Traveling from Bel Air, Gautier, Casablanca, to the hills of Californie via a used red Rymco scooter at 7:05 a.m., I stop 200 meters from the launch pad to purchase one ripe banana and a Sidi Ali bottled water and offered a “Good morning”, “Al salaam a'alaykum (pronounced Ahl sah-LAHM ah ah-LAY-koom) and “Bonjour” to Yaziz, the young man behind the counter of my local Hamut, and paid 7 dirhams.
The air is cold and nips my fingers through my cashmere-lined gloves. The leather coat I purchased at the Camden market in London a couple of years ago, still zips over my sweeter (with a half broken zipper pull) and my favorite long-sleeved white t-shirt purchased from Primark on Oxford Street has a new tiny burn hole at the bottom obtained by drying it quickly last week next to the propane heater--. My daughter gave me the soft lime green sweater vest- and the cotton twill pants which aren’t warm enough were purchased at J.C Penny’s four years ago when I left Oregon. I am glad they still fit though they are a little tight. I decide to wear my older black Bandolino boots today. These are the ones that I loved so much that I had them resoled last summer while visiting in Ashland, Oregon. I add the pashmina scarf, the H and M magenta wool hat, new Emilio Pucci glasses, the C.Z.M Helmet and I am ready. I throw the 7 dirhams in my right pocket of my favorite designer coat that I thought I would never wear in Casablanca—a black faux fur bought from a boutique in Budapest.
The cold wind presses past my glasses and tears stream my cheeks. My body is still warm but my fingers are starting to notice the change in temperature- a 5 degrees celsius. The traffic is less today, especially in the construction zone at the intersection before the last turn off of the main road. I make a mental check of my mind so I can be present enough to ride. Am I focused? Feeling confident enough? Not over-confident? Scanning my body checking to make sure I am fully present, calm, and aware, I roll my shoulders back and adjust my posture to optimize my balance. I notice my breath and loosen my grip on the handlebars. I arrive at school in record- breaking time.
Avoided: one deep hole that I hadn’t noticed before.
Interesting Incidents:
1. Estimated 10 other scooters seen in passing. One with a rider wearing a Jalapa and no pants showing bare legs.
2. One car slowed down to let me ride in front.
Left work for home at 5:05 p.m. on the same day. Arrived at 5:36 p.m and note the following:
Avoided: One crash into a swerving moped. He yelled “I’m sorry” after I yelled loudly, “Hey”.
Interesting Incidents:
1. One car that was at a stop moved to the side so I could squeeze through the lane.
2. One man who sells “Amarex” products noticed the label on my scooter while I was buying a humus dinner for two, and clarified that I should paint over it because it means that I sell the same products.
3. I detoured off a side street on the last leg towards home and took the sidewalk past three blocks of traffic that was backed up at a stop sign. It is a good way home as I avoid a hard left turn that I was taking before near the park.
4. It is often important to accelerate at the beginning of traffic light movement if I am not at the front of the pack in order to establish my movement pattern. In general there are many patterns to the traffic although at first glance it might not look like it.
One of the patterns I have observed is that scooters and mopeds lead the traffic at the stoplight. Thus, if I find myself towards the back of the stopped pack, like all the other scooters or mopeds, I maneuver myself through the cracks of traffic towards the light. Rarely have I not made it to the front and the pedestrian crosswalk before the light turns green. About 25 % of the time in the morning I am alone at the line and in the afternoon there is always another three mopeds, scooters, or motorcycles. So far, I am the only woman. Since my observations began in August I have seen two other women on mopeds driving in Casablanca. My students tell me “But Ms. There are more women who drive in Marrakech”. When I was there for three days in October, I saw two. I have always been interested in the history of women and their relationship with bicycles. I find it marvelous how in America the right for women to vote occurred after women first started riding bicycles. Thus, I am curious, is my presence unusual?
