The Best of Wanderlust (A GeoEx eBook)

The Best of Wanderlust

On Dream Mountain

All the while, they effect the listener—in the most profound way. Hear the story told in the right conditions, by the right person, and it changes you—from the inside out. That is how it was with the tale told to me on Dream Mountain by Mustafa Benn. But, before the tale could begin, a zigzag of raw adventure was necessary. A journey as unlikely as the tale itself. ~~ It began a little before dusk on a day of heavy winter downpours. The air had been rinsed and rinsed again, the ground beneath it pooled with puddles and mud. There was a stillness, as though the world were locked in limbo between evil and good. I was standing in the slender lane outside my home in Casablanca, a house said to have once been infested with evil Jinn. I can’t quite remember what had lured me out. But the reason was unimportant. What mattered was that my feet were standing there when the dim shadow of a man approached. In Morocco, people believe that the future is written. You can bob and weave your way through life but, ultimately, fate prevails. There’s nothing you can do about it. Indeed, they say that the harder you try to evade what is destined for you, the faster it will grab you. The strange thing about fate is that you never quite know how or when it will strike. A chance encounter or random phone call can lead to a door opening—one that was invisible only moments before. In the same way, any amount of preparation and planning can lead to a dead end. The shadow advanced fitfully. First along the whitewashed wall, then over the mud, which stretched from my front door until the road a good distance away.

I watched it, taking note of the way it moved. So preoccupied by it was I, that I failed to notice the man to whom it belonged. It was as though the shadow had a presence of its own. As if it were unconnected to anything by itself. Six strides or more before reaching me, the man gave greeting in a low muffled voice. Before I knew it, I had replied—” Wa alaikum salam . And peace be upon you”— affirmation that he had come as a friend and was to be received with hospitality. His face and clothing were as worn out as the voice. Tired watery eyes. Skin as tough as elephant hide. A nose sloping ungraciously to one side. An old jeleba robe patched and patched again. We stood there for a while in silence. After all, a man who comes in peace needs no reason to visit. I was about to say something, when the man held out a clenched fist. Not in anger but in friendship. The fingers were curled up, as though gripping something—a gift. Squinting in the approaching darkness, I leaned forward. The fist slackened and the fingers drew back, revealing a dark leathery palm. An inch across, a round object was sitting upon it, like an island surrounded by a flat furrowed sea. A seed. About the size of a walnut, but oval in form, it was red on one side and black on the other. “Take it,” said the muffled voice. “It is for you.” As anyone who has made their home in Morocco knows, a favor may not be asked until a gift has been presented and received. The gift may materialize in the shape of an object or an introduction, or even a fulsome line of praise. What matters is that the act of giving is completed before a request is made. It was for this reason that I had become weary of receiving

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