not Grand enough Taxis

So many people asked me what exactly I was doing in Morocco this summer, and if you think I gave you a vague answer, you’re probably right, because I wasn’t exactly sure myself. I have an internship with a non-profit called Al Wafae which educates women of the neighborhood in marketable skills like baking and sewing. It’s located in the impoverished suberb of Bir Chifae, about a 20 minute drive from downtown.

So Fenna and I hop in her car and drive out for my first day on the job. We arrive in Bir Chifae and it is a lot like I imagined : living in tents, run-down buildings, and a lot of people. We stop by a bakery just around the corner from Al Wafae and Fenna gives the man some money and walks out of the store empty-handed. I was a little confused.

We climb the cramped stairs and turn the corner into a kitchen. We weave our way through the dozen or so veiled women who are all staring at me, and cross through the door into the office of the association.

Before I get by bearings in this new room I’m being spun like a top, shaking hands, hearing names, and then am literally pushed into a chair. I would later learn the identity of everyone in the room : Wasna, the 80-something year old woman who started Al Wafae 20 years ago despite her impoverished beginnings ; Imad, the 26 year old GM from the neighborhood who attended business school; Joseph (pronounced without the j) who I have yet to see do anything than ask me if I’m doing ok; the baking and sewing instructors; and a well dressed man from a neighboring non-profit. Everyone sits down and the lady from the bakery comes in with baked goods and mint teas. Everything is starting to come together.

Fenna and Wasna start talking in Darija (the Moroccan dialect of Arabic), and Imad turns his computer screen towards me and gives me the company overview. After two hours of websites, financial statements, grant proposals, and facebook photos I think I understand. I sit back, take a deep breath and a long draw of tea, and try to get my head together. After today I would have free reign over my work, I had no action items, no deadlines, no stipulations. I have a mentor (Imad), a group of people that are appreciative that I am here, and a company that needs improvement.

For the next half hour Imad, Fenna ; Joseph, and Wasna talked rapidly in Darija. I talked in French to the sharp dressed man and really liked him (I hear everyone’s crazy about those sharp dressed men). We talked about his association, how they taught children, Math Counts at UGA and whether I thought I could teach math to a class of 30 kids. He seemed really interested in everything I had to say, and invited me to visit his building a couple of streets over one day and left. No sooner did we here the door close than Wasna pushed me into a chair again and pointed with both index fingers towards the ground. As anyone who knows ISA, that’s the international sign for «you’re our volunteer and were not going to let that sleezeball across the street steal you ». It was good to feel welcome, I just hope I can live up to their expectations.

What Fenna had been talking with them about was how I was going to get to work every day. They explained where to catch a grand taxi and how to ask to go to Bir Chifae. With an extraordinary amount of « shook-ran »ing, we left.

The next day I went to the taxi stand, asked for Bir Chiffae and the guy nodded aggressively and said 40 dirham. Yesterday I was pretty sure Fenna said 4 durham but there was no way that was right (a dirham is 13 cents, so there was no way a 20 minute cab ride cost 50 cents, and 5 bucks seemed more than reasonable). After this quick mental math, I hopped into the taxi and got a very nice ride to work. I should have known something was up : first whereas everyone else was packed into these taxis 6-deep (4 across the back and 2 in the passenger seat) I was alone, second the driver of the taxi gave the guy I talked to a five durham coin, and third, I felt it in my gut that something wasnt quite right. When I asked Imad about it before I left he shook his head and insisted we go out for a tea after work and he walk me to the taxi stand.

As we walked through the streets, Imad became a different person. Whereas he usually talks in just above a whisper and rarely smiles, he started practically yelling, putting his arm around my shoulders and laughing. I quickly understood. Imad was from the neighborhood, and everyone knew him and where he worked so he wanted everyone to know we were together. I was immediately grateful. He walked me to the taxi stand, pushed my head down into the seat like a police officer does with a convict in handcuffs. We were four moderately sized men jammed into the back of 1980's mercedes, needless to say things were cramped. He then walked over to the group of taxi drivers, shook their hands and said something in Darija which caused everyone to look at me a little nervously. I can only imagine it was something like « If any of you pull any more crap with the white kid I’ll break your knees with a cricket bat » (that’s the international equivalent of a baseball bat right ?). I dont know if it was some threat like that, or those handshakes were lased with money, but I have never paid more than 4 dirham for a cab ride since.