Tangier’s Old Town in Morocco is a difficult place for a foreigner. Everything seems strange: the
souks, or markets, crowded with men in hoods and dresses, the narrow streets, youngsters offering everything from ancient treasures to hashish.
My buddy and I were new to North Africa and our first reaction was paranoia. Were we going to be robbed at knife-point? Poisoned? Kidnapped? We rented a room for a few dirhams and went off nervously to find something to eat in the Souko Chiko, the little
souk. After a few days, both of us were really uncomfortable: people either treated us as potential sources of income or ignored us completely.
Quite by accident we discovered the Almohad Coffee Shop. Its entrance was a single door in a white wall with a small sign above it. I stuck my head inside and was delighted to find a square, open courtyard surrounded by cool verandas. Men sat around the tables drinking Turkish coffee, at near-mud consistency, or glasses of sweet mint tea.
All conversation faded as we entered, but soon buzzed back to life. We were emboldened to sit down and order some tea. At almost every table the customers were playing Ludo.
Over the next few weeks the Almohad became our refuge. Admittedly nobody spoke to us, but after a while nobody peered at us from hooded eyes either. And the mint tea was delicious.
Then one memorable morning a large man marched up to our table and babbled something in Arabic. Was this the moment of attack? I called the waiter over to translate. "He has challenged you to a game of
Parcheesi."
"What’s that?" I asked, imagining a duel with matching pistols.
"That game", he said, pointing at a ludo board.
I must confess I’d been silently contemptuous of all these grown men playing a child’s board game. Ludo, in case you don’t know, consists of a board with four "dens" in which you place four coloured counters. It takes a dice throw of six to get a counter out, after which you chase your counter round the board until you get to "home" in the middle. The first person with all four counters home, wins. As board games go, it’s rather silly.
The size of the man, however, did not seem to brook refusal. I nodded. As my buddy and I stood up so did the entire coffee shop, as if by pre-arranged signal. We were ushered into seats opposite each other; Moroccans filled the other two seats. The waiter informed us that
parcheesi was played in teams, so we had to home all eight of our counters in order to win. It was the best of three games.
The rest of the customers arranged themselves silently around the table, some standing on chairs to get a view of the board. There was something very odd going on, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
To cut the first two games to a sentence, we won the first and they won the second. In the third, decisive game, when they looked set to win, I sent one of their counters back to its den and the player couldn’t seem to get a six. He eventually did, but by that time both his buddy and mine were home. I was in the home slot and he was gaining fast.
I ended up one place from home and the tension in the coffee shop was electric. Every time I rolled the dice the entire audience yelled the Arabic equivalent of "three!" It was a smart call, because a three bounced me out of home, requiring that I throw either a one or a two to win.
After I got four threes in a row my buddy and I suddenly realized why all these grown men played ludo. It had nothing to do with sending counters home. It was about controlling our minds and influencing the dice. This was more than a test of psychic power: we were playing for our very souls.
I threw 17 threes in succession. Each time, the room yelled "three!" and we yelled "one" or "two". By then the hair on the back of my neck was stiff with fright. All logic and statistical probability flew out of the courtyard.
Our opponent was one throw away from home. I tossed the dice and my buddy and I yelled "one". It spun on its corner for an indecently long time and landed with one facing up.
The room erupted. We were carried shoulder high round the coffee shop, then outside into the
souk. Everyone was yelling, but the only word I caught was
parcheesi.
We spent another month in Tangier. Strangers invited us to meals and kids in the streets waggled their thumbs in the air and shouted
parcheesi.
It appeared we’d trounced the local psi-wrestlers. A comment by the waiter at the Almohad Coffee Shop seemed to clear it up:" We Arabs like people with strong minds. The dice told us you were not just tourists."
"What would have happened if we’d lost?" I asked.
His reply was a masterpiece of Arabic inscrutability:" Maybe you would then not have been able to ask that question."
Don Pinnock
