The Displaced New Mexican

Escape from Morocco, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Irish

When we finally got to the port in Tangier, we found out there was one ferry that our ticket was valid for leaving in half an hour. We got in the passport check line, which moved very, very slowly. It seemed every Moroccan had to go through a half-hour interview before being waved through. An impatient English family behind us kept trying to weasel their way to the front because they thought they were more important than the rest of us.
When at last we passed through the pearly gates of passport control we found a waiting room full of people. It turned out the boat we were planning on taking didn't even sail, so everyone who was supposed to be on it was also waiting to get on our ferry. We waited in line, talking to a well-traveled American with a cleft chin and a gray soul patch and a Dutch couple, with whom I discussed my situation of needing to get to Málaga that night. After the gates opened, we stampeded with the rest of the crowd to assure a place on the boat. When we got to the dock level, they stopped us once again because they needed to finish loading the vehicles into the hold, including a tour bus, which they actually backed through the crowd with a guy clearing the way so no one got run over.
At last the gates opened and we ran aboard and staked out a table in the front. I encountered Soul Patch Superman again in the line, and he gave me a tip about an English family (not the impatient one) whom he believed were driving to Málaga that night. After Mikko and I bought some food for the group and we ate I worked up my courage to ask them for a ride. It turned out they were not actually going as far as Málaga, so that idea was shot. I tore a sheet of paper out of my notebook and scrawled "I need to get to Málaga TONIGHT, can you help me?" on it and started slowly walking down the aisle. The ocean was rough, so I nearly ended up in several laps along the way.
Alexia was standing toward the back for some reason and started laughing at me when she saw me coming. A fellow in a pink shirt saw the sign and said he could help me, but only had room for one, so I'd have to leave my friends behind. He only spoke Arabic and French, so Alexia translated for me. He agreed to meet in the car hold at the first stop, since this ship was scheduled to stop in another town before sailing on to Algeciras.
I went back to collect my stuff and say goodbye to Mikko and Maja, who I would not see again. The boat landed and Alexia and I took the steps down to the car hold. We looked for my ride as we walked to the front. I stood by the exit and watched my ride go right past me without even looking at me. There was no way to miss me, so I assume he changed his mind. I just stood there dumbfounded, but my dear Alexia (bless her!) was already busy soliciting everyone with a free seat. I turned around to see her speaking French with a man in a Camry. "Málaga?" I heard him say, "oui!". She asked if he could take one with him. "Oui!" was the reply, "deux?" She told him it would just be me and he agreed to wait for me outside the ship (the car didn't stop during this exchange because the ship was expelling them like some of its passengers expelled their dinner into the Atlantic).
I gave Alexia a hug and told her I'd see her in a few days and jumped in the car with the stranger. At this point I had only heard him speak French, but I knew it was not his native language. There was a tissue box with Arabic lettering on the dash and an Arabic ornament hanging from the rearview, but he was obviously European. There was contemporary Irish folk music blaring from the stereo and he was busily opening a carton of tax-free Marlboros.
He had just nodded when I thanked him so I started wondering if perhaps he didn't speak English. He then turned to me and said in a very distinct Irish accent: "S'whereya frum?" I then realized he wasn't just listening to the Irish music because he liked the melodies. He asked if I minded if he smoked and I told him he could do whatever he wanted, since he was rescuing me. He consulted his map and realized he was not quite going all the way to Málaga, but to Marbella, which he prounounced with the 'l's. He asked if I wanted to try to find someone who was going all the way and I said I was lucky enough and would take what I could get.
His tongue had loosened by this point and I learned he was a very free-spoken individual. I won't transcribe most of what he said, but there were a lot of 'f's and 'c's involved. He also called anyone who seemed to impede progress, such as a border guard, a donkey. Despite his rough-edged mouth, I could tell he was a well-meaning man. He even gave me a drink from his water bottle. He feared we would be held up at the checkpoint due to his driving a Moroccan car with an Irish passport, but we made it through like greased fish. He had just cracked the Toyota's throttle for the journey when I looked to my left and saw Alexia. I shouted with surprise and he stopped the car. I then saw Mikko and Maja appear from behind a sign. I asked him if he could take my friends as well and he jumped out to put their stuff in the trunk. Once we were all in the car and moving, I asked why they were there. As it turned out, everyone had gotten off the boat and the company decided not to make the second leg of the journey, so they kicked them off.
Our Emerald Isle Chauffeur was not a gifted navigator, so Mikko's gift for giving orders came in very handy from the back seat. On the 200-some kilometer drive through southern Spain I learned our savior worked for an Irish company that subcontracts for large-scale building projects and was currently working on a plant in Morocco for Fruit of the Loom. He has worked all over the world, including China, the Middle East, Europe and even a short stint in the U.S. A friend of his from Ireland had a flat in what he thought was Marbella, but actually was a town much closer to our destination, and he was visiting him and his family for the weekend. By this time it was around 3:00 in the morning, too late to call his friend, so he decided to go all the way to Málaga and get a hotel there for the night.
The ride alternated between silence and small talk and some of our group fell asleep. The extra weight in the back caused the lights to shine higher than normal, and sometimes cars in the other lane would flash him, to which he responded with a barrage of flashes of his own, accompanied by a burst of semantic bullets from his mouth.
As we neared town, our driver started saying things like "Man, I could MURDER a pint of stout!" and we were prepared to buy him as much of the black stuff as he wanted.
As we came closer to the city center, we came to a police checkpoint. The Spanish cops checked the driver's passport and gave him a breath test, which of course he passed. Once we cleared the roadblock, he said "Man, cops make me nervous. I'm surprised they didn't hassle me about having an Irish passport, in a Moroccan car, with Arabic on the plates, at four in the morning, in the middle of bloody southern Spain, with a carload of foreign strangers! Explain that one, Paddy!" His voice rose as each element of the absurdity occurred to him until he finally exploded in a brief fit of volcanic laughter, in which I joined him, because it did, after all, look quite strange when viewed from the outside.
We guided him to hour hostel, and while we put our stuff in the room he checked in to the hotel next door. The girls went to bed and Mikko and I went back to the front of our hostel, where he was waiting and shifting back and forth like a boxer who couldn't wait to throw his first punch. "C'mon lads, let's go!" he cried. The closer we came to beer, the more animated he became. As we beat feet into the center, we saw a steady parade of well-dress Spaniards stumbling the opposite direction and men in brightly-colored coveralls washing the spilled booze off the marble walkways of the pedestrian zone. It was exactly 4:00, the time when Spanish bars finally close their doors. Everyone politely refused us and suggested we try another place near by. The night clubs were still open, but my shorts and MIkko's red and white swim trunks didn't fit the dress code. So alas, we never got to buy the man the brew he deserved for saving us, but we did give him 100 Dirham (about €10), earlier in the evening, since he would be returning to Morocco before we were, but that was it.
"I guess this is it, lads." he said in front of our hostel and we thanked him again as we shook his hand.
I owe a debt of gratitude to several strangers who have helped me during my travels. One is Hans the Butcher of Bavaria, who bought my brother-in-law and me a liter of beer at the Hofbräuhaus in Munich before walking across the table and out the door. The rest I never knew their names: The Slovakian art student who gave Luke and I a place to stay out of the snow on New Year's Day in Amsterdam, the Italian woman who drove Natia, Fahti and me to our campsite in Rome when we missed the last bus, and our kindly foul-mouthed Irishman with a heart of gold. So, if we should chance to meet again, it's my round.