Poor German Julius! Tangier Dilemmas

27.03.2016

Tangier, Morocco

Evening sunlight shines. Echoes of joyful chatter play around the white pasted buildings, the town has just finished work for the day. A sea salt scent fills the air.

Julius, a German backpacker runs down a Tangier street, not far from the coast. Panicking, he asks all the hotels receptions the price for a night. He is in desperate need of accommodation to stay off the rough streets. He dips in and out of doorways, crisscrossing the street. He has 50 dirhams left in his wallet, equivalent to 10 pounds. He can’t afford much.

Idris, a local is nearby smoking and laughing with his friends. He is short, lean and stands out amongst his group. He sees Julius frantically pacing up and down the street looking worried. He approaches him and asks if he needs help. By chance, Idris speaks German, as he lived in Germany for several years. Julius explains to him that he has not much money left and needs a place to stay for the night, and still enough money to buy a ferry ticket to Spain the next day, where his friend will meet him.

Idris is good and sees kindness and honesty in Julius’ eyes. He offers him food from his kebab restaurant and shows him a place to stay that charges a reasonable price.

The warm sunshine sets over the city of Tangier. Cluttered houses cover the hills that roll over the coast. Satellites and aerials protrude towards the sky that becomes littered with stars.

The next day, I am sitting in Idris’ restaurant. A chef shaves meat off of a rotating kebab. Frying oil bounces up into the air above the french fry fryer. Tables are neatly arranged in rows with orange plastic chairs tucked underneath. I am the only customer there, sitting in the corner of the room, tucking into my lunch of greasy fried food. I see Julius and Idris enter. I recognize Julius as a backpacker from abroad, I see he is exhausted and that he is in very low spirits. I invite him to sit with me at my table. Idris, in his white short sleeved shirt and gelled back hair, brings Julius a sandwich and I offer to share some of my fries. We talk and get to know each other. He is short and buff. Dark hair accompanies his toned skin with generous stubble on his chin. He tells me how he took a holiday to Spain and spontaneously decided to take the ferry to Morocco with only 150 euros cash to visit Chefchaoun, a town in the Rif mountains which attracts many backpackers for its high-quality hashish. We’ve both had a rough week and are now low on funds. He had run out of money faster than he thought. He asked me if I had any cash for his ferry back to Spain suggesting that he could pay-pal it back to me. Unable to give any away, I offered him dried figs I’d just bought from the market, a packet of crisps and some biscuits. He smiles gratefully and in return gives me the last of his hashish, deciding he didn’t want to smuggle it back to Spain in his rear. We go outside to smoke and talk more until time for his ferry. We bond and talk about profound topics and share travel stories. I listen as he reminisces about that time he toured New Zealand in a camper van with his girlfriend. We only met for about 45 minutes but felt like we’d known each other for a much longer time. He left for the ferry with a hug.