Duh!

After three out of four members of our family have had run-ins with gravity this past month, I decided it was my turn to do something exciting.


Last Thursday I took a friend to Meknes to see a doctor. Another friend accompanied us. Afterwards we ate lunch at my brother's house and when we came out to the car we realized that someone had stolen Jack's backpack and Lousia's purse. Why? Because someone (yours truly) forgot to lock. Ifrane is such a safe town we kind of get lax about such things. Duh!!! So after a long police debate about what district this occurred in (no one knew), we went to one police station to report the crime and get the paperwork for Lousia's stolen residency card started.

At the first station there were two women bolistically screaming at each other. On-lookers seemed amused more than anything else. I reminded myself that Moroccans have no problem with yelling, storming out of the room or otherwise showing their anger. Once inside, one policeman took down all the details on a scratch piece of paper. Then they decided we needed to go to the other district office.


At the second office, we were shown into a room where, behind a desk, a man lay flat on the floor, handcuffed, and bleeding at the mouth. "Have a seat!" said the policeman cheerfully. Once he realized the man was back there, he changed his mind and just as happily told us we could go to another room. Beating and questioning go hand-in-hand here for Moroccans under suspicion. Before I left, I took one last look at the man - actually, boy - bleeding on the floor. What had he done? Was he just a teenager who did something stupid? He reminded me of my students when I first started teaching - capable of doing bad things, but still so in need of attention and love.

We were then ushered into a dark little room crammed full with four grubby desks and their accompanying policeman. One unused printer sat on some stairs going who-knows-where. Ancient typewriters sat here and there, an old file cabinet hugged the corner, and two mismatched yellow curtains hung from the windows.

At our desk sat our policeman who used a total of three typewriters to complete our report. One was for the Arabic version, one for the French and the other - I don't know. He asked me were I was born. "Afghanistan" I replied. He looked at me like I had just stepped of a spaceship. Jack quickly explained in fluent Arabic. Father's name? The policeman assumed it was "Herb Reimer" because women keep their father's name in marriage. Had to get that changed. Then on to Lousia who is Hong Kong-born but a Canadian citizen. That pretty much blew his mind too. Then Lebanese/Sudanese/American Jack was next. I'm guessing by that time the policeman was ready for some seriously strong coffee. Meanwhile a policewoman kept walking up and down the halls in a leather jacket, an above-knee leopard-print dress, fishnet tights and spiked high-heeled boots. I think she's seen one-to-many American spy movies.


All said and done 3 1/2 hours later, we wearily headed back up the hill to Ifrane.

The next morning I took Lousia to Azrou to complete several more hours of paperwork. I looked around for screaming women. Yep, there were some. Must be the police station. We were told we need a copy of a document which we had to buy at a nearby bookstore. After walking there and back, the man said now she needed pictures. So off we went again. Once back the policeman informed us we needed stamps from yet another store - but, frightened by the looks on our faces, quickly offered to get them himself. Another reminder to myself: Efficiency is not value in Morocco. The sooner I accept that, the less likely I will become insane.


Then our friend Mike met us to help complete things. On the way a woman asked him to buy her daughter for 400 DH ($50). For the night? For the day? Whatever the case, we all felt nauseous.


Mike also explained to us that the reason they are so picky with paperwork is that the Moroccan government is paranoid about keeping tabs on Moroccans to prevent terrorism and on foreigners to encourage tourism.


A few hours after our arrival, paperwork in hand, we left the office - with one more cultural experience tackled. And yes, I had remembered to lock the car.