This story takes place in Morocco on Christmas 2016.
As always, the following events are transcribed as closely to the original happenings as possible. When writing I always put a lot of attention into staying as close to the truth as possible. Of course the same applies here as it does with every disinfection spray; Just like Sagrotan I try to eradicate 99.99% of the bullshit from my work.
I’ve already spent about 5 days in the Atlantic Hostel in Essaouira, Morocco when the christmas night fell upon the land. In the early morning-hours between 3 and 4am only a cool and drunk Brit named Marshall and I remained of the night’s celebrations on the hostel’s scenic rooftop-terrace. Some minutes ago, Charles, a 19yo weird and loud Snapback-Styler-Boyy from South Carolina left our table mumbling something about his joint-rolling-utensils that he left behind before going after some girl he was talking to all night then vanished.
Marshall and I continued conversing and joking around, surrounded by the mild moroccan night. He was drunkenly fumbling around with all the stuff on the table and – no idea what exactly happened – later I found Charles’ lighter and rolling-tin-can in the ashtray. As Marshall continued trying to tell me some story in broken Drunk I decided to occupy myself with rolling a spliff from Charles’ piece of hash that was itself rolling around loose and lonely somewhere on the table, instead of having to fully focus on whatever nonsense Marshall was trying to verbalize to me but failed doing so. So I started constructing a spliff that I planned on handing over to Charles when he came back up again; “Either the last one for the night, or the first one in the morning. *wink* Have fun! “
(Note: Of course the thought “I could just roll one for myself and keep it” crossed my mind, but I immediately pushed it aside – cause that’s just what decent people do. Thanks Mum!)
So I finished rolling the spliff and stored it behind my ear.
At some point I remember seeing both Charles’ AND Marshall’s pieces roll around close to each other on the table, so I seperated them to avoid confusion.
After maybe 30 more minutes we heard footsteps on the ladder when Charles suddenly rejoins us and immediately starts to fumble around on the table only to give his piece of hash a weird look and suddenly aggressively blurts out “Yo braah did you guys use my hash?!”
I had already extended the joint in his direction, offering it to him which he just then noticed.
“Yup, I got one here; Last one for the night or first one in the morning – you decide *wink* ”
“Nah brah half the hash is missing how much did you put in there omg omg!”
“Tiny amount. As usual.” He had at least 2 grams left. And illusions apparently. There’s just no way in this life that he could’ve noticed those 4% -if even- missing
While aggressive-hectically cramming together all his stuff, he kept repeating “You guys are such fuckers ohmygod fuck you you stole my fucking hash man” or similar nonsense.
Drunk Marsh wasn’t having any more of his shit and started asking whatthefuck, but Charles was already storming off still throwing around “FUCK YOU’s” and “YOUSTOLEMYHASHFUCKTARD”. I asked him what he’s up to now and he just hollers a ridiculous “PUSSY BRAH!” across the terrace while stomping down the stairs.
“Alright good luck with that.” Marshall and I were astonished by this sudden irrationality and impulsiveness. “Well, merry fucking christmas I guess?” I laughed.
We engaged in smoking some more and then called it a night.
The next morning I was sitting downstairs in the living room WiFi-area with this Charles-Guy on the other side of the room. I was diving into some important banking messages on my phone when I suddenly get yelled at from the corner; “WHERE’S MY FUCKING HASH FUCKTARD?!!”
“Good morning to you too, Charlie.” I gave, not even glancing at him.
He then came over and again started randomly and aggressively accusing me about his
allegedly diminished (no, “stolen!”) hash, followed by “Man look at me when I’m talking to you!!”
“You’re not even talking to me, you’re just throwing around random accusations, embarrassing yourself. And I’m actually having a proper conversation on here” *waving with my phone.* He then gave it an abrupt and ridiculous slap, tried again and harder three more times slap slap SLAP like a dork.
