Yesterday I visited Downtown Dar Bouazza in search of a bicycle mechanic. I’ve found everything else in the small open shops along the dirt road located behind the post office, so this seemed like a probable idea. I had found sandpaper, garden spades and a shovel, made copies of important papers when I sold my R4, and a special metal plate to put under a ceramic tagine pot so it wouldn’t burn. However, this day I found more than just something I needed to buy, I stumbled upon something very special.
As I approached the 10‘x12’ wooden box of a garage with bicycle tires hanging, one man motioned to me that he couldn’t speak or hear and pointed to a shop across the road where I should talk with someone. Another man working on a scooter inside the garage, stood up, saw me, and also motioned for me to come back later when someone else would be able to talk with me. I took two strides in the direction they pointed and abruptly turned around, realizing that all of the people in this area speak Darija and I would have to count on my arm gestures and non verbal communication anyway because I didn’t know that much of the language to help in this situation. In a couple minutes of total silence, I had explained the problem with my bike and they were in the process of diagnostics. The bike turned over, wheels spinning, they dug for tools in their boxes,and motioned with hands and arm gestures between them. Their concentration was one-pointed and I found myself falling in love with the moment. I felt so privileged to be living in this little town where these men could have their place. They were friendly, kind, intelligent, and creative in their work. Like artists, they moved between their materials and my bike in quick smooth motions following a protocol for problem solving but being open to their intuition. They pointed to the engraved numbers on the bottom of the bike and gestured with thumbs up what a good quality it was and that it must have been flown here to Morocco because it isn’t possible to buy something like it here. (And yet I had bought it at Derb Ghalif in Casablanca from a mechanic who had built it from found foreign parts). My guess was that they were raised in the streets of small town Dar Bouazza and at some point in their lives with the communication that ran through their hands and the gentle acceptance from their community, they found their life’s work.
In about 45 minutes, the tuneup was complete, and they charged me 20 dirhams--or about 3 dollars. They had installed a new tip for the back tire tube, adjusted the spokes of the back tire, oiled the chain and breaks, checked the front tire and breaks, and adjusted the gears. It was clear, I had been given the price of a local Moroccan and I felt even more gratitude. In the three years I have lived in the Casablanca area, I have found about seven businesses and people that have this business ethic and they have all been in Dar Bouazza. To not be judged by the color of my skin that I am rich and that I should be charged a different price, feels honoring and respectful. From conversations with my friend Reddad who grew up and lives here, I know that this attitude comes from an attempt to be a true and good Muslim and they are counting on “Allah” rather than me to provide them with their daily sustenance. When religious training engages human kindness and compassion instead of judgement and separateness, it is inspiring. Another heart connection has been made and I am so proud of my little town.
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