The Life of a Sufi

Ça bouge! is the cry of Marseille. It translates as ‘It moves!’ - perfect for this city of real contrasts that does just that. But no one’s told the colony of cats lazing in the soft evening sun on an anonymous church wall in Le Panier, the oldest part of France’s oldest city. That is until, like me, they hear the whistling.

I’m exploring Marseille’s 2nd arrondissement on foot and falling for it. Le Panier, ‘The Basket’, is an architectural blend of modest 18th century blocks mixed with Brutalist 1950s granite edifices. Splashes of graffiti colour in the grey. Someone practices piano scales. Gentrification looms close, although for now it’s just about being kept at bay.

The ears of the cats prick up as the whistling continues. I sense they know what’s coming, though I don’t. The web of cobbled, narrow streets play tricks on my ears as the shrill deflects off the church’s thick stone walls. The meows act quite literally as a catcall of this feline urban gang. The Whistler is coming – ‘it moves!’ – but from where? It doesn’t matter.

And then from my right approaches a man. He walks with his head so far down that I can see the bald spot on the crown of his head. He knows these streets. This is a daily custom. In his left hand is a large carafe of water. In his right hand a plastic bag. A black cat jumps from a wall and immediately circles the man in that way they do to make their mark and greet a friendly soul.

Daylight fades as the shadow of the church grows longer each minute. Time and life pass by but for today’s congregation, it’s feeding time, most likely the same everyday at this hour. The man puts down the water and opens his bag. I watch from my perch and ponder the scene. Yet, this church isn’t particularly beautiful, neither the street likely on any tourist route, nor do I know the name of the man. Honestly, no guidebook will help you relive it. I’m not sure it would make anyone else’s top ten list but mine.

I could say turn left at Bar Manolo, then right at the Bob Marley graffiti and straight on till you hit the back of the church, but I’d be making it up. I don’t remember. Instead, discover your own moments, your own stories and savour them. Just like me. Because this is what travel is, in its truest sense: being a witness to life, being the lucky one to observe, respect and document simply what happens.

Le Panier. Marseille. Go there, it moves, but not for The Whistler and his moggy congregation.