Mustapha!

Going to Morocco? Better call Mustapha.

Officially, Mustapha was our guide. He drove us from Marrakesh to the Sahara desert and back. But that doesn’t come close to capturing who Mustapha really is.

Our trip to the Sahara was just a few days before Christmas. We met up at the infamous Place du Moukef, his nondescript minivan mixed in with myriad other cars. But when he opened the van, we were greeted by a jolly set of Christmas decorations. Silver and red garland, a cheesy country Christmas wreath hanging from the rear view mirror, even a miniature fake tree. ‘Wow!” we all said. “Christmas in Morocco!”

He felt we might like a little Christmas cheer, being in a Muslim country at Christmas time. It was tremendously thoughtful. We didn’t have the heart to tell him part of our motivation in coming at this time - aside from celebrating Marissa’s 50th birthday - was to get away from all of the Christmas-y hoopla back home. Besides, it did lend a party atmosphere. It also came in handy later with the federal police, but I am getting ahead of myself.

As we made our way out of the old town, or medina, Mustapha queued up a song from his phone. A beat I’ve heard a million times since the 1980’s. It was Tone Loc, Funky Cold Medina.

Get it? We were leaving the medina? Ahhh… this guy.

I do have to acknowledge, early on in this story, that he was indeed a good driver. Hauling a group of five over the Atlas Mountains in a minivan is not for the faint of heart. It winds as much as California’s Highway 1, its cliffs, precipices and hogbacks as impressive as any in Utah’s canyon country and its highway safety standards unlike anything I’ve ever seen. There were over-sized loads, speeding cars, missing railings and, for a long stretch, no actual pavement - just graded dirt that was due to be paved sometime soon. I think.

But Mustapha knew the road like the back of his hand, and he talked and joked and dee-jayed while simultaneously getting us safely over one of the most daunting mountain ranges in the world.

He even knew the right time and place to pull over and let the carsick one (Marissa, poor thing) out to barf.

While the scenery for much of the drive from Marrakesh to Merzouga is beautiful, not all of it is, and parts of it can feel long and boring. But Mustapha had a sense for keeping us entertained, or at least engaged. YouTube clips of Russell Peters’ stand-up to make us all laugh, selections of Tinariwen and Ali Farka Toure to complement the scenery rolling by, and a sugary pop number called “Habibi, I Love You ” (Habibi means “my darling” in Arabic) by Ahmed Chawki, featuring Sophia Del Carmen and Pitbull, for us to sing along to whenever the mood got low.

The song is quintessential Euro-pop with a Moroccan twist. Syrupy-sweet lyrics, several catchy hooks, and Pitbull, for God’s sake. Pitbull!

Now, the first couple of times it was fun, but he played it often and it started to wear a little thin. However, he didn’t seem to notice. Habibi in the morning, Habibi after lunch. Habibi at sunset. Finally I had to ask,

“Can we have a break from Habibi?

“Of course,” he said, grinning somewhat sneakily, like he knew something I didn’t.

Sure enough, by the next morning I was humming the melody, ready for a hit of that addictive pop song called Habibi. He just smiled, and pressed play.

As for the Christmas decorations and the federal police...unfortunately, while we were in Morocco, two Scandinavian women hiking in the High Atlas mountains had been abducted and brutally murdered by ISIS sympathizers. Aside from the fact that this was a heinous crime and we felt terrible for these women, their families and the good people of Morocco as a whole (this kind of thing is very rare in Morocco) it also resulted in an overnight deployment of police and military on every major highway.

Suddenly there were regular checkpoints, with police and large guns, where cars had to stop and papers had to be presented.

At our very first checkpoint, a senior officer type made Mustapha pull out what must have been every official piece of paper he could find. It looked like everything but his dental records.

While he did so the officer peppered him with questions, pointing at the decorations throughout the car. On and on they went while a couple of younger cops surveyed the minivan, peering into the windows. I felt almost sure we were going to be told to report to the station, though where in the hell that might be I couldn’t imagine. We were in the middle of nowhere.

Just then the senior officer straightened up and moved back to our window, which Marissa was sitting next to. He made sure he had her full attention.

“Jooooyeuuuux anniversaire…” he sang, in a rather lovely baritone.

“Joyeux anniversaire…” he pointed at Marissa, tipped his cap, and waved us on.

We were dumbfounded. Mustapha was calm.

“What was that all about?”

“Well, he asked what the decorations were for. He doesn’t speak English and wouldn’t know what Christmas is anyway, so I told them they were for Marissa’s birthday. That you are here for her birthday, which is true, right? So he sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’ in French.“

“How sweet,,” we said.

“Yeah, well, let’s get out of here,” said Mustapha. “Before he changes his mind.”

The last two thoughts I have about Mustapha involve food.

We had supper at his home, a square, two-story building on a dusty corner in the fast-growing desert-edge town of Merzouga. We had couscous with chicken and homemade harissa that was spicy and full of flavor. Fresh fruit for dessert.

We met his wife and their baby, along with Mustapha’s mother. She proudly showed off her grandbaby and the elaborate method for slinging her onto her back to take her out for a walk. I suspect it could have held a baby through the fiercest of Saharan sandstorms.

This was one of the true benefits of Mustapha’s philosophy, which is to treat his clients – to the extent they are open to it – as people who are just tagging along with him during his daily life.

“We stop where I like to stop, we eat where I like to eat, we see the people I want to see.” That is touring with Mustapha.

The last thought is of madfouna , AKA Amazigh pizza. Mustapha had promised us from the first morning of our trip that we would get some and that we would love it.

Madfouna is essentially a pizza-like dough that is filled with the treasures of Morocco - meat, nuts, spices, and more, then baked until the outside is crisp, the dough is tender and the inside is an explosion of flavor and texture.

At the beginning of our return trip to Marrakesh, we made a special stop in Rissani to get what Mustapha considers the best madfouna in Morocco. While it was being prepared to go, we wandered through the market, buying dates, olives and spices by the kilo at prices we could barely believe.

Done with shopping, we picked up the madfouna. But did we just eat it there, on the street or in a park in this tiny little town? No, that would not be the Mustapha way.

We drove for about an hour, until we had gone up a bit in elevation and the surroundings had turned a bit greener. Acacia trees dotted the landscape, offering shade to whomever might wander by.

This was where Mustapha wanted us to eat our madfouna - under an acacia tree with the cool breeze on our skin and a view of the Anti-Atlas mountain range.

The food could have tasted of cardboard and it still would have been magical. As it was, the madfouna was unbelievably delicious. The five of us ate in silence, savoring the flavors, the scenery and each other’s company.

Amazigh, and raised in a nomadic (as in travelling through and living in the Saharan desert full time) family of seven, Mustapha remains on the move. If you want to see modern Morocco and the diverse people who make the country what it is, I recommend tagging along.

Mustapha can be reached via WhatsApp at +212-661-769496.