Lost Luggage
A near hijack in Morocco leaves me yearning for olive oil and coins
As I sift through a tall pile of second-hand sweaters filling the sidewalk, two children, maybe eight or nine years old, extend their open palms toward me. Dirt on their hands accentuates a maze of embedded lines. If I knew palmistry, I’d need only a glance to know what their future holds.
One wears a tank top and greasy cut off khakis, the other is dressed in oversized shorts and a coat branded with the word JACKET across the chest in lively orange embroidery. A zipper breaks the word in half.
Each child holds an empty plastic bag as they ask me for one dirham, the equivalent of ten American cents. The sweater vendor shoos them away with a hand swipe and blow of air. They snarl and step back, then dig into a nearby trash can and proceed to chuck handfuls of garbage in our direction. The vendor shakes his head but ignores them until they run off. He tells me they are street orphans. Those bags in their hands are for huffing petrol.
I stop in a medina shop to pick up some last minute souvenirs for friends and am quickly entranced by a box of old Moroccan coins. As a kid I collected foreign money— it was my gateway to learning about the world. I’d study each coin’s front to identify the country, then I’d find the place on my sister’s globe and study its shape and location. Its proximity to where I lived in California. Sometimes I’d look up the country in an encyclopedia volume to learn about its population. Its imports and exports. What languages were spoken or religions adhered to. My interest in coins sparked my love of other places. And the less I could relate to, the more interested I was to learn more.
In all those years of coin collecting I’d never come across a Moroccan coin, which makes this shop’s stash especially interesting. I am tempted to buy some, but doing so is risky. Currency is not supposed to leave the country and, according to my travel books, is the most common item confiscated at customs. But I can’t resist the numismatic artwork of these old brass coins. I am smitten by their wear and how they feel in my hand.
I probably wouldn’t have bought anything, but I got to chatting with the shop owner and figure I may as well support his shop with my last remaining dirham. Coincidentally, his daughter lives in my hometown back in North Carolina. We exchange emails and hours later his daughter send a message offering me discounted Arabic lessons upon my return to Chapel Hill.
The next morning I catch a pre-dawn cab to the Tangier airport for an early Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca, then onto Lisbon. As with so many other Moroccan people, I speak Spanish with Mustafa, my cabbie. I tell him I don’t want to leave. He tells me about his wife and two kids. He’s an artist, but he’s shelved his creative work to take care of his family. One day he’ll paint again, he says, but not until his kids are grown.
Mustafa asks how many kids I have. When I tell him none, he asks how old I am, then assures me I am still young enough to be a father. He tells me he’ll pray for me to have at least one. “Inshallah,” he says. Good willing.
At the airport desk I tag and check my backpack for two reasons. First, because Habte, my guide through the Rif, had gifted me two bottles of olive oil and I think they’re too large to carry on. Second, my international connection from Casablanca to Lisbon is tight and I’d rather not have to deal with my big bag on this short flight. If my connection is anything like when I arrived in-country, my pack will be waiting for me at customs after we land. Easy peasy.
The plane takes off on time, then quickly takes an eastbound trajectory. This is only notable because Casablanca is not east of Tangier, it’s mostly west. I wait for the plane to do a U-turn and when it doesn’t, I get antsy. Other passengers obviously feel the same and hit their call buttons. Flight attendants claim not to know what’s going on and also seem concerned. Our flight is scheduled to be a quick 50 minute hopper to Casa, but given the directional delay now more than 15 minutes in, there’s no way we’ll arrive anywhere near on time.
Our arrival time, however, is the least of our worries. Every second we fly eastward, the plane gets closer and closer to Algeria where terrorist and extremist groups are known to be holding out. I consider the worst case scenarios. A hijacking or a bombing. Fingers getting chopped off or a YouTube beheading. Will this be how I die? I always figured it would be a car crash.
And I’m not the only one about to freak out. A bunch of passengers behind me start shouting demands from their seats. “Just tell us what’s going on!” they shout. Some unbuckle and stand up in the aisle, shake their fist while looking around for other passengers to join in. Many people are hollering in Darija, Moroccan Arabic, so I have no idea if I should support their inquiry or be even more concerned for my life. One guy keeps asking the flight attendants in broken English if they knew who he is. Says he demands answers and could very easily make their life miserable. “I am an important man!” he screams.
I consider my powerlessness and figure that until I know exactly what is going on, there’s no sense getting too worked up. I’m afraid, but I try to temper it so it doesn’t slide me into a frenzy. I lean back in my seat, take a few deep breaths, and look out the window, wondering if we’ve passed into Algerian airspace yet. The desert below holds hands with the Atlas Mountains. An expansive ocean of sand kneeling before snow capped peaks. I close my eyes and imagine the olive hawker’s booth in every medina. I never knew there were so many colorful varieties.
My stomach drops as the plane begins to descend. The overhead speakers crackle and, in multiple languages, the pilot announces we’ll be landing at the Oujda airfield, barely 20 kilometers from the Algerian border. He says we’ll stay no more than 10 minutes before taking off again. The man next to me says he’s a frequent traveler between Tangier and Casa and has never encountered anything like this. Such unplanned stops are unheard of. Still, he assures me not to worry. If we were in real trouble we’d know by now. I follow his lead and figure I’ll only lose my shit if he does.
The landing is smooth, but the brakes slam harder than usual. An unmarked bus with tinted windows speeds to meet us on the tarmac. A convoy of other vehicles follow behind it. Passengers careen their necks for a view out the window. We all watch in silence. The plane comes to a stop, and within minutes the front cabin door fizzes opens like a soda can. The plane fills with cool winter air as we all anxiously anticipate more unknowns.
A portable stairway bangs up against the plane, and there are hard footsteps and muffled voices from beyond the cabin’s opening. Silhouetted bodies enter the plane and quickly fill the center aisle. We hold our breath and watch as the plane fills with large men, backlit by the low African sun.
We expect guns or weapons of some sort. Camouflage outfits or tactical gear. Instead, it’s two dozen pimple-faced athletes in shiny blue Adidas sweatsuits. A few carry soccer balls. They swagger in, single-file, chewing gum and yukking it up. They mess with the overhead bins, looking for a place to stash their floppy duffels.
We learn that the pilots diverted our flight to pick up the junior national football team en route to their next match. We all laugh nervously, relieved by the news. But then I realize our unplanned stop presents a very real problem for me after all. Even if I successfully make my Casablanca connection to Lisbon, my checked backpack certainly will not. Any extra time I may have had in my half hour layover is long gone because of this weird carpool. And since I’m heading back to the states tomorrow, my bag will surely be lost in the Royal Air Maroc ether. One of the worst airlines on the planet likely doesn’t have a solid customer service team to help with lost baggage.
I immediately regret not carrying my backpack aboard. All my gear and Habte’s two little bottles of organic olive oil, likely lost for good. But what I’m most bummed to lose are those rare and beautiful old Moroccan coins. Especially the one with the 6 pointed star flanked by raised dots with 1268 on the back. I couldn’t wait to look closer at its nicks and grimy lines and better understand its story. Marvel, no doubt, that after all these years it ended up in my hand.
Note: A version of this story, along with 27 other stories, is included in Vacilando, my collection of memories from a 2014 trip to Morocco.
