The Knife in the Dunes
A Moroccan Road Trip: Part 6 of 6
After a day exploring, I stopped in a tiny village—just a general store and a souvenir shop lining the through road. The promise of ice cream pulled me in, but the freezer in the store was unplugged and empty.
The young shop attendant insisted I wait while he fetched some from another location. I crossed the road to stand in the shade, joining three boys on a bench. They slid over to make room. I nodded a ‘thank you’.
When the ice creams arrived, I made my choice and returned to the bench. One of the boys, Samir, introduced himself with a proud smile. “Hello, I’m Samir. Samir Zaza.” His English didn’t go much further, so I pulled out my phone to translate.
The kids murmured “iPhone, iPhone,” a reminder of how out of place such a device was here.
More kids gathered, including a stern-looking twenty-year-old. We exchanged fragmented conversations, and I showed them photos of the ocean at home. I doubt any of them has seen an ocean in real life, some maybe never will.
The exchange was broken when the souvenir shop owner joined us. He spoke English and suggested I visit a nearby town. To avoid a sales pitch, I stayed outside his shop while he went to write down the name.
That’s when I noticed the dirt laneway across the road. It led to mud-brick homes, where a girl sat in the shade, leaning against a wall. I was about to explore further when Samir called out.
Where does the mind wander when there is little to see?
He pointed toward my car, his face tense, his words urgent but unintelligible. Before I could react, I saw him—the general store owner, walking toward the laneway with a ten-inch curved Berber dagger in hand.
The knife was gripped firmly, the blade pointed forward, with purpose. His stride was deliberate, his eyes fixed ahead. I froze. What the fuck is he doing with that?
I stayed put, my mind racing. Was this a threat? Something else?
The knife, the way he held it, the way he moved, something deep in my sub conscious was telling me this was very off. I wasn’t about to cross the road near him, so I retreated to the doorway of souvenir shop, my eyes locked on his every move.
Then, chaos erupted. The stern twenty-year-old had one of the younger boys pinned to the ground, their scuffle spilling into the street. The knife-wielding man paused, distracted by the commotion.
Across the road, our eyes met. A stunned look on his face, almost guilty, as if he hadn’t expected me to see him. He looked at the knife, then back to me. Confusion flickered across his face. Without a word, he turned and hurried back to his store, slipping the knife inside.
I stayed near the souvenir shop, the hairs on my arms and neck tingling.
The fight in the street escalated, the younger boy flung into the road as the others scattered and yelped while the alpha in the group asserted his dominance. It was my chance. I circled the chaos, jumped into my car, and sped away, the village shrinking in my rearview mirror.
Back at the auberge, I replayed the scene. Why was he carrying that knife? Was he heading for me, or was it coincidence? The laneway led nowhere—no shops, no homes. If it was an errand, why did he turn back when he saw me? And Samir—what was he trying to warn me about?
A friendly local, enjoying the camera
The next morning, I drove past the village again. It was deserted, the events of the day before feeling like a fever dream. But as I retraced my steps, one thing became clear: I’d stayed too long. Long enough to become a target. Not for a well-planned robbery, but for an opportunistic act. A spontaneous thought he’d acted on.
And Samir’s face—I can still see it. He was warning me.
Thank you, Samir Zaza.