You’ll have to try harder if you wanna mess with my stuff, “brah”!
Right after this incident I scavenged around the hostel to find some kind of staff or stick I could use as a blunt weapon to defend myself. Although mainly for the purpose of looking armed as to subconsciously suggest not to attack me again. And I always loved juggling with sticks, so I can make it look pretty intimidating if I have to, swirling around a bo-staff.
So after this embarrassing display downstairs without any witnesses, the only other time I encountered him that day was in the extremely narrow and winded 4-floors-Moroccan-stairway at the hostel. With a sly smirk around my lips but eyes filled with honesty while passing him on the stairs, I threw him a “Hey Charles” that was returned by him pushing me tumbling down the stairs about 5 steps. And as everybody in the hostel including him knew, it was only 6 months after the car accident broke both my legs and I was just getting back to walking again. Let alone falling catching myself.
“Are you not even ashamed of yourself, Charles?” was the only thing I could think of in that second, still standing but 5 steps below him.
Later in the evening that same day, probably around 10pm, a group of about 10 people and I were sitting in the living room smoking talking laughing. With a passive Charles on his phone in the corner again.
When someone asked me to read out one of my stories, I grabbed my laptop and commenced the story about how I was hitchhiking back from London last July and magically made a breakfast and coffee for two people appear from scratch at 2am in the german middle of nowhere. While I was in the middle of said story, Charles ridiculously cranked up some weird Gangsta-Rap-Music on his phone that I just relentlessly cut through by amplifying my voice, not giving a single fuck. After some time people started telling him to “turn it down you respectless brat” which he only answered by throwing more bullshit in my direction like “Dude no one cares about your stupid story! It’s bullshit!!” which only made me giggle a bit. “Yep, that’s why they asked me to read it to them, kiddo. Sure thing.”
So when I brought the story to its glorious end, the (whole) group started applauding and it felt awesome 🙂 People started leaving one by one until only Charles, I and 2 or 3 random people were left in the room. An Asian-looking American was sitting next to me when Charles suddenly -without any trigger- started his bullshit anew and impulsively repeated “You stole my fuckin’ haash maan!! FUCK YOU MAAN! I’M GONNA GET YOU NEXT TIME!”
The guy next to me calmly told him to please keep it down at 2 in the morning which was only answered by a shitstorm of “DUDE KEEP OUT OF THIS MAN ITS’ NOT YOUR BUSINESS BRAH YOU-ARE-IRRELEVANT!! YOU ARE IRRELEVANT HERE MAAN!” and similar ridiculousness. Charles then squeezed in between me and the asian guy only to let my just healed ribs feel his pretty sharp elbow and be annoying about it. It kinda ended in new aggressions like him shoving the other guy offf the couch and actually into the next room, which I then only answered with a good old push onto the table aswell. Ridiculous fist fight bullshit followed, you don’t even want to know. I only remember immediately reaching to my right, grabbing my faithful bo-staff and using it to shield myself. I wanted to hit this embarrassing little prick right across the face so bad and even had a few opportunities but – he ain’t even worth it, my dear. Karma will take care of him no worries.
So in the end we had a cute little awkward skirmish, Charles stormed off, I asked him if he’s not starting to feel embarrassed for being such a sad little mannequin and later Rodenté – the Asian-American – summarized what just happened for one Mustafa from the hostel’s staff, who just came right after everything happened and wanted to know what the noise is all about. Five minutes later Marshall suddenly joined us downstairs with he words “Now he tried to start up on me in the room aswell can you believe?!”
Mustafa from the staff ensured us that he’ll definitely be kicked out by tomorrow. Only realistic consequence, isn’t it? Of course we kept talking about it for a bit and I repeatedly thanked Rodenté for having the guts to step in, “Well, it’s everyone’s business if someone wants to spread unnecessary violence in the hostel, isn’t it? I had to step in, man.” and then we considered the night done.
