Morocco Time

Inspired by Cat in Rabat’s week-long “bad Morocco day,” I have my own suffering to relate.

First, though, I want to mention that I have never had any problem with cars in Morocco, as poor Cat has - they seem to be magnetically drawn to her. I can think of a couple of reasons for this discrepancy, though.

1. Cat is petite, at least compared to yours truly, and they probably figure the damage from hitting her would be negligible. If they hit me, however, it would be comparable to running into a moose, or something.

2. The boyfriend prior to my dear husband was a race car driver. (NASCAR, to be exact) I am very used to cars zooming by within inches, in fact, I often stick a foot out to kick them as they pass. That’s quite a shock for the Moroccan “drivers,” let me tell you.

On to my bad Morocco days… My greatest trial here has been where animals are concerned. I have found that Moroccans and tourists alike share an equal disregard for them, and it irks me almost daily.

For example, I was walking along the pier in Essaouira when I spotted a tiny black kitten. He was mewing pathetically, but strongly, at each person who passed him. They all walked around him like he had the plague. I made a beeline for the kitten, only to discover that what looked like a piece of poop attached to his tiny butt was actually his rectum, partially prolapsed. Being the sucker that I am, I picked him up, barged my way though the kitchen door of the nearest restaurant, and demanded some water to clean him up. I knew that there wasn’t much I could do (having seen this before, that is), but at least I could make him comfortable. After his bath and part of a tin of tuna, he settled down for a nap in the sun, and seemed content.

I, on the other hand, walked away steaming. I could no more ignore a crying kitten than  I could an abandoned baby on the sidewalk, but I must be in the minority.  Anyway, I came back the next day with another can of tuna, and the kitten seemed to being doing fine…except for the problem at the rear end, that is. I figured he would either get better and the inflammation would go down, or he wouldn’t, but at least I gave him some good food for a couple of days.

The next incident occurred a few days ago, here in the Gorge. I was sitting by the river with my dog, Mozun, and Mozun’s doggie girlfriend. My husband was with me, along with a friend of ours, Brahim. Wandering near us was the local crazy guy, “Basson,” also called “Passport,” because his mind has obviously gone elsewhere. They say he’s harmless, but I’ve always thought he was just plain weird.

As I was sitting there petting the dogs and enjoying the night breeze, Basson, without warning, took his plastic stick (it’s actually a short length of orange pipe, somewhat flexible) and whizzed it down within inches of my head, with the aim of striking Mozun’s girlfriend. The dogs took off in a panic, and I completely lost my shit, as we say back home. I got up, slammed Basson upside the head with a full water bottle, and tried to do further damage - luckily for the village idiot, Brahim got between us. Basson tried to circle around and come back, no doubt egged on by my calling him “son of a whore” and all kind s of other invectives in Darija and Berber. I took out my knife and told him that if he ever showed his face in the Gorge again, I would cut off his balls and feed them to my dog. He left.

No doubt some will be shocked and appalled at such violence, but I never claimed to be a peaceful person, especially where my dog is concerned.

That, dear readers, is my Achilles heel in this lovely country. I can tolerate the sexist attitudes, senseless bureaucracy, nepotism/cronyism…but get me anywhere near an animal that needs help, and all my patience goes straight out the window.

May 23rd, 2006 | Category: Animals, Morocco | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL