Sacromonte

Saad's hair, compact black ringlets pulled back to a full bouquet, bounced up the hill as the six or so of us followed. Saad, with his burnished Moroccan complexion and gaunt frame, made the ascent in flip-flops without even a heavy breath. So lean, it's not hard to believe less than a month ago his guts twisted inside him and he had to have twenty four stitches--nine internal--to save him. Where was the room for a digestive tract?

The  rest of us, in our walking shoes with bags full of things, wheezed and poured sweat and tried to hide our over exertion from everyone else. One German guy made the climb with ease, but he was chaining cigarettes the whole way like a smokestack from the coal engine pushing him up the hill. 

After collecting ourselves for a moment, Saad led us onward to a winding path. "So these caves have been here for all time. There are many Senegalese people and some hippies living here. But it's safe."

We turned a bend concealed by a mound and there, on this dirt walking trail nestled in the hills above Granada, was a handful of Senegalese men lounging as men do. Saad went up to one of the men and a hand slap curled into a fist and pulled into a hug. They chatted a bit in Spanish.

"Okay, he said we can go into his house."

We all shared a glance. It was a cave. We shuffled nervously past Saad as he held open the curtain acting as the front door. In the area best described as the front yard, but in no conventional sense of the term, there were a couple of sprouting marijuana plants. The American kid wearing toe gloves pointed and laughed. 

The cave was white on the inside, its age impossible to gauge. There were no hard edges, all smoothed pebbles, worn white from years, centuries, millennia, of human hands perching and rubbing and passing by. Five Senegalese men sat on makeshift furniture watching TV. A cooking fire smoked in a small fireplace and they shifted and made room and squeezed in so we could sit. Our uneasy mouths were sutured shut.

They were beautiful, their hair, eyes, flesh, all cut from deep onyx. Some had thick, short dreads. Others wore their hair close to the scalp. One man in a brightly colored and patterned outfit sat rolling a spliff. 

Senegalese wrestling played on TV. Men in short leather breeches decorated with studs would grapple until one got the leverage and threw his opponent to the ground. Red and black wires ran from the TV across the ceiling through little bolted turnbuckles and out the window to some unknown destination. 

After we settled in, small talk erupted from our hosts, but they only really spoke Spanish and French. Saad ran down the list pointing to each of us. "Germany, Germany, Canada, Germany, United States, Canada, United States." All in Spanish though. A regular model UN.

One of the Canadians spoke to one of the men in French. A Canadian woman spoke a wisp of Spanish. I sat next to a guy with dreads like ginger roots sprouting from his head. He kept asking me questions in Spanish and flashing me his wide bridge of gums and small pearls of teeth. I don't speak Spanish and filtered through his West African enunciation, it was even harder to grasp.

He'd ask me a question two or three times and then the Canadian woman would call out from the across the small room, "He wants to know your name." I told him. We slapped hands and curled them into a fist. He poked at my bag and chattered off a few lines and opened his wide smile. I realized I was clinging to my shoulder bag like a life raft. I took it off and set it on the ground. He posed another question over and over again. I thought I responded correctly with, "catorse dias." I'd been in Spain for fourteen days. He wrinkled his brow and punched out his bottom lip. "He wants to know where you're from," the Canadian woman called across the room. The USA. Estados Unidos. "Senegal," he motioned to himself and said the word, each syllable meted out with the pride, the middle one cresting to the top of his speaking register. He smiled and I smiled and we slapped hands again and curled them into a single fist.

Saad who had been chatting with the guy he knew spoke up. "He said we can try some of his food."

The man in the brightly colored and patterned outfit darted out of the cave and returned with three wide platters raised at the edge. The owner of the cave, Saad's friend, ducked into the fire place and scooped heaping, steaming piles of rice and chicken onto the platters. Savory aromas pollinated with rich West African spice enveloped the small interior. Two plates went outside and one was placed on the floor in the middle of the circle. The man in the bright colors returned again, this time with some stewed cauliflower he set on top of the pile. The owner, the cook, our host, squatted down by the tray and drew in all of our eyes. Like an instructor, moving his glance from vacant face to vacant face, he put his right hand into the pile, took a handful of rice, squeezed until it was a compact mound, and popped it into his mouth. No mess, no fuss, no stray grains tumbling to the floor down the edge of his mouth.

We all looked at each other. I'm in no position to project anyone else's feelings, but I recognize a sorry, overly First-Worlded face cycling through thoughts like, "Is it safe?" and "Am I taking food out of their mouths ?" and "Is this one of those scams Rick Steves talks about?"

"Eat! Eat!" Saad chided.

Toe gloves looked around. He looked to Saad, "So is this like a..." he made a scooping motion with his hand. Saad nodded. He took a tiny portion and forked it into his mouth disregarding the squeeze into a mound lesson our host gave us. Most went into his mouth, some tumbled to the ground. "It's really good."

We dug in. Small portions at first. I made a point to squeeze but I still lost some in transit. The host leaned in again to improve our technique. It's all in angled fist and wrist pop to really pack it down. After we all took a token handful, we sat back. Our host looked around. "Eat!"

The Canadian a seat over from me leaned in and muttered, "I guarantee you we're not leaving until it's all gone." 

One by one we let go. We dug in, we packed our rice pods to mouth sized portions. We began to laugh and filled our bellies. The cauliflower was one of those things I may never taste again, perfect on the tooth and imbued with flavor to the center stem. The host beamed with pride and scraped the pot doling chard bits onto the platter. Without question, the best part.

"This is very typical African," Saad keyed in, "you cook for four and then you feed eight." He spoke to the owner and pulled some coins from his pocket. The owner tried to shake his head, but Saad insisted. The owner found a small dish and Saad dropped in his coins. "Come on guys, this is not cheap. This never happens. I lead this tour every night, this never happens." I'm a proud cynic, but I believed him. We all put in.

The man in brightly colored clothes returned with a small tub filled with soapy water. He washed his hands in the makeshift basin and we all followed suit. He then produced a dustpan and broom, but Saad cleaned up after his guests who left the floor littered with grains of rice. Afterward Saad produced a pouch of tobacco and rolled a smoke wider at the tip and said, "You guys ready to go?"

We followed him out as we had followed him in. The other men were gathered outside planting a pole in the ground. I wanted to believe it was to fly the Senegalese flag, but maybe it was a laundry line. I don't know. As we walked away and turned down the snaking dirt trail back to the bottom of the hill I turned to the the toe gloved American. "So that was surreal, right?"

Without breaking stride he replied, "Incredible."