Wired

This morning, we woke up to the sound of rain on the roof. Even though it was past 8 a.m., the house was still dark and rather gloomy. Rolling out of bed, we tossed on our new black wool djellabahs and pulled the hoods over our heads to cross the soggy courtyard to the kitchen for tea and breakfast. There’s nothing like a cozy djellabah and a cup of Earl Grey on a rainy day to make us think of one thing, or rather a sort of ultimate couplet: movies . . . in . . . bed. Our new bed arrived yesterday and we are finally installed in our own bedroom. A day in bed with movies seemed a nice way to celebrate.



At about 2 p.m., after watching the classic 1939 dramedy "The Women," starring Norma Shearer and Joan Crawford, whose glib cattiness and witty euphemisms we intend to adopt (like “She’s on the train for Reno,” meaning she’s off to get a divorce), we were startled by a loud bang and a crackling sound. We scrambled down the stairs to investigate and noticed that one of the city electrical wires that traverses our courtyard about 40 feet up was swaying dramatically. Figuring a bird had flown into it, we retired upstairs again. An hour later, as Samuel was reading aloud Martin Amis’ three-part essay in The Observer on Islamism titled, “The Age of Horrorism” (a fascinating piece and worth reading: http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/politicsphilosophyandsociety/story/0,,1868839,00.html), we heard a second loud crack and a whooshing noise like something falling. This time, when we reached the courtyard, a live electric wire was dangling over the edge of the terrace, hanging all the way to the courtyard floor . . . a very wet courtyard floor, by the way.

“This is not good,” we said in tandem, “let’s see if we can reach Hamoud.” Hamoud, we knew, was on his way to Casablanca to be the driver/guide for a German cycling team that is doing a week-long ride throughout Morocco. Fortunately, he had cell reception on the train and advised us to get on the phone immediately with Radeema, the city’s water and power agency (see Aug. 22nd posting “The Crush”). Given our previous dealings with Radeema, the seriousness of the situation, and the fact that Hamoud was on a train and unable to work his usual magic, we called in reinforcements. Our friend Craig, who is far more fluent in French than we are, graciously offered to come over to help. He got on the phone first with Radeema and then with some municipal office and we were assured that help was on its way. The three of us settled into the dining room with some beers and peanuts for the anticipated wait.


Within an hour, however, we heard a banging on the roof of our terrace stairway and found two technicians from Radeema inspecting the broken wire from the mosque roof. One jumped over to our terrace and reached up with a pair of pliers to touch the wire. Zap! He jumped back with a yelp and shouted to his co-worker, what we guess was a confirmation that the wire was live. They then called Radeema to have the current cut and proceeded to drag the wire out of our courtyard and then reattach it to the electrical pole from which it had dropped. By now, it was dark, but the workers refused our offer of a flashlight. As they were reattaching the wire –with just a pair of work gloves – a tremendous bang and bright flash of light sent our heart rates soaring. We expected to see one of the worker’s fried bodies tumble onto our terrace. Nope, they brushed it off and weathered a second nerve-wracking bang and flash before reattaching the wire to their satisfaction. Craig noticed that at least they’d been tethered onto the electrical pole with some kind of work belt, but still the maneuver seemed rather cowboy. We also wondered – more seriously than in jest – if they’d reconnected the wire with scotch tape, which is how much wiring is done here. At our house, the electrician had only used those plastic plugs to tie wires together when we stomped our feet and insisted.

As the Radeema technicians cheerily waved goodbye, we marveled at the efficiency of the service call. Back at home, we might still have been on hold with the DWP’s answering machine.