Wanderings

No bus, no bus, says the lady behind the counter. With these words, my hopes of catching some evening surf on the North African coastline are swept away. You come back at four, she says.

Stepping out of the station, I consider taking the afternoon to explore the city. Heck, I'm in Marrakesh after all, there are worse places to be stranded in. But right now I'm craving for the ocean, the city can wait. I find myself wandering up the southbound road, thumb raised and desperate to keep moving.

A few drivers peek their heads out to observe this oddity. I shout Agadir! to an old man driving a beat up minivan. He cackles with a toothless grin and points me back to the bus station.

Awhile later, a young boy, probably 14 or 15, pulls up on his bicycle. You speak English? He asks. What is the difference, between straight line and straight ahead?

I'm surprised by this riddle from nowhere, but a few minutes into the conversation and I realise he is trying to grasp the contextual usage for these English words and supposed that he could practice his English with me. He introduces himself as Youssef, and invites me to his home for lunch with his family in his apartment nearby. It starts to drizzle and I think, why not?

It is common for the men to return home for lunch with their families. Youssef's father greets me with wide grin under a generous moustache, speaking excitedly to me in Arabic. He say you are son from a different father, says Youssef.

Lunch is served, the quintessential local fare of tagine and round Moroccan bread. Of course, Youssef's mother insists I eat more than my fair share, while his two younger brothers giggle and joke about my clumsiness with the bread.

By the time I leave, I've been schooled in the French and Arabic by Youssef's baby brother, lost a chess game to his other brother, watched a cousin kill Michael Jackson's moves on Billy Jean, and drunken plenty of mint tea. Youssef shows me how he's been learning English - A notepad file of Michael Jackson lyrics saved on his computer.

Youssef's parents insist I stay on for a post-lunch nap. This is like your home, they say. I am tempted to, but afraid to miss the bus. Sadly I bid farewell to my family from a different country. Youssef adds me on Facebook before we part.

Back at the bus station, I hear these familiar lines. No bus, no bus. Come back at six, says the lady behind the counter. I resign myself to the cycle, wishing I had taken that nap.