I’ve been riding for about a month now and I’ve kept a neutral facial and body position just in case I would be somehow threatening to the “men on the road.” I look into the traffic to be ready for anything and glance at the other men at the front line but rarely anyone looks back at me, or them at each other. One day I met the same man two days in a row at around 7:20 a.m. He asked where I worked (in French) and if he could accompany me. I smiled and said “no thank you.” Otherwise, I have observed little verbal communication between any of the scooter-moped drivers. We all just quietly share space within the changing rhythm of the Casablanca traffic. Like surfers on the wave, we follow a flow, while always being alert for random events that might catch us, throw us, and spit us out.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The morning ride-There were more scooters and mopeds on the road this morning and it felt a little warmer than yesterday. However, no one met me at the front of the traffic pack so I could practice my intentional but relaxed smiling experiment. I stopped at the Shell station to put air in my back tire and the engine wouldn't start. Either there is an electrical problem or a drained battery. The attendants recognized me when I came and started up the air tank without me asking. (I've been to this station about three times now). Three men came to assist me-- all speaking Arabic. In a series of pantomime, broken French, and intuition, one shows me how to start the engine without using the key (by cranking a back pedal) and I was off---to the patissier-traiteur-Boulanger-Chocolatier called "Antouki" for a Friday lemon tart before my first class.
The afternoon ride-I counted twenty scooters or mopeds at the front of the pack heading home on Abdul Mommen. Three of these were carrying passengers of which two were women in Jalabas (long traditional dresses). One block from my home, one man on a scooter smiled at me and made brief eye contact.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
10:30 a.m.- My neighbor on the floor above me, arrived in the lobby just in time to help me start the engine at the exact moment I thought I was going to give up and try to find a taxi. The start button isn’t working, the back tire has a slow leak, the lights that have just been replaced, won’t work, and the turn signal is infrequent. I am guessing I have an electrical problem but I haven’t been able to communicate this to someone who can help. I have been trying for a week now to find a good mechanic.
12:30 p.m returning home-The traffic is heavy and moving slow; I ride between the lanes. When it comes to a stop I slowly and carefully weave through the spaces between the cars (sometimes following the other scooters but also being aware of other scooters behind me doing the same and any other intervening traffic perpendicular to the flow. At times it feels like a huge game of human body “Tetris” (the video game of the 90’s). On two occasions, two men in two different Peugeot’s offer to move their side view mirrors so I can squeeze by. I am convinced there is a support from most of the drivers on the road for careful scooter drivers. Sometimes there are loud tooting horns in rush hour traffic as cars communicate to each other the need to advance through stoplights. Car drivers can be exhausted after a days’ work trying to get home, and drivers of the upper class move more aggressively, but overall, stuck cars seem almost happy to see scooters maneuver through the traffic to get home within a reasonable time.
Monday, February 7, 2011
7:30 a.m I try to find the “GoodYear” shop that an English speaking person mentioned while I was at a gas station two weeks ago. I've looked before but gave up. I think what I thought was "Driss St." is really "Iddriss St." and surprisingly, I find it. I stand outside until 8:30 with my fingers crossed. By 9:00 a.m I have realized that my best approach is going to get someone at work to help me. The three mechanics inside are polite but not inspired to go out of their way to assist me. I remember “Africa=Relationships” and for something of this complex nature, I needed my friends.
By 4:30 p.m I had made some connections at work. Atikka, the registrar, contacted, Rabbi, the chef, who talked with Ahmed, the lower school receptionist, who also contacted Nouradine, the plant manager, and we all collaborated over my bike in the parking lot. I enjoy the collaborative problem solving and think, "I should have been an astronaut". They tested the battery and the fuses under the floorboard, checked the oil, and taught me how to start the engine without the starter button. In thirty minutes it was decided that Rabbi would go pick up his daughter and come back to escort me to the mechanic he knew in the old medina somewhere. At 5:30pm he arrived promptly on his large black Yamaha scooter with his 3-year old girl between his legs. We scooted through the evening streets going places I had never been. He leaned to me at one point as said, “This is Courier. You can get everything here…” (Something like this in French). This sounds exciting and just like somewhere I would love to shop. Could I ever come here alone? I wondered how much the carpets would cost here? After twenty minutes of twisty turning paths, we find a small very organized shop along the side of the road which is nestled in amongst a tiny mosque. Upon seeing the old man entirely dressed in black, I can tell in a moment that he is honest and knows his stuff. He is the man I’ve been looking for. “Hamdullah” (Praise be to God!)
