THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS: SOMEWHERE IN MOROCCO

A serious bout of food poisoning threatens to put a stop to a desert road trip until a chance meeting with unconditional kindness...

I ran as fast as I could, which was difficult given the circumstances, up the loose rocky lunar-like scree to the top of the low hillside in search of some privacy. In hindsight this was lunacy as the only other human for as far as the eye could see was my cousin, and travelling companion, Jack. However, some basic human need to be out of view and private at this time drove me up and out of sight. I crouched behind a well-placed rock and relieved my self. Something wasn't right but I already knew that; I'd spent the last hour or so spasmodically vomiting from a moving car's window.

As I'm sure many a traveller knows, it all starts with a faint, uneasy feeling in ones stomach before rapidly developing into an evacuation scenario of momentous proportions and full-blown food poisoning. Most of us would give thanks to be in, or at least have access to, our hostel bed and nearby bathroom to writhe around in and feel sorry for ourselves. I, on the other hand, as the only insured driver and with time constraints had an 800km drive across sub-Saharan Morocco from the Algerian border to the Atlantic ocean. I prayed it wouldn't last too long.

I stood up, light-headed, and stumbled back towards the beat-up hire car down on the asphalt below. It was then I noticed them, four, then five, six, seven... was I imagining things? Where were these people coming from? They'd already accosted Jack and had now spotted me tumbling down the hillside. There were more still, children all of them, literally creeping out of the stones like some warped desert zombie movie. We'd pulled up in what we'd thought was the middle of nowhere but now could plainly see this was not the case. It was then I noticed a small group of buildings on the other side of the road, blending seamlessly into the dry broken brown landscape. It was a hamlet of sorts. I hoped to God they hadn't all just witnessed my foray into the wilds.

The trip so far had been epic. Setting off from Portsmouth a week before, Jack and I had hitch-hiked across Europe and made it to the Southern Spanish port of Algeciras in three days before hopping on a boat bound for Africa. Both in our final year at Uni studying film and photography, we'd packed up our cameras, and had decided to make the most of the Easter break to see how far we could get and document the trip. So far, so good, but a dodgily prepared breakfast in a Berber tent had changed the game and we were now what felt like a million miles from home and I was feeling frustratingly fragile.

"I think they want us to go with them to their house" Said Jack gesturing over to the adobe huts not 50 metres away. It wasn't the best time to have an invite into somebody's home but we'd encountered Moroccan hospitality on many occasions before and knew it was futile to refuse. I pulled myself together as best I could and wobbled up to the house.

Ducking to avoid the low doorway we entered the dark, single-roomed house surrounded by a gaggle of excited children. After the glaring brightness of the desert our pupils struggled to dilate but slowly we were able to take in our surroundings. It was a long, narrow room perhaps eight metres by three. At one end were stacked ten or more mattressesand at the other a fire was lit for cooking while a single, small window reluctantly allowed a trickle of dappled sunlight in at the far end. There was no furniture. Around the outside mats were placed for sitting and these were now being filled by the kids, planting themselves down one by one and quickly filling the space. A women in her forties smiled warmly at us and spoke some words of Berber to the oldest girl who promptly began filling a huge, already boiling, caste iron kettle with huge handfulls of fresh mint leaves and enormous rocks of sugar. We were being welcomed into their home and a feeling of serenity slowly slipped over me.

It turned out that the woman was mother to these children, eleven in all and they slept, ate and lived together in this one room. She spoke only Berber but thankfully one of her older sons had a few words of French and we were able to converse. I explained that I was feeling less than well and the probable cause and she immediately sent a younger child out to their garden who came running back in a few moments later clutching some leaves. The woman took them and handed them to me, smiling and pointing to my stomach. I trusted her implicitly as I would have my own mother and began chewing on the herbs. The oldest girl handed me a steaming glass of sweet mint tea and I washed them down.

Jack and I sat enveloped in the bosom of this family. Peaceful, happy. We chatted, as best we could, about where we were from and what we were doing. Cameras were passed around and maps unfolded. Feeling the need to give something back Jack ran out to the car to grab our backpacks. We were travelling light but were coming to the end of our trip and surely some things could be spared. It was a push to find eleven gifts, one for each of the children but we managed it. Socks, T-shirts, a map of France, a photo or two, a belt, ball point pens and other random objects were handed out to mile-wide smiles. After this we were treated to a tour of their garden and small-holding by two of the older boys where they proudly showed us their chickens and goats and, surprisingly for somewhere so dry, a vegetable patch. They were completely self-sufficient, sufficiently complete in their desert home. Before long it was time to bid our farewells and with yelling and whooping children revelling in our rearview mirror we set off. 

An hour later driving through the sublime infinity only a desert can convey, the stomach cramps began to fade and the nausea to pass. Grateful and content I drove on west plump on the feast of experiences travel brings. I've never forgotten such unconditional kindness imparted on a complete stranger and never have I felt more at home so far from home.