It was a wonderful car. Not to look at, mark you. It really wouldn't bear a close scrutiny. There was the size for a start. Barely medium. Four doors, but a squeeze for more than four people, excluding the driver. And the colour. A uniform and uninspiring grey. No embellishments or fancy designs. And it wasn't new. Five years of wear and tear had produced a number of scratches, scrapes and a couple of dints. An even closer inspection also revealed some early touches of rust.

But for all that, the car was a positive wonder and the pride and joy of Mustafa Haroun. It was, in fact, unique for it was the only car in the village; indeed, for a radius of ten miles. There were donkeys in abundance, for they provided the main means of transporting both people and goods. They were sturdy, sure-footed and reliable animals that had played a major part in the life of the village for hundreds of years. A car was an alien contraption, unsuited to the terrain and expensive, both to buy and maintain.

Nevertheless, Mustafa Haroun had bought a car.

"But you are unable to drive," exclaimed his life-long friend, Mohammed.

"I will learn."

"But who is there to teach you?"

"I will go to Zagora to visit my daughter and son-in-law. He will teach me."

"But that is over thirty kilometres away."

"To see the family is a good thing."

"But how do you get there?" Mustafa sighed.

"You are full of buts, my friend. I have a perfectly sound donkey and a cart."

"You have indeed, so I ask myself why you want a car."


"We must keep up with the times. I am sixty-eight years old. I can remember the camel trains passing through on their long trek to other countries in Africa. They have been finished many long years. The modern world will engulf us all unless we embrace it with both arms."


[Talking Camel by Locofotives © 2006]

Mustafa Haroun was the Imam for his community. Chosen by the people for the position. It paid very little, a mere 150 dirham a month. To make it possible to exist and provide for his wife and family, Mustafa was subsidised by the entire village, being given gifts of bread, fruit and meat. He was, however, a prominent member of the community, not a pauper or beggar. Respected and honoured, he stood at the head of the Islamic faith and leader of the congregational prayer.

He had been married twice, taking his second wife only five years earlier, after the death of his first. She had provided him with four daughters and one son, an unfortunate state of affairs for any man in Mustafa's position. Not only did a son carry forward the family name and tradition, he also provided some financial comfort for his parents. With two, three or even more sons, this burden was shared, but when there was only one…

"It is Allah's wish," Mustafa frequently stated, but then added, "I wish that it was not so."

Luckily the son, Rachid, was a very clever boy. He was invariably top of his class at school and went on to university where he was equally successful. He became a lawyer and set up practice in Casablanca, a very long way from his family home. He returned occasionally in the early years and always provided generously for his parents and siblings.

The visits stopped simultaneously with his marriage to the daughter of a highly respected and influential banker. Naturally, with respect and influence went money. Father and son became worlds apart and not merely a few hundred kilometres. Rachid did not forget his obligations, however. Every year, without fail, a generous sum of money was transferred into a special bank account in his father's name. A note was always sent separately. Really, it was merely a business compliments slip with Rachid Haroun printed on it. The only concession to the private nature of the communication was a first name signature instead of the whole name. Nothing else. No news of wife and family; no enquiries about his father, mother or sisters.

Over the years Mustafa spent little of the money. His needs were simple. He was over sixty when his wife died. Even then, Rachid was noticeable for his absence, pleading a heavy work load.

"She died without meeting her daughter-in-law or grandchildren," Mustafa sadly told Mohammed.

"A dutiful son looks after his parents with more than money. There is the heart, too."

"She never gave up hoping he would come."

"What will you do now?" enquired Mohammed.

Mustafa furrowed his brow. "Do? What I have always done. Continue living and preaching the word of Allah."

In fact he did rather more than that. When a member of his congregation complained that his eldest daughter was a disgrace to his family for she was over twenty and still unmarried, Mustafa thought of a perfect solution. He would take another wife. The wishes of the young woman concerned were not taken into consideration. She did, in fact, accept the situation in a meek and docile manner, perhaps realising that a slight deformity in her limbs made her undesirable to most men.

So Mustafa wed once more and, at the age of sixty-six, sired another son, this one to be named Hussein. Two years later Mustafa used a large sum of money from his bank account to buy a car. Abdullah, his son-in-law in Zagora, taught him how to drive in a remarkably short time, much to the delight and surprise of them both. The lessons had been given in Abdullah's car, but once the licence was triumphantly attained Mustafa loaded cans of petrol into his cart and headed back home.

The faithful donkey was still used for short trips when Mustafa visited friends or collected produce, but the car allowed him to go farther afield. As he grew older Hussein often accompanied his father and the two of them would talk about events, both large and small. The boy loved to hear his father's stories of the caravans, for he had been on a few trips in the dying days of the trade.

Hussein was a dutiful, loving son who was always most attentive to the words and wishes of both his father and mother. The young woman proved to be a good wife, though she produced no more children. Or, perhaps, more fairly it might be thought that at his age it was Mustafa who had now ceased to be fertile. However, he was content. Allah had been good.

There were some in the village, not unusually, who envied Mustafa his car. They saw it as an expensive and unnecessary indulgence. If his son in Casablanca could provide him with enough money to squander on a car, then why should they be made to subsidise his income with their produce. They had to work hard all day for little reward. Why should they give anything to a rich Imam?

When Mustafa became aware of the undercurrent of complaint he was saddened by the criticism. Envy was a sin against the wishes of Allah.

