For a full week, I could think of almost nothing else. I was desperate to get out of Morocco at the same time that I had a very fuzzy sense of why or of what I wanted to do in Ceuta.
And so, as is too often the case when we want something very badly, it seemed that the forces of the universe were conspiring against our planned European getaway.
First, Sarah and Terry spent the entire week leading up to our trip making phone calls to a car rental agency, and each time, the exchange went something like this:
Terry: "We want to rent a car for Friday."
Car rental representative: "Okay, we'll call you back in 10 minutes."
(Sarah and Terry wait a few hours, then call the agency back.)
Terry: "We want to rent a car for Friday."
Car rental representative: "Okay, we'll call you back in 10 minutes."
This went on over and over again until Thursday night (the night before we were scheduled to leave) when our friends enlisted the help of a Moroccan friend, who finally lined up a car for us – at twice the price it should've been. At about 7:00 that night, then, we were desperately calling other car rental agencies to try to get ourselves a better deal.
We found a car at a better price, but the company required a 20,000 dirham deposit (that's "only" about $2500, an obscene amount of money here in Morocco that none of us would be able to get our hands on with such short notice).
About an hour later, we got in touch with a car rental company in Azrou (about 20 km away) that was willing to rent us a Kia Picanto for a good price. They even said they would deliver it to us here in Ifrane for a reasonable delivery fee.
It was a little stressful not knowing less than 24 hours before we were leaving how we would get to Ceuta, but I thought things were okay.
That was until Friday (the scheduled day of our departure), when someone from the car rental company called to find out when we were come into Azrou to do the paperwork. He was happy to come pick us up (for a fee, of course), but he was adamant that the rental required paperwork that absolutely could not be filled out in any other location besides their office. (As an aside, this incident illustrates one of the most confounding aspects of Moroccan culture for some foreigners. It is extremely flexible and accommodating of individual needs in some cases, and inexplicably and unbendingly bureaucratic in others.)
Okay, fine. We decided we would not pay him to come pick us up and would, instead, take a grand taxi. But when we got to the grand taxi station and saw dozens of people standing around, watching for taxis, we realized we may have made a mistake. You see, we were trying to catch a taxi the evening before the weekend before an eid. (Last year, T and I had tried taking a taxi to Azrou the day before an eid, and after watching old ladies violently elbow people out of their way so they could jump into the taxis, we decided we would just stay in Ifrane.)
I'm still not sure why we were able to charter a whole grand taxi for the four of us. I had an uncomfortable feeling it had to do with the color of our skin, but maybe it had more to do with the relatively exorbitant amount of money we were willing to pay the driver.
So we got to Azrou. At this point, I was already feeling exhausted and rather apprehensive about the rest of the trip, most of which would take place in the dark, some of which would be through the mountains.
Also, after our first stop for fuel, T couldn't get the Picanto to start.
As I'm writing all of this, I realize that it doesn't sound that bad. Some of you (if you're still reading) might be thinking, "What's the big deal? Isn't this the way all vacations start?" First of all, no, this isn't the way all vacations start--at least not for me. And maybe it will help you to understand that I've always been a pessimist, but being in Morocco has in some ways intensified that because living here has increased my sense that no, things don't have to work out okay. They don't have to work at all. And if your rental car doesn't start and you think the company is going to zip out to wherever you are with a fresh replacement car, you are not entirely in touch with reality.
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| Ceuta from a distance (during the day, of course) |
And then, they wouldn't let Terry across the border.
I don't want to get into the details of that situation, but it really came down to a piece of paper that was missing a stamp it was supposed to have. (See above comment about flexibility vs. bureaucracy.) For an hour, we left the car running. There was pleading. There were some tears. There was panic, and anxiety. It had taken us seven hours to drive there. It was cold. It was midnight. We were hungry and thirsty and tired. And Terry was being told he couldn't walk a few yards to the north because he didn't have some ink on a piece of paper. How bizarre. I felt sorry for us, but I felt much more sadness thinking about how other people's lives have been ruined, some lives lost, because they were on the wrong side of an invisible line and they didn't have the right ink on the right pieces of paper.
But here's how Morocco can be blessedly different from the U.S. Eventually, after Terry had been worn down, had confessed his sins and appeared sufficiently contrite, he was allowed into Ceuta.
Hooray! We had made it! We parked the car and walked to our hotel. It was late, but we wanted to go out anyway. We were in Spain, finally, damn it. We asked the attendant at our hotel where we could go out for tapas. He looked at us strangely. "You can't go out for tapas tonight. Everything's closed."
"What? It's only 1am. That's not so late."
"You're not in Morocco anymore," he said. "It's 2am here."
So that's how we came to be getting in later than we thought but going to bed sooner than we thought, exhausted and hungry.
The weekend was not without hitches, but it was pleasant enough. I felt like I got what I needed from it.
But boy, what a rough start.
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