Catch 22

Last week, in a flurry to get a few boxes of tiles out to the West Coast, and somewhere between the post office and FedEx, my wallet was either lost or lifted. A frantic retracing of steps produced nothing. And the, "why don't you check back in tomorrow" offered by one of the clerks at the post office carried the sound of assured defeat.

Losing a wallet is never fun, and this mishap was compounded by the fact that just days before, our bank in the US had decided to upgrade Samuel's ATM and Visa card, and in the process cancel his existing card long before its '09 "good til" date. "But I never asked for an upgrade," he whined to the perky Wells Fargo voice on the other end of the line. "Well, I can cancel the new one for you, sir, and re-issue another," she offered. "But I don't want another," says Sam with mounting exasperation, "I want the card that I have to work!" "Oh, well that's impossible, sir, once it's de-activated, we can't turn it back on." Not a fun scenario.

At least, we figured, Lulu is headed to Marrakech in a month to take on a teaching post at the American School - high-school history (American, Moroccan and Islamic!). Our mail is already being forwarded to Rupert, so he can hand Samuel's new card over to Lulu when they meet up in Vermont before her departure. Slick. Or maybe not. With my ATM card now at-large, we are unable to draw out any money from our US account. Digging into our shallow pockets, we dredged up just 400 dirhams between us, or around $50 (damn weak dollar). We're frugal, but $50 for 3 weeks, or until we could get Sam's new card FedExed would be an uncomfortable stretch. Like two nihilists getting the bomb shelter provisioned, we headed to the grocery store for what we hoped would be enough water, coffee and wine to keep us going until the new card arrived. You see, the list of places in Marrakech that take AmEx is small, mostly just big hotels and touristy restaurants. You can't even pay to send something FedEx with a credit card!

The next morning, before I've even had a chance to cancel my credit cards, my cell phone rings. It's the guy I rent a car from ocassionally and he's just heard from someone who has found my wallet. "They went through your stuff and couldn't find a local number," he explains, "but they found my card and asked me if I had a client named Caitlin." Recovering from my incredulity, I get out a stream of "mercis" and "shokrans" and take down the number of the guy who's got my identity in his hands. Turns out he's a pharmacist in a tiny village on the route to Safi. His directions are not clear immediately, and we think he means he's just a few kilometers out of town. So, Hamoud and I hop on his motorscooter and head off to retrieve the wallet, passing a bank whose thermometer reads 52 degrees centigrade, or over 125-degrees F. "Motor scooter is better in the summer when it's hot," says Hamoud. "Perhaps," I gasp. But at a certain temperature the breeze of the scooter goes from cooling your skin as it wicks away sweat to acting like a convection oven. Fortunately, before I pass out, Hamoud has the good sense to suggest pulling over before we get too far to confirm the directions I've received to the pharmacy. Turns out the noble guy lives not a few kilometers from Marrakech on the route to Safi, but 60+ kilometers out. We turn back for the air-conditioned minivan that Hamoud is using to drive tourists around the country.

We arrive at the pharmacy after an hour-and-a-half's drive through barren countryside broken by insane stretches of development, including a completely vacant new town for 300,000 people who have yet to arrive. You've never seen so many cranes. The pharmacist greets us with a friendly smile and starts to pull out a loose items of mine - driver's license, various credit cards, the card from the car rental company. The rest, he explains, is in my wallet with the fellow who found it. He calls the guy, a young, rangey fellow with a grin that reminds me of the worker on our house who sabbotaged a drainpipe with cement, who arrives with my wallet peaking out of his shirt pocket. The two proceed to show me every card and old piece of paper in my wallet. Yes, I'm a packrat, or morbidly nostalgic, says the credit card receipt from our vet's office in LA. Oh, and there's a card for an appointment with my eye doctor. And a AAA card for roadside assistance.

Once they've shown me that everything is there, except, of course, the cash that was in it yesterday, I thank them profusely, hand over a nice tip for each, signaling to Hamoud that we can hit the road. But no, the pharmacist and young guy put up a fuss about my tip, saying it's not nearly enough for all the work they'd done finding me. While I appreciate that they made a call to find me, it hardly constitutes hard work and I've already given each a day's wage as a thank you. But I really am grateful to have my stuff back and figure it's worth a bit more, despite what I'll have to pay Hamoud for driving me all the way out here. Another 100 dirhams is handed over and still I'm getting serious head shaking and attitude. The pharmacist even gestures as if he's going to throw the money back at me, insulted. Now I'm angry. "I gave you money for your kindness," I say, "if this is business than you've already been overpaid." And I turn on my heels and march back to the car, which has been baking in the sun so that it, too, is like a convection oven. Hamoud remains behind. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more. Finally, the gangly guy emerges and bangs on my window, saying everything is okay and wanting to shake my hand. The pharmacist emerges a few seconds later and wants to do the same. I'm still furious as Hamoud sidles into the driver's seat and we pull out onto the road.

I fuss and fume, saying for once it would be nice if someone would do something just to be nice instead of for money. I feel so taken advantage of, blah, blah, blah. Hamoud waits for my tirade to end and then explains in his ever wise way, that the only reason I have my wallet back is because they realized I was a foreigner and would pay money to get it back. They were obviously expecting a far greater windfall. "If you were Moroccan," he says, "they'd have taken the cash and thrown the wallet out. No trouble trying to find a Moroccan." As this sinks in, he asks, "You are happy to have your wallet back?" I shrug ageeement. "Well," he grins, "you are happy because you have been taken advantage of." Yes, Yoda . . . I mean Hamoud. Right again.