, and second and third cousins and others from the jenane all walked with Emery to Taza-Bas and put him on the bus -- dull orange with green pinstripes, carrying not only persons but also lambs, roosters, and hens -- going to Marrakech by way of Fez.