Taza, pt. 1

Yes, yes, it’s Saturday. Saturday at 5 a.m., in my defense, so I’m not that far off the mark. Friday ended up being much, much longer than I’d thought it would be. You see, things don’t work as smoothly here as they do in America. Those of my readers who have been doing it for a while now will point out that living in America is not as easy as we make it look, and they’re right – but life in Morocco has an extra level of difficulty layered on top to make it especially hard to digest, like a fried egg on a hamburger.

But just like that delicious piece of heart-attack bait, the experience is usually worth it. I spent all of today (Yesterday? I haven’t slept, so it all blends together) in a fight with the landlords of the property I’m moving out of, a beautiful ancient riad in the heart of the old city of Fez. A riad is a sort of multi-level house/apartment, with a big central courtyard, sitting rooms, and a rooftop terrace. Ours was beautiful – one of the most incredible houses I’ve seen, with intricate tilework and calligraphy racing up the walls, a nearly 360 degree view from the terrace that took in the entire city and mountains beyond, and, fulfilling just about every dream I’ve had since childhood, a spiral staircase in my room leading up to my loft bed. The place has been a living dream, and it’s a shame to end it on such a rude awakening.

I won’t get into all the details of the fight – it’s essentially a point of view conflict, with my idea of what a landlord should do conflicting with his idea of what a tenant should pay for. We’ve all had arguments like that, except in this one I was reduced to stammering out mangled sentences in Arabic to try to beat back the torrent of abuse that flowed over me for hours. Dear god, no one can talk non-stop like an angry Arab. I felt battered by words, punch-drunk and dazed.

It’s all part of the Morocco tax. Life here, for the most part, is wonderful. Prices are cheap, the food is delicious, the experiences come thick, and the only acceptable form of coffee is espresso. Those who brave the expatriate life here find many rewards, but they always pay the Morocco tax – that extra bit of difficulty that lives in the gap between cultures.

Case in point – transportation. It’s fairly easy to get across the country, due to a stable bus industry, a nice set of railroads, and a fleet of long-distance taxis. Moving a short distance is usually much harder. A few weeks ago some friends and I decided to explore the mountains near Taza, a nearby town that’s supposed to have some of the best hiking in the country. In particular, we wanted to see the Friouato Caves, the deepest cave system in North Africa. The caves were just a few kilometers from the town, while the town was over a hundred kilometers away, but the trip from the town to the caves would cost over ten times as much as that to the city.

So we decided to rent a car, figuring we’d enjoy the extra freedom that we’d get having our own set of wheels. There are car rental places everywhere in the new part of Fez, I figured it wouldn’t be a problem to bop in and grab one for the day. Because I’m stupid.

My first and biggest mistake was trying to rent this car on a Friday, after lunch. Friday’s the prayer day in Islam, and it’s a lot like Christian Sunday in that most people use the time after worship to eat, relax with their families, and visit friends. You see a lot of Friday picnics. So no one’s in any particular mood to rent out cars, if the businesses are open at all. I spent a lovely five hours trucking from agency to agency, haggling with shop owners and making all sorts of ridiculous demands, like working breaks and a lack of smoke gushing from the hood.

I finally got a decent car for a decent price and took it to the parking lot near my house, where I noticed for the first time, again because I’m stupid, that there were no seatbelts in the back seat. Moroccans have a deep hatred for seatbelts. More than once I’ve gotten into the front seat of a taxi and reached for my seatbelt, only to be physically restrained by the driver. I don’t know what the deal is. Maybe I’m insulting their driving skills, or they think the things are dangerous, or – and I’m playing with a little fire here – there’s a fatalism that comes from some types of religious perspectives that makes you less likely to watch out for your safety. It’s up to God whether you get in a car crash, and putting on a seatbelt is interfering with his plan. (This isn’t conjecture, by the way – several people have told me exactly that.)

Whatever the reason, the rental company had decided to put the seatbelts behind the back seat, then bolt the seat into the frame of the car. This went far beyond what the manufacturers had done – they actually attached the seats to a thick frame of plywood and iron, then spot-weld the damn thing to the car, to make it just about impossible to pull the back seat up and get the seatbelts out. It took two hours, with the help of half a dozen guys who were hanging out in the parking lot after dark, to undo the bolts with my Leatherman and yank the damn seat out of the car. Not just the cushions, the entire back seat, top and bottom. Got the seatbelts out, then put the whole damn thing back in. At this point I was ready to just say screw the trip and set the whole fucking car on fire.

I’m glad I didn’t, though, because it turned out to be one of the best experiences I’ve had in this country. The full description, though, will have to wait until tonight or tomorrow, because I’ve just run out of time. Got a ferry to catch to Spain. Sorry to leave you hanging again, but this story shall be told! Tune in… soon. No promises this time. There will be caves! And mud! And great deeds of derring do!