Monday, November 18, 2013

Crossing the Border

After two days in Melilla, it was time to head back across the border into Morocco. Around mid-afternoon, Ricky and I followed the signs until we came across two long lines of cars. "Three hours to cross" said a wily Moroccan who was trying to wave us ahead of the line for 200 Euros. Cars blared their horns in protest and indignation. I had images of a riot were we to take advantage of the offer, for even though Moroccans are often immune to the concept of first come, first served, there did seem to be some protocol at work here. Ricky turned the car around and we headed back to town for some lunch. We had high hopes that the wait time would be shorter after 3:00. We found a pizzeria where we ate a leisurely lunch and took advantage of the wifi on offer.

By mid-afternoon we were ready to brave the lines again. This time we headed for the end of the line and let the engine idle. It took an hour and a half to inch our way to the immigration booths but the time passed quickly enough for there was a great deal to watch and comment on. Many of the cars had turned off their engines, presumably to save gas. Whenever the line moved, the driver would push the car a few car lengths ahead and then set the brake for the next period of waiting. Looking at the condition of many of the cars, I wondered if they were actually able to be driven under their own power once it was time to start the engine. Mufflers and exhaust pipes hung by wires, seats had been taken out of the back to accommodate scrap metal, merchandise purchased at duty-free prices, and huge bags stuffed with used clothing.

Now and then, an intrepid soul pushed a bicycle or small scooter laden with all kinds of seemingly worthless stuff. A rusted out refrigerator was precariously balanced on one bike and threatened to crash to the ground as the gusty winds shook the load against the shoulder of the owner. A man in a wheelchair with a huge pack on his back pushed his way forward in line as people courteously made way for him. Rebar and plastic extended three times the length of a scooter and bobbed to and fro in the stiff breeze. A steady stream of people crossing on foot passed by and we wondered which side of the border they called home.

Vendors and hawkers carried baskets held together with plastic tape selling churros, almonds and sodas. The strong winds blew debris and plastic in swirling eddies which caught on antennas and danced chaotically before heading toward the empty, rubbish strewn plain that could easily have been mistaken for a landfill if one didn't know otherwise. We inched our way forward, cognizant of our comparatively luxurious transportation, and patiently awaited our turn to cross back into Morocco.

We finally reached the immigration booths and had to pull over the car and park. Some paperwork had to be filled out and our passports needed to be stamped before we would be waved through. One man tried to guide us to the toilets. We were not in need of the facilities. Others proffered the small form we had to complete, hoping we would give them some change in return or even relinquish our passports to them so they could fill out the paperwork for us. I plucked the form out of one man's hand without so much as a how do you do and scrounged around in my bag to find a pen. I completed the form while standing in line and passed my pen on to Ricky so he could do the same. My passport was stamped after a quick search on the officials computer revealed I was not a criminal or illegal immigrant and a few questions were posed and answered. "What is your address in Fes?" "Are you driving?" Once satisfied he had done his due diligence, the official thumped his stamp onto his ink pad and transferred the image onto my form and passport in quick succession. Thawk. Thwak. I was cleared to go.


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