Some days my life just seems so preposterous that I feel the need to document the insanity. Today is one of those days.
This morning I woke up in a great mood. Yesterday was a smashing success of a day; with the final word that my water tower project is complete, and a visit from our Peace Corps Regional Manager to collect all of the Peace Corps items (i.e. books, medical kit) that I don't want to haul the 13+ hours to Rabat, I count the day as a success.
Since I was in a good mood, I decided to don my best village skirt and venture forth to run some errands. The first stop on my list was the local Gendarmerie (my local Police station).
For weeks now I have been checking back every few days in anticipation of the arrival of my Carte de Sejour, the residency card that proves I have both reason and legality to stay here. Without it, I am forced to carry around a piece of paper, signed periodically by the Chief, that looks like what any Kindergarden kid in America could print out on their home computer. Needless to say, other police do not find this paper particularly useful, and the police at Customs in the airport actually laugh in my face when I hand it to them.
The hold-up on my paper is an enigma.
On April 17th, 2011, I ventured to my local police station, which at the time was about a two and a half hour trip away, to submit all the necessary papers and photos to re-apply for my card. Mind you, that process is absurd as well. The Gendarms want 7-10 copies of each paper we have (five in total), all certified by the local "notary" office and affixed with a 1-2dh stamp. That is 50dh ($6.25) worth of stamps, for copied pieces of paper, that will most likely get thrown away. They also need a 100dh ($12.50) stamp for God only knows what reason and 20 identical photos of me.... just in case they loose the first 19, I guess.
The process of submitting all the papers was complicated and annoying, but at least I finished it in time to head back to the States on vacation. I left the office that day with my official "receipt" that I had applied for a new card (the paper mentioned above).
When I got back from America, things moved pretty quickly in regards to my life. Within two months I was in a new village, a new home, and a new set of Gendarms. These new Gendarms, the ones in the village I currently live in, are leaps and bounds better than my first set. To begin with, none of them has asked me out on a date or invited me to come to their house and shower. That makes them awesome in my book. They also have photos of all of the deceased men and women from the last 40 years hanging on the wall, which I find entertaining and disturbing.
As soon as I got to my new village, in Mid-July, I approached the Gendarms about getting my information transfered to my new village, since the new Gendarms would be responsible for me from then on out. After much discussion and a little arguing between Gendarm stations, it was decided I needed to make the now three and a half hour trek to my old Gendarm station to pick up my "file" and deliver it to the new station.
Aggravated, I went. When I got there I found out that the old Gendarms hadn't even bothered to submit my paperwork for my card to the higher-ups, despite it sitting in a cabinet in their office for over three months. I filled out the papers, again, cursed under my breath and made it blatantly clear that I would not be returning, ever, so that if they needed anything else from me, they better do it then. That statement lead to some more papers being signed.
When I went to leave, I told them I needed my "file" to bring to my new Gendarms. They then told me that the file could only travel "officially" with another Gendarm to my new site, and that it would take 6 6 to 8 months for that file to arrive. Mind you, this was the main purpose of me making the trip in the first place, and 6 to 8 months for a file to travel 90km seems absurd.
Fast forward to my trip to Spain in August. I still have the paper "receipt"and the customs Police man at the airport in Marrakech does NOT want to let me out of Morocco, since I don't have an official card. He keeps accusing me, in Tashlheet, of forging the paper. I then explain to him that there is no chance in hell I would forge a paper simply to stay in Morocco when I have a US Passport and can travel pretty much anywhere I darn well please. After 45 minutes of arguing with the first guy, I demand a fluent English speaking Police man, and the Chief.
When he finally arrives, I have about 5 minutes before my flight is scheduled to take off. Panicking, I start making demands. I tell the Police man that he has two choices, either he stamps my passport and lets me get on this flight to Madrid, or he doesn't stamp it, and I just go anyway and he can deal with the problem when I get back from my vacation.
Needless to say, he stamped the passport, murmured some nasty words at me in Arabic and I ran to the plane, onto the tarmac and screamed at the stewardess to stop closing the door so I could board. We took off about 30 seconds after I got on the plane. I nearly missed my flight.
When I got back from Spain I then started the process to "push" the Gendarms along on getting my card, not wanting a repeat of the last country-leaving experience. My weekly visits have been happening since early September.
Then, three weeks ago, I get a phone call from the Chief Gendarm saying that my card is ready and is at the police station in Sidi Ifni, not in Tiznit, where it is supposed to be. He assures me that it is coming to my town the next day. Like a fool, I believed him and went back. Of course, no card.
This daily "come back tomorrow" statement has been happening for three weeks.
So this morning, I was feeling good, at least good enough to try again, praying that my card would finally be there, so I went. When I got there, of course it was no where to be found. The absurdity of this whole thing is not that despite turning in my paperwork in April, I still don't have my card (which is a laminated piece of pink paper, FYI), it is that in order to communicate with the Chief Gendarm, I have to go through a "translator".
Since my Chief only speaks Arabic and French, and I only speak English and Tashlheet, we communicate solely through another person. Sometimes it's a boy walking by on his way to school, sometimes it's another Gendarm that speaks about 10 words of English or today, for instance, it was a man they had recently arrested and was sitting in the little jail cell. The Gendarm speaks Arabic to the man in the cell, the man in the cell speaks Tashlheet to me, I speak English to myself, then I speak Tashlheet back to the man in the cell, and he speaks Arabic to my Chief. Today's "the card will be here tomorrow afternoon" conversation took nearly 15 minutes.
I find these absurdities amusing. It is just one more reality check of the insane reality I currently occupy. Language barriers, cultural barriers and mass confusion have become a part of my daily expectations of life, and frankly, I enjoy the challenge.
Like a fool, I am going to head back to the Gendarm station tomorrow, crossing my fingers and asking Allah to grant me good graces so I can finally get my little pink laminated piece of paper before Rome. Otherwise, we might have a repeat of the Spanish-fiasco only this time, with Claire and Danielle around I will make good on my threat and leave with the stamp or without, possibly never to return!
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