Graceless Socials

We’ve all seen and sympathized with the occasional fellow who has had the need to relieve himself in a semi-public spot, be it a homeless drunk in a shadowy alley in New York or a cross-country trekker too far from the nearest gas station for whom the bushes must serve as WC. When nature calls, even in a less than opportune spot, most are discreet and careful to turn their backs to any potential onlookers.

Not so at high noon today in Marrakech. As we made our way down a bustling side street to the taxi stand, we were confronted by a young guy flagrantly peeing as he walked with jaunty strides towards us. He held his penis in his hand like a garden hose that he was using to water the street’s non-existent plants. He might have been drunk, or a glue sniffer on a nice high, but he appeared purposeful and with it, a young guy on the way to work or running a quick mid-day errand.

The streets these days are teeming with tourists and we’re not sure how many others were privy to the display or what their reactions were. For the two of us, this unusual multi-tasking scenario struck us as quite hilarious and not at all threatening, unless, of course, you count the possibility of being peed on in the middle of the street a viable threat!



“When in Rome” is an adage we’ve tried to adopt here as much as possible, and that goes for things both good and bad. Line cutting, described in an earlier blog post titled “Ashadir,” falls into the latter category. Normally, a disregard for the queue infuriates us, but today we had the opportunity to observe this “custom” from another perspective.

At Marjane, the local shopping emporium, we were in line to pay for some kitchen equipment and a few goodies – a bag of M&Ms, a bottle of wine and some skinless, boneless (featherless!) chicken. Unfortunately, Marjane has a policy that if you’re buying any alcohol, you are relegated to a specific check-out line, kinda like the 12-items-or-less express line, only this one is always the longest and slowest in the store. We ought to have been wary when we pulled up to the store in a cab to find the parking lot choked with the RVs of Europeans on August holiday, keen to stock up on beer and wine for the long ride back to wherever.

Just as we assume our place at the back of the line, a second register for booze-buying customers opens up right in front of us and we quickly maneuver our cart into first-up position. Okay, not the most considerate move, but even in the States when a new register opens, it’s often the nearest cart that wins. Immediately, though, there’s an uproar as a trio of French-wielded carts clamors to cut us off, claiming to have been in line for a half hour already. “La queue, la queue,” they whine. The locals, by the way, roll their eyes at the Europeans’ indignance. We begrudgingly allow the first two carts to pass ahead of us, but when the third makes a go of angling in front, we draw the line.

The cart is manned by a middle-aged, overweight pig of a woman and her passive husband. Too long in the sun, her leathery skin is a grotesque copper color and blazes Matador’s-cape red when we block her path. What ensues is a shouting, shoving match of comic proportions. Our carts clash in an angry screech of metal on metal, but porky’s got better leverage, having nearly prostrated herself against the cart. Her beady eyes bug with the exertion. She pushes and pushes, her teeth gnashing as she spews angry epithets at us. Samuel, brawny Samuel, looses ground, intimidated by the hideous specter of our opponent. A couple of Moroccan teens behind us begin to chant and cheer in our favor. Tu es rigolante, or “You are laughable,” Sam yells at the woman, with a forced falsetto laugh.

Pig lady is undeterred and proceeds to load her selection of beer and Coke and snack food onto the conveyor. She’s pinched in uncomfortably between our cart and her own and has difficulty grabbing the last bag of potato chips, but she gets them in the end and as a final, peevish gesture, moves the “Next Customer” divider just out of our reach.