As I sat on the train to Casablanca airport to meet my Dad, I envisioned many things—reunion joy, the familiar bear hug, perhaps even a few tears. Little did I imagine that I'd be facing arrest before he even disembarked. Despite the many tales of this journey, filled with stoicism and happiness, this is one that highlights moments where intelligence takes a backseat.
Weeks earlier, while planning our route, we had decided that renting a car would be the best way to explore the country. It was a flawless plan, offering independence and practicality, allowing us to pick up and drop off the car at the airport. Following this plan, I made a reservation, leaving ample time before Dad's flight for a calm resolution of any bureaucratic hurdles.
What I didn't know was a peculiar, if not absurd, detail. The brilliant minds at Casablanca airport decided that public car rental agencies would be located behind the initial security checkpoint. Not a problem, except local law stipulated that only travellers could enter the airport. This created an insurmountable predicament: non-travellers couldn't access services within the airport. Moreover, a newcomer couldn't reach these agencies either, as they ended up in the same area as those outside waiting for them. It made me ponder whom these companies served. If only those leaving the country could access a car rental office, why would they need a car in the first place! If Joseph Heller were alive to witness this, I'm certain he'd add a chapter to Catch-22.
Confounded by the situation, attempting to find logic behind this absurdity, I stood in line at the security checkpoint, pondering my options. I presented the voucher from the company, assuming they'd make an exception, but I guessed wrong. After 15 minutes in line, contending with dozens of frantic Moroccans pushing ahead, I reached the duty police officer. Amidst the chaos, I handed him the papers to explain the situation. However, he seemed not to grasp my words, repeatedly asking for the ticket while dealing with others vying for his attention. My persistence led to impatience, and he flatly denied me access. "Without a ticket, there is no access!" he yelled. I persisted, but to no avail. I kept insisting, and now he didn't even look at me. A little more insistence, futile explanations, and he gave me a cold look of disgust. In that moment, my Latin blood with Italian roots boiled, overriding my common sense. There was no longer a lid that could contain this pot. With a hint of disgust and contempt, I looked at him and said out loud, "You are worse than an animal." It was at that moment when I finally caught his attention. I saw his eyes pop out of their sockets, and before I walk away, he grabbed me by the arm and neck, saying, "Am I an animal? You're going to see what it's like to be an animal: You're arrested.
Suddenly, fear floods my veins. The prospect of imprisonment in a foreign country ranks among my greatest fears. The gravity of the situation dawns on me, highlighting the foolishness of my impulses. Seeking to offset my lack of previous prudence, I now choose to comply rather than resist. He shoves me, dragging me through the crowd, paradoxically in the direction I initially intended. Once behind the X-ray machine, the other officers inquire about the situation as he throws me into a chair, ordering me to stay still. As he informs the others, I observe their faces shift from confusion to disgust. While I don't understand Maghrebi Arabic, his facial expressions convey that I am in serious trouble.
My mind starts to spiral. On one hand, I attempt to formulate an immediate plan of resolution. On the other hand, the pressure mounts as the plane has already landed, and my dad won't find me when he comes out. My instinctive reaction is to apologise and attempt to explain, but my words hit an impenetrable iceberg. Minutes pass, during which I continue to plead for forgiveness. I try to appeal to the other officers to garner sympathy, but the offended person persists in turning his back on me. After a considerable duration, what I suspect to be a superior arrives. From there, four plainclothes officers escort me to the police office inside the airport, subjecting me to an extensive interrogation. Amidst four walls without windows, a table in the middle with a chair on each side, and a dying light bulb attempting to illuminate us, I feel like I'm in a scene from a typical Hollywood movie.
Who are you? Where are you from? Why are you here? Who are you with? Where do you come from, and where are you going? What do you bring here? Empty your pockets, hand over all your belongings, identify yourself! The tone of their inquiry carries a force that intimidates me to the core. The questions persist, even before allowing me to finish answering one. I feel treated like a terrorist. One of them compels me to unlock my phone and promptly proceeds to scrutinise all of its contents. Opting for a blend of genuine explanations and embellished narratives, I detail that my outburst was inexcusable, driven by immense pressure as my ailing father was about to arrive, requiring assistance. I mention my fantasised recent personal challenges—my wife leaving me, the passing of my grandmother, and the distressing news from blood tests, leading me to believe I had cancer. Amidst this, the phone rings; it's my worried dad, borrowing a phone to call me. I reassure him, urging him to remain calm and wait. Running out of invented explanations, I can only persist in expressing profound apologies for the unfolding events. After a while, a glimmer of hope emerges as I realise they are beginning to grasp both my genuine and fabricated predicaments. Following a few more minutes of deliberation, I am escorted back to the security checkpoint where the indignant man awaits. They halt me in front of him, granting me permission to apologise. Right there, I spontaneously deliver one of the most eloquent speeches of flattery in my life, expressing sincere regret and deep respect for the offended party. I even extend an invitation to my home in the future. The warmth of my narrative seems to dissolve under his cold, apathetic gaze and a stony silence. Finally, I see him nod wordlessly, validating my apology, at which point I offer him a hug. He receives it apprehensively but does not reject it. Not only that, once the matter is resolved, they permit me to access the car rental office. The irony in that, eh?