The next morning started as relaxed as usual with a banana and a spliff on the rooftop while already awaiting Charles’ trial.
One staff-member tells me to “join downstairs in 5 minutes” and that’s what I did. Then downstairs at the reception the guy was trying to tell me in Moroccan broken English that I was to get kicked out too. I asked for a reason a few times but the Moroccans have an interesting habit of answering every question with either “YES YEES…” while nodding encouragingly or just telling you something off-topic that you already know for a few minutes. It was a pretty confusing situation really. When they tried to check how many nights I booked to give me my money back I told them that I didn’t pay the past 4 days because I’m literally on less than 3€. They then tried to use THAT as a reason for me to get kicked out, but I kept objecting and they eventually told me that “3 guys told us you are going around at night stealing food and beer from the fridge.” – Suddenly I was confused AND shocked! HOW WHY WHAT WHO …?!?!…I don’t even…like beer?! They kept insisting on what they’ve been told and so I said “alright, lessego!” so they’d leave it for now and was escorted to my room to pack up and leave.
While a random Mohammed was standing next to my bed with crossed arms, I started calmly packing everything I own into my backpack, peeling a banana, eating a banana, having a sip of water as often as possible and neatly folding my used blankets up one by one. Because that’s what good people do, my Mum taught me. They still didn’t give me a good reason to leave even when someone was inventing stories ‘bout me, so I decided to stay tenacious and defiant; Once I was done packing, I mounted my backpack on my shoulders, started out the room door and went UP the stairs with the words “gotta say bye to my friends” which was both true and my fateful last trick. So I went up the stairs with a confused Mohammed standing behind me mumbling something in Arabic. Sitting on the roomy terrace, eating another banana (yes really) I was mentally preparing to leave this hostel which has been my home base for the past week and gave me a great time. But I still didn’t see any point in doing so, so I stayed right where I was. That’s when CousCous, the funky and confused cook with enthusiastic authority walked past me on the terrace and I threw him an “Ay CousCous, I’m sitting right here in case anyone’s looking for me *wave* “. He gave me a confused look (as always) spun around and made his way down the stairs.
And just like that, my last trick has been executed successfully.
I remained on the terrace and talked to people for the apparent last time, while I had this lasting feeling of “gotta leave soon” in my stomach.
So after a few more minutes of interacting with people and not knowing what’s gonna happen, a Moroccan looking guy in his 30’s started talking surprisingly proper German to me and asked what this whole everything today is/was all about. I gave him my perspective on what happened, while sensing from the way he carried himself that this dude had to somehow be important around here. He then explained to me that the three people accusing me of beer theft were actually talking about Charles. “The guy with hat steal beer…” Probably confused his cheap snapback with my awesome hat. Broken English in Morocco, nothing new. The conversation eventually came to me still waiting for money to arrive from across the world and not even having 5€ in my pocket right now. He then spoke a few words in Arabic to another Hassan or Mustafa.
“So you want to help in hostel? Is possíble no prroblem no prroblem my frrend. Come, work here is ok 🙂 yu can cleen… ” the Hassan then enthusiastically offered to me.
I later on found out that this guy with almost perfect German – having lived there for 5 years – is the actual OWNER of not only this hostel, but 7 more. And I just made an awesome and powerful new friend that really seemed to like me.
And just like that I had a new job at my Moroccan home base. Only ten minutes prior I was to get KICKED OUT of there and with a balanced amount of boldness, persistence, skilled articulation in 3 languages and a perfect sprinkle of provocativeness I achieved the seemingly unachievable and was suddenly WORKING there! Justice was done! At last.
Just as I began to doubt it, the blade fell and cut off the right head;
Of course Charles got kicked out of the hostel and hasn’t been seen since. He’s said to have partnered up with a seagull running around the harbor stealing people’s fries.
Game Over kid. I won, as usual. And will probably make money off of your ridiculousness at some point 😉 Cheers to that.