When it comes to learning to drive, I’ve always thought that some countries simply have it easier. The Netherlands, for example: all those long, flat roads with nobody else about. There are parts of Spain like that. They speak Spanish there, too. It’s largely for that reason that I’ve delayed learning to drive until I’m back out there next summer. That and a sheer apathy for cars.
But if you’re stuck for choice, never, ever learn to drive in Morocco. Ever.
In twenty four hours I’ve seen probably the worst driving in my life. On our way to the beach after school on Friday afternoon we almost collided head-on with a wayward van which came careering off the road out of nowhere and straight into the trees on the other side. Two seconds later and we’d have got right into it. Thank all the powers that be that our taxi driver was alert, enough at least to stamp hard in the brakes and save us from… well, a disappointing beach trip.
The driver, you may be happy to hear, was unharmed. Dazed, confused but apparently unharmed. She just tottered out of the crumpled van and went on her way.
What shocked me most, as before, was that I wasn’t really shocked at all. Scary car accident, white van speeding towards us with screeching tyres and bits of metal flying everywhere, the sweet stench of exhaust… Nothing doing. I think that’s our curse, as children of the twenty-first century (though technically speaking I’m amongst the last of the twentieth). I remember feeling similarly ruffled at being so decidedly unruffled when I saw a girl walking home from school go right over the bonnet of a car. Shocked at the lack of shock. I blame television, specifically programmes that really pushed the boat out: Casualty, Waking the Dead, Casino Royale etc. I hope my children have a better idea of what is and isn’t shocking in the future.
The return journey was easier, all things considered. But our driver was hopping mad. We had the stereo on full blast (with that vvvvvv bass quality you might expect from a taxi) and had what must have been a drag race with a fellow taxi driver all the way back to Tetouan. Entertaining, yes, but how many counts would he go down for in an English court? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
The taxi ride to Akchour the following day wasn’t much better. We were stuck behind a lorry for some distance and there was a good deal of illegal overtaking, until the tail up simply got too much to control and some James Bond wannabe tried to schuss through the gap between two trucks. By some divine prank he made it, but the result was that all traffic ground to a halt and the drivers all got out of their respective vehicles to yell at each other for a full five minutes. Not that we were in a hurry, or anything. Morocco is still very much a country that operates on an argue-first-ask-questions-later kind of system. Maybe that’s one more thing that bled through into the Spanish culture over the years. In part, anyway. BB x