The Crush

Imagine the scene outside a Madonna concert minutes before the turnstiles start to spin, a mash of bodies hopping with energy and excitement. Now picture the crowd of avid shoppers stampeding the doors of Macy’s for the day-after-Thanksgiving sale. This is the level of pandemonium that greeted us this morning at seven thirty as we arrived at Radeema. “Radeema?” you ask. Is that a new Marrakech club? Home stadium for the national football team? No, Radeema is nothing more glamorous than the office of the city’s water and power department, and outside, minutes before the doors open, you’d think Mohammed himself was making an appearance. The crush is probably 250 people strong and growing by the minute, with a fuzzy separation of men to the left and women to the right. All are jockeying for position at the door and shouting with their arms held aloft, monthly meter slips, not cigarette lighters, waving in unison.

Hamoud greets us with a wink and gestures at the crowd, saying, “Oh, la, la.” As usual with Hamoud, he hitches his head for us to follow him around the crowd to the side of the building where he speaks through a window to someone in charge. We are quickly waved inside to the counter just as the doors swing open and the crowd swells and pinches through the door. We hear cries of pain as people are wedged against the metal doorframe, trod on and elbowed. The shouting, which was loud outside, is deafening within. Again, the men and women separate, forming two lines that each feed into one central teller’s window. To prevent cutting, the women clutch one another around the waist, bosom to back, like a playground choo-choo train. These are not close friends or family members locked in warm embraces. These are women grasping on to one another as if holding onto life rafts in choppy seas; muckling is probably a better word. Watching, we have a hard time masking our smiles. The men opt out of the full-body hug, instead holding their place by slinging an arm over the shoulder of the man in front.



We’re making our maiden appearance at Radeema to change the name on the Dar Noury water and power bills and to bring the account current. We learn that it’s been nine months since any bill has been paid and wonder that our water and power haven’t been cut off. Good thing the department isn’t too strict about such things; it’s tough to mix cement without water. We present the requisite documents – oh, this country loves documentation! – copies of our passports, house contract, the recepisse for our carte de sejour and, of course, all of the back bills and warning slips, which have been piling up at the house. We’re told that while we can change our name on the account today, we’ll need to come back to pay the bills once the meter reader has paid a visit to the house. What, come back? Brave this madness again tomorrow? Our faces register not only confusion, but fear. A quick exchange between Hamoud and the department employee, and we’re suddenly being fast-tracked. All will be taken care of this morning. How it pays to have friends who have friends.

As paperwork is being filled out in quadruplicate, the three of us are surrounded by a throng of hot, smelly, angry bodies. Someone got wind that things are happening over in our corner of the room and the herd makes its move. Personal space is not a concept honored at Radeema and one can’t help but feel a bit violated at being embraced in a squishy hug by a perfect stranger, make that three perfect strangers. “Stand your ground,” whispers Samuel, as if we’re soldiers on The Frontline. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to find himself in a clutch with Hamoud, but I’m having trouble keeping upright (I’m pretty sure one grannie is riding piggyback) and losing inch after inch to the headscarved dumplings at my back. “Stick out your butt,” Samuel instructs, miming a basketball player boxing out a defender, which draws sniggers from others in line. It turns out that amidst the screaming horde, there are a few with a sense of humor who are enjoying the circus as much as we are.

Once the employee who’s helping us out has all our paperwork ready, he slips it into a folder, but not before taking out someone else’s change-of-name request and tearing it in two. He shrugs, telling Hamoud the request is a year old and he’s sure they won’t be needing it. He puts our folder third in a stack of others just like it (any favoritism won’t be apparent) and takes them to his manager for signatures and stamps.

Et voila. We’re done. Except for the sweat stains that drench one half of my body from forty-five minutes of hugging, we’re unscathed. Turns out, from now on, we can have the bank pay our water and power bills, not to mention phone bills, saving us the trouble of making the monthly Radeema run. Will we miss the excitement and camaraderie of that great, group hug? Probably not. But it’s been awhile since we’ve had as much adrenaline at seven thirty in the morning.