After six days in Morocco, we felt that we had just scratched the surface of what there is to see and experience in that country. Still, we knew it was time to move on to our main destination, Senegal, and were eager to catch our late night flight to Dakar.

When we arrived at the city air terminal in Casablanca, a small office in town where we had checked our bags and checked-in for our flight earlier in the day, we were surprised to discover that only one other passenger had elected to use this service. His name was Badu, a Senegalese who regularly travels between Senegal and Morocco on recruiting missions for Senegalese football (soccer) teams. He was the first Senegalese we met on this trip, and if Badu was any indication, Senegalese were a very friendly people. We talked on the bus all the way to the airport as if we had known each other for years.

As we passed through the initial security lines at the airport, Badu seemed to know everyone. We decided it was best to follow his lead through the terminal.

As Abraham and I have both lived abroad, we knew that in some countries it was wise to avoid security and police officers, as you never knew what they would ask of you or what obstacles they would arbitrarily put in your path. This was our frame of mind as we walked to our gate and Abraham was stopped by a serious-looking man in uniform. He pulled Abraham over to one side. I saw this ahead of me, and wondered if the officer would demand to look through Abraham’s bag, his passport, or even ask for a small “gift” to allow Abraham to pass. I saw confusion on Abraham’s face, and feared the worst.

Just then Badu turned back, approached the officer, and soon everyone was smiling. Abraham looked at me with a “you’re not going to believe this” expression. The officer was not asking for money, but was giving Abraham money to buy cigarettes. Not just any cigarettes, but Winstons. Six cases. Within seconds another officer approached me and slipped me a small wad of dihrams. Badu already had been given his, and told us to follow him. I was reluctant to accept money from a security officer — what were we getting ourselves into? — but Badu assured us that everything was okay. He led us to the duty free shop, where a smartly dressed woman approached me and simply asked, “Winston?” I nodded, and was promptly given six cases. After we paid, we found the officers waiting for us near the gate. We gave them the cases, and one of them quickly whisked the bags into a closet.

As we sat down and waited for our flight at the gate, I watched as the same mustachioed officer went back and forth between the passengers waiting for the gate and the closet. I observed him making at least seven or eight trips, each time with one, two or three bags of Winstons.

We asked Badu what was going on. He said this happens all the time, that the officers buy the cigarettes at the duty-free rate and sell them in town. For some reason, Winston is the preferred brand. Everybody in the airport seems to be aware of this, and nobody cares. Perhaps the ones that do care have a few dihrams sent their way.

Another thing I noticed was that the officers only approached the Moroccan and other African passengers. The European and American passengers were left alone (except for me, probably because I was with Badu and Abraham). Did they think that Europeans and Americans just wouldn’t understand? As we were to learn in Senegal, money can have many uses, and not all of them above board.

As for Badu, his friendliness made us feel optimistic about the people we would meet in Senegal. We continued to talk and joke with him until we boarded, and then again as he helped us pass through customs in Dakar at 3:00 in the morning. We found our rides, and then parted ways. One thing I never understood, however, was why Badu had not only taken money for the Winstons, but had also given money to one of the officers. What that money bought him I will never know.