Fast-forward five shaky kilometers down the highway (at a conservative 30mph). The nervous chatter in the car revolves around the fact that we have driven all the way from Nice without incident, and now, so close to our final destination, we run into trouble. So fitting. I'm keeping up a conversational front, but internally I'm trying to stay buoyant in a rising tide of conflicting emotions. Josie is returning the cordiality, thinking she's pacifying me with clumsily churned out and chapped lip service, but she's clearly even more in her own head than usual. So many daydreamed scenarios are vying for my direct attention, that I'm conscious of active sorting - working one out to its logical conclusion and then dealing with the next one that has slotted into place.
Until I'm getting waved over again. There are a few cops in the middle of the street, and some cars pulled over to the side, victim to some sort of random "check." Coasting down this descent, the fortified Medina walls of Essaouira clearly visible now, I refuse the possibility that we could be singled out for another scam. The odds are against it. But it is definitely me he wants. My first thought is that "Senior" has radioed ahead with our vehicle description and plate number to exact more dirham from the disrespectful tourists. And I'm handing over: license...passport...registration... insurance. A beefier cop this time, he's off on a tri-lingual (English, French and some Arabic), mainly-incomprehensible monotone monologue of semi-rehearsed proportions. I interrupt his flow several times to find out the "charge." He signals for me to shut up, rewinding a paragraph or so each time.
I sink mutely back into my own thoughts, submissively facilitating his concluding. I muse how I have the sensation of driving through a minefield. I feel like "they're" out to get me (though deduced from tone, it's apparent that this stop is unrelated/independent of the last one). Taking stock, I'm not sure if I'm more frightened for our physical safety or depressed about the sequence of events that has led me back to a lifestyle like this - I marinate in the mix. My breathing is labored, deep gulps helping to soothe the idea that far from being able to protect me, the "authorities" are the biggest criminals. I feel exposed like an open wound. I'm not an active humanitarian, but I take a moment to commiserate with those for whom this is part of daily consciousness.
I'm slapped back to the present moment by the price tag - 700 dirham (70 euro).
I ask, "What'd I do?" Seems a fair question. Not too exasperated, he pages back into the monologue, to the part about "keep people safe must pull over." I forcefully interject, consequences be damned (I'm at that point), asking Josie to get the straight French version. We're informed we didn't react quick enough to the "wave over," as we are a few feet past a makeshift stop sign. It's insulting in its un-creativity and implausibility, and I wonder if all the cars pulled over are hearing the same explanation, or do the cops improvise with each vehicle? I realize that speed traps and immoral traffic-stops-for-profit exist everywhere, but it feels a lot "heavier" here - my skin crawls.
I tell him that I'm a teacher, "Here to educate the youth. I'm on a peace-keeping mission." (The part about the peace keeping was ridiculous. I was nervous! But the educator bullshit can be effective sometimes - works for discounts as well.)(It used to work well in Guatemala to say, "I'll let the American Embassy know about the problem you have with me." That could scare off low-level or underage security forces, but I forget this gem in the moment.) He smile is wide enough that I think I might have just skated out of this one. He pages back into his script again: delivery quickening, words running together, shifting from one foot to the other, attention back up the road with maybe his next victim, and then I see it. He rolls his eyes! He's just physically recognized what a farce this is.
Newly confident, I tell him, "I'll be happy to pay this fine in town at the police station after I go to a cash machine. Give me the ticket. I don't have any money." He grins.
Happy to be in the later stages of the negotiation, he looks me directly in the eyes (all bullshitting aside), "Okay okay, you are a peace-keeper (I'm delighted to hear this absurdness come out his mouth), 300 dirham for you today." Delivered like a fucking car salesman. And what a coincidence. This must be the bottom line fine for the day, all up and down the highway. I vehemently repeat my offer, desperate to avoid paying two bogus fines in 15 minutes - would be such a defeat. He blabbers a bit about getting the money and then coming back, and then thinks better of it. There are potential victims stealthily sneaking by us at a steady steam, a million sardines in this sea (an Esso specialty), and he cuts his losses. He cheerfully indicates that we should carry on, even giving us half-ass directions for the Medina.
Bolstered by his soft spot revealed, I take a parting shot, "Great job today officer; keep those streets safe." He is unaffected.
Next: Touts - part quatre (I battle the parking "guardien" - same day)(will be last tout-centric post: didn't mean to get this deep into it, but now I must finish)
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