Copyright, 2003 by Kurt Nemes

With dusk, the men of the town began to emerge from their homes to take their evening stroll. Some stood in groups telling stories. Other walked hand in hand, laughing, smoking, and gesticulating.

We tried for about an hour to hitch a ride. Few vehicles passed this late and none stopped. Suddenly a young man stood beside us.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a pleasant voice.

"We're trying to hitch hike to Laghaout," I answered.

"I don't think you'll find a ride at this time of day. Why don't you come and stay at my house tonight?"

Jerry, Chuck and I all looked at each other warily.

"Oh, no. Thank you," Jerry answered. "I'm sure we'll get a ride."

"We'll I hope you don't. That way you can stay with me."

I studied the man. He had not shaved today, and his head was nearly bald from a buzz cut. He wore thick glasses that exaggerated his crossed eyes. It looked as if he had slept in his clothes.

It grew darker. Still no cars.

"I am very poor," said the young man. "But I can give you something to eat and we have plenty of room. I live with my brothers. They have just built a new house."

His quiet tone and sincerity touched me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Muhammad. I am a schoolteacher. I teach French, history, and the Koran."

We had not seen a hotel nor any restaurants in Ain Oussera, so we accepted. Muhammad was delighted.

He led us off the main road west into a maze of hastily built concrete compounds. Muhammad's door groaned as he pushed it open. We entered an unpaved, muddy courtyard. A cow stood in the center near the well. It looked at us and mooed.

"This way," Muhammad said opening a door on the left. He flipped a switch and a single bare bulb hanging from a wire blinded us temporarily. When our eyes became accustomed to the light, we saw carpets everywhere. In one corner a pile of rugs stretched to the ceiling. Bright rugs, three-deep cushioned the concrete floor.

"My brother, Jusef, is a shepherd. He is coming home tonight with his flock. We make blankets with the wool."

I was afraid that Muhammad would expect us to purchase a blanket in exchange for food and lodging. But he did not say another word about them.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," he said. "I will ask my mother to make you some food." He left.

I turned to the others.

"Well, this isn't too bad."

"No," said Jerry. “Although, he scared me when he said ‘I hope you don't get a ride.’”

“Me, too,” said Chuck.

We sat on the carpets. There was no furniture in the room.

Muhammad returned. He brought a pitcher of water and glasses. The water tasted good after the hot September day in the desert.

Muhammad sat and began to ask us questions—about our families, whether we were married, what we did, why we were traveling. He loved teaching. Despite his poverty, he was happy with his faith and knowing that Allah would provide for him.

There was a knock on the door. Muhammad rose and opened it. In strode a short imp of a man with a broad smile and a spark of happiness in his dark eyes. He doffed his turban to reveal a bald skull encircled by a fringe of black hair.

"Marhaba!" he shouted. "Salaam Ali Koom!"

"This is Jusef. He says ‘Welcome. Peace be with you,’" translated Muhammad.

Jusef kept speaking to us in Arabic even though his brother told him we only spoke French. He pumped our hands excitedly.

"Welcome to my house. Thank God you have come. Make yourselves at home. I am so happy you are here." We thanked him and repeated our stories for him.

Jusef smiled. He pointed to the blankets and gave the Arabic word for them. He pointed to the west and spoke with great excitement.

"He says, he loves being a shepherd, and wishes he could take you with him to the mountains to watch him work."

"That would be nice," I said, "but we really want to get to Ghardaia by tomorrow."

Jusef said something to Muhammad.

"La, La, La," said Muhammad. No. No. No.

"What is it?" I asked.

"He wants to know if you want to see one of his sheep."

"Of course," I said.

Jusef rose and ran into the courtyard. He returned a few moments later pulling a bewildered ram in through the door.

Jusef grinned from ear to ear. He pried open the ram's mouth to show us its teeth. He made us feel the thick fleece and the fat stomach. We clucked our approval and had trouble stifling our laughter. Through Muhammad we told him he was the best shepherd we had ever met. Satisfied, he took the ram outside and returned.

Muhammad left but soon returned with dinner. He carried a huge bowl of couscous, with a bowl of yogurt and some grapes on the side.

"I'm sorry," said Muhammad. "My mother didn't have time to make a stew. Instead I brought some yogurt and grapes."

We devoured the light, fluffy couscous, which had a hint of lemon. The sweetness of the grapes cut the sour taste of the yogurt.

After dinner, Muhammad and Jusef unfurled their prayer rugs in the direction of Mecca. Then they prostrated themselves and said their prayers.

"Allah Akbar," they chanted. God is great. We watched in silence.

When they had finished they both looked serene. We talked well into the night. This was in 1980, during the same time that fundamentalists in Iran were holding American hostages. No such fervor tainted the faith of either Muhammad or his brother. Allah had told them to be hospitable to strangers, so they were.

We prepared for bed. The brothers took rugs off the pile in the corner and spread them on the floor several layers thick for each of us. They brought in rough woolen blankets and woven cushions. After a few “good-nights,” Muhammad shut off the light.

I lay awake for some time listening to the rhythmic breathing of the others and thinking of the day's events. Would I have done the same had three hitchhikers shown up in my town? I thought I was a hospitable person. But Muhammad's offer of food and his roof went way beyond that.

That night, I slept the deep, dreamless sleep of one who feels protected.

The sharp smell of coffee roused us from our sleep. Muhammad had entered the room carrying our breakfast--bread, coffee, and sugar.

"Won't you stay another night?" he said after he had poured us all a cup.

"You are so gracious," I said, "but we have to reach Ghardaia by tonight.

"What is your hurry?"

"I have to leave Algeria by the end of the week," I said. "I have a job in Italy and must report there by the middle of the month."

He looked puzzled by my haste.

After breakfast, Muhammad accompanied us to the edge of town and we said our goodbyes. A truck driver soon stopped and we climbed in the back with his supplies.

As we rode away, I thought about the night’s events. Despite their meager conditions, in many ways it seemed Muhammad and Jusef lived a much richer life than mine.