He assesses my tire and Rabbi takes it down the street while I watch his adorable and extremely well-tempered daughter. I sing her “Sur La Pont, D’avion”..the only French song I can remember from my childhood. He arrives 5 minutes later with no request for money and tells me only about our mechanic, “He is busy this week. Come back next week and leave it here for two days. “ (I am surprised at his English).
Wednesday, February 9, 2011.
I learn that the old mechanic can’t take my bike until the February vacation. I’d like to have it before then, so I decide to venture on my own to try and find the new motorcycle repair place that opened two months ago. Rabi gave the name to Atika who emailed me the directions. With paper in my mouth and forgetting my helmet, I initiate my first accident in our apartment parking lot while trying to start the engine using the rear pedal. Adding too much acceleration at the wrong moment, the bike scooted under my body and almost crashed into a parked shinny black Jaguar! With a skinned knee and even more determination, I headed out. Ahmed’s voice echoed in my mind, “Shannon you should take someone with you.” I had good enough directions I thought, and I was tired of depending upon everyone to either translate or help me find a mechanic. Atika’s directions said that Zrika’s shop was located to the left of the Chinese restaurant …and then take another left…after the third round about on Zerktuni. After only one wrong guess, a conversation with two mechanics a block away who directed me the opposite direction, and about twenty minutes, I found it. I met a man at the door who said he knew Zrika, and he spoke enough English to write out a proper looking invoice claim giving me enough confidence that I agreed to leave my registration papers with him. (He said that he had to have them in case the police visited the store and asked them whom the vehicle belonged to). However, he wouldn't give me a copy of the paperwork and I wasn’t completely confident that I had left my bike in safe hands, until I heard from him the following day, “Ms. I am calling to tell you that you can’t pick your bike up today because it is Friday and everyone is at the mosque…you can pick it up on Monday, “ Insha’Allah."
I planned to go onTuesday just to give him an extra day if needed. I called in advance to let them know I would be there by 6p.m. Arriving at 6:10, I was shocked. The front of the scooter was all exposed and it looked like nothing was ready. They also didn't have the air filter or mirror. The back fin had been repainted silver, the lock on the seat was fixed, the tire was fixed, the right hand break was replaced (I didn't think it needed to be and I am speculating they broke it). I waited an hour while three mechanics continued to operate on it, then drove it home in the rain. I wondered how long the starter would work for.
In the morning the tire was flat again and the starter wouldn't work.
Wednesday was a holiday and the shop was closed.
Thursday my friend Ahmed volunteered to call on my behalf. He concurred, "You just must do something. They charged you too much." Thursday at 5:00 p.m I made it to the store but they had closed.
I sputtered on no gas, a flat tire, and a questionable starter into the closest gas station near my flat. A pharmacist standing in the parking lot told me about someone he knew on "Bordeaux St."...."Take the third street on the left and go down some on the left and then it will be on the left." That was all I had to go on.
Two moped drivers directed me to Bordeaux St. because I couldn't infer any of the street names from any of the signs. And after only three stops on the left, I found the man. A small green shop of tires for small vehicles, a bucket of soapy water, and an air hose. In two minutes he was at my side with a small screw driver and his air tube filling and testing. Painting the tire with the bubbly water he pointed out to me where the air was coming through. Taking a device that looked like a crochet hook he added a 4" stiff pink string that he stuffed into the rubber tire which sealed off the hole. I paid him 20 Dirhams (about $2) plus a 10 Dirham tip. Then I went next door to the bakery and bought some treats for the men in the shop. At first they wouldn't accept them and they touched their hands to their heart in a gesture which I thought to mean..."no really, it is our job." Eventually, I was able to insist and in turn he held out a plate of little cookies and insisted that I take one. I was in one of those gorgeous moments of little language and so much heart communication. The crappy feelings I had about the shop that overcharged me for work they didn't do faded away.
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