"Why bother yourself?" Mohammed asked when the two old men were enjoying a cup of mint tea.

"There will always be those who want more. Feel nothing but pity for them."

"Perhaps they are right to complain."

"No, my friend. You have been a good imam to them and their families. They can ask anything of you and you will give, if it is within your power."

"Except my car," Mustafa dryly murmured.

It was still the only mechanised vehicle in the village which meant that petrol always had to be obtained in the nearest town. On one occasion Mustafa miscalculated and the car became immobile half way there. He had to abandon it, walk back to the village, tether his donkey to the cart and go back to town the traditional way. He was fully aware of some sniggers and barely contained cries of derision from some of the villagers.

As he passed the car he shook his head sadly.

"Perhaps they are right. I am a vain and covetous old fool," he said to the world at large and his donkey in particular.

It took him all day to get the petrol, fill the car and go back to the village. But then he had to return to the car. After all, he was unable to drive both car and donkey.

"You ride with me, Hussein, and then you can return on the donkey."

"Yes, father."

Secretly he would have preferred to drive the car, but knew full well that a six year old boy could do no more than ride a donkey.

At the end of the day nothing had been achieved except to fill the tank of the car with petrol. Mustafa had even forgotten the original purpose of his journey.

On another occasion problems were encountered when the car refused to start. There were more ribald comments made by a few people as a mechanic was brought from town, once again the only motive power being provided by the donkey. At least the mechanic was able to drive himself to and from the village. Mustafa was secretly worried that the car would be beyond repair and almost gave a whoop of delight when the engine once more burst into life. Hussein felt no such restraint and performed an impromptu song and dance, much to the bemusement of the mechanic. After all, it was only a car.

Aicha, Hussein's mother was a happy and contented woman. She loved her husband, even though he was old enough to be her grandfather, and positively adored her son. Hussein was a lively, adventurous boy who was always keen to hear about the world outside the village. Academically he was nowhere near approaching the level of his half-brother, but he possessed an enquiring mind and a thirst for knowledge.


The ground was stony and wresting a living from it was forever a struggle. More and more young men were going to work in factories in Casablanca, sending money home, as Rachid had done. There was, however, a large difference in the standard of living. Aicha could only picture such a future for her son. Despite his tender years, she wanted more for him.

Mustafa was amused by her fears. "You worry too soon. Let him be a boy before he has to be a man. Changes come ever faster. A few years ago the French ruled over us. Now we are free to decide our own future as a country. Life will not stay the same."

"Mothers and wives lose their menfolk to the factories far away. That is the change I fear."

"You are worried I will go to Casablanca?"

Aicha laughed and gently knocked her husband's arm. "You know it is Hussein I speak of."

"He is a good boy. I am sure, no matter where he goes you will not lose him."

Aicha would have liked to take comfort from Mustafa's reassurance, but the example of his other son was all too strong in her mind.

A cold wind was blowing through the Atlas Mountains and a hint of snow hung in the air on a morning that would never be forgotten. The car was a burned out wreck, smoke still lingering around its body. Whether the fire was started by accident or design nobody ever found out, but what did it matter? The result was the same.

Mustafa stood with tears in his eyes as he gazed at the remains of the car that had brought so much joy. As for Hussein, he was heartbroken. He had loved riding to town with his father, the horn tooting at every opportunity. Passing a car; toot. A donkey ahead; toot. A pedestrian perilously close to the road; toot. It was a glorious sound. Commanding and authoritative.

"Make way!" it said.

"Mustafa Haroun and his car are coming. Toot!"

Hussein could still feel the heat from the fire as he leaned in and pressed the horn. There was no sound.

"Be careful you don't burn yourself," Aicha warned.

"Why?" wailed Hussein. "Why did this happen?"

"It is the will of Allah," his father replied.

The boy was a little weary of always receiving that response. Allah had little to do with burning the car. Somebody in the village had a grudge. Somebody in the village should pay. But nobody did.

The years passed. The car, once a mobile instrument of pleasure was now a rusty wreck still sitting in the place where it had burned. It was a favourite playground for Hussein. He would sit behind the remains of the wheel and imagine he was driving far away. Casablanca, Marrakech, maybe even Tangier. They were only names to him. Large cities in Morocco, strange and exciting. In his lessons he had also heard something of other cities even further away and in other countries. Paris, London, New York…there was a whole world to explore, but all he had was a burnt out car and his imagination.

His scholastic studies were going well and eventually he took an examination for university. He passed, not with flying colours, but at least well enough to gain entry. More and more tourists were visiting Morocco and Hussein decided to specialise in languages. Translators would always be useful. He already spoke French as a second language, so he decided to take a course in English.

After he left university Hussein obtained employment with a large tourist organisation and had a good job advising, informing and leading English speaking visitors. A secretary working for the same company caught his eye and before long he was proudly taking her back to the village to meet his parents. She was an attractive and lively girl who quickly became a part of the family.

His father was now retired and living happily with Aicha. He still received the annual sum of money from Rachid and most of it went towards furthering his second son's ambitions. By the time Mustafa died he was 101 and Hussein was married with a son and daughter. His wife, Khadiza, and children all knew the old man very well, visiting him from their home in Marrakech at least twice a year.

He was naturally saddened by the death of his father, but felt the old man's spirit was never far away. Whenever he visited his mother, Hussein would spend an hour in the wreck, fondly reminiscing to his children about the days when Mustafa drove the only car in the village.

Graphic by LocoFotives © 2006