Fifteen minutes later, I emerge into the arrivals hall with the car keys in my hand, rushing to meet my patiently waiting dad. "What happened?" he inquires. "Nothing much, just a minor hiccup getting to the rental office, but it's all sorted out. :)"
I trust that anecdotes like these not only offer entertainment but also impart valuable lessons. In certain instances, one must possess the requisite clinical composure to manage emotions and impulses. While it may be straightforward on occasion, there are times when it proves challenging, demanding heightened awareness. If this capacity doesn't come naturally, it must be cultivated and refined. Much like my encounter several months ago in the Congo with that reprehensible corrupt officer at the border, today I find myself losing my temper once again over something not worth the fuss. What could be more foolish than berating a police officer at an airport? The correlation between impulsive reactions and their potential consequences follows a direct proportionality. In other words, the more severe the reaction, the more unpredictable and serious the consequences. Had I not promptly expressed remorse and essentially pleaded for clemency, the officers might well have kept me detained, ultimately leading to deportation. The cascading ramifications of such an outcome are immeasurable. My bike, all my possessions, and my father would have remained in Morocco, while I languished in jail awaiting a flight to expel me from the country, with no chance of return. Was it worth it? The answer is a resounding NO, but in that moment, I did what I could, and it served as a valuable lesson.
Chronicles of a Journey in Freedom
In this profoundly significant moment, I find myself privileged to welcome my dad for the third time on this odyssey. Initially, it was in the Philippines at km 3000, followed by South Africa 30,000 km later, and now, in Morocco, marking km 55,000. Traveling with him not only provides the deep satisfaction of our continued journey together, a tradition since my earliest memories when he was the one leading our explorations, but it also grants me a few days of heightened comfort beyond what I’m used to. Furthermore, taking a temporary break from the bicycle compels me to alter my perspective on how I perceive and learn about the world. Every mode of travel inherently brings about a transformative shift in the travel experience. For better or worse, there is wisdom to be gained from each. This is why, despite my reluctance, I believe it is crucial to engage in the exercise of broadening one's mind and avoiding entrapment in a singular viewpoint, so I embrace other forms of traveling.
In this context, traversing a segment of the country once again, but this time by car, proved to be a revealing experience. On one hand, the most conspicuous aspect of this change mirrors the occurrences every time I parted ways with the bicycle: the staggering speed at which events unfold. Covering in a few short days a distance triple that pedalled over seven weeks on the bike presents a challenge to my ability to fully absorb the unfolding experiences. It's remarkable how, once the mind attunes to the unhurried rhythm of the bike, allowing for the savouring of each moment, the process of readapting to the swift pace becomes overwhelming. I am steadfast in my belief that, much like a dish is best savoured through deliberate slow chewing, a slower pace enhances the capacity to absorb the evolving environment. Consequently, it disconcerts me to traverse towns, deserts, and mountains without the luxury of immersing myself in them, feeling their essence, and witnessing their gradual transformation as the sun performs its task of illuminating them from every conceivable angle.
Now, this phenomenon is something that impacts any journey, irrespective of the country visited. In the specific case of Morocco, distinctive and abrupt changes are also noteworthy. My bike route had strategically covered various tourist hubs in the country, including Fes and Chefchaouen. However, the chaos experienced at these specific points was counterbalanced by the extended sequence of sublime moments that unfolded both before and after them, spanning several days. In contrast, the rapid pace of the car compresses travel times from days on the bike to a mere few hours, repositioning tourist hotspots at the very core of the journey. The predicament lies in the exclusion of experiences beyond these points, exposing us solely to a direct encounter with the darker facets of the country. This manifests in the legion of individuals whose livelihoods orbit around tourists' wallets and anything marketable to them. It's crucial to acknowledge that this serves as an honest and valid source of income for thousands, a fact not subject to objection. However, in Morocco, these dynamics escalate to levels that could be deemed abusive in the best-case scenario and fraudulent in many others.
The case of Marrakesh serves as a poignant illustration of this predicament. The experience in this city, despite its intrinsic points of interest, devolves into a nightmarish ordeal. Navigating its streets becomes nearly impossible without being accosted every 20 steps by sellers or opportunists on the prowl, eager to sell or perpetrate scams. Regardless of their motives, the stark reality is that they obstruct the enjoyment of the city, rendering uninterrupted conversations during strolls a literal impossibility. Respect or consideration for other people's spaces is conspicuously absent. I dare say, only the mosquitoes in the Mongolian steppe rival the audacity of the individuals in Marrakesh fixated on catering to tourists. On reflection, it's unavoidable for me to ponder on the fantasies harboured by these individuals. I imagine that deep within, they undeniably believe that their intrusive interruptions will be met with delighted customers, enthusiastically ready to purchase their services. Surely, a clear case of cultural differences left unacknowledged.
Casablanca and Essaouira were two additional cities that hadn’t been part of my route by bicycle, and exploring them proved to be quite interesting. Casablanca, in particular, doesn't boast many distinctive features aside from some intriguing examples of architecture. Witnessing the life of a metropolis in Morocco, where Westernisation is evident, was noteworthy. It's fascinating primarily due to the stark contrast it presents with the rural and conservative life prevalent in most parts of the country I’ve seen. In the capital, the religion of consumption seemingly has more devotees than Islam. A clear dichotomy emerges, showcasing traditional Morocco in contrast to the trajectory of modern Morocco, accompanied by a robust police and military presence.
Essaouira, on the other hand, is a coastal city I arrived at during an inopportune time. The relentless wind along its Atlantic coast forced me to relive, akin to a trauma, memories of the challenging weeks spent traversing the Sahara. Despite the charm of its port adorned with sky-blue fishing boats and its vibrant spice and craft markets, the aversion instigated by the wind lingered, making barely impossible for me to feel at ease.
Finally, the journey concluded with revisits to Fes and Chefchaouen, which brought me immense joy. Particularly because, unlike my previous visit by bike two weeks ago, both encounters were now graced by sunlight instead of rain. Fortunately, despite being equally popular among tourists like Marrakesh, we weren’t subjected to the same level of harassment, rendering the experience much more enjoyable.
So, two weeks transpired with my dad, whose companionship and affection provided the necessary recharge for me to embark on the next stage of my journey. The looming challenge to the “dark side”: Europe.