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| From New Album 10/5/08 11:52 PM |
Our rented Kia Picanto sounded like a semi-truck down shifting every time we accelerated. We’d knocked off the pipe that connects the engine to the muffler on one of our many off-road surf checks, and were getting disgusted looks from every pedestrian we blared past. You know your car’s in a bad way when you get stares from locals in developing nations.
Trevor and I had opted to drive north for a week or so to escape the tourist saturated surf town of Taghazout, hoping to see a more “pure” Morocco. It appeared that first, however, we would have to fix the car. Dealing with car troubles is a chore anywhere, but the frustration compounds when you throw in language barriers and the fact it wasn’t even our car. I’d have preferred a spinal tap to dealing with this little issue.
After a deafening five-hour drive, our engine drowning out every Mosque’s call to prayer, we found a service station in our destination city, Safi. We were relieved when a Good Samaritan, out of sheer kindness, offered to lead us to a mechanic who could weld the pipe back into place. (In Taghazout or Marrakech, one would have surely demanded a fee for the inconvenience). The mechanic got to work under the car while we idled anxiously in the dirt square, willing him to make haste so we could catch the low-tide at the local point break.
The first few children arrived discreetly and kept their distance, backs to the yellow homes. We waved and said salaam, they giggled and hid behind one another. Slowly, a few more groups appeared, employing the same bashful tactics as the first. We smiled and approached a few of them, and offered our hands. All scattered except one brave boy of about eight-years, who accepted a firm shake of Trevor’s hand. The flood gates had opened. Word had spread around the neighborhood and about fifty kids converged to shake our hands and ask our names, which they struggled to pronounce. We got their names too; Abdel, Hacna, Ahmid, and a couple dozen Mohammads. They spoke to us in excited French and Arabic, and we lectured in English about the importance of avoiding drugs and alcohol and staying in school (although it was 11am on a Monday, so we may have been a bit late on that one).
Before we knew it our car was fixed. We thanked the big bellied mechanic and paid him for parts and labor, all 100 Dirham ($12) worth, and were on our way. The kids ran along side our car, which now purred like a new vacuum cleaner, waving and bidding us bon voyage. We drove towards the surf, which didn’t seem to matter much anymore.
This morning we awoke to victory at sea and little hope for a surf. So, after a petit-dejaneur, we found our way back to the neighborhood to visit with the community we’d bonded with yesterday. We assured the worried mechanic that all was well with the car, then bought out the local shop’s supply of lollipops. We thought the kids had swarmed yesterday. It was chaos. Under the watchful eyes of Muslim moms behind Burkahs and windows, we distributed the candy and a few dozen pens I’d brought from home. They were elated and so were we.
It was difficult to leave, as much physically as emotionally with the scores of wee ones encircling us. We started with car issues, one of the most annoying things on earth in my mind, and left with just what we’d drove north looking for—a taste of Morocco.
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| Morocco |
