THE GREAT MARRAKECH MOPED INCIDENT
Apr 09 '02 (Updated May 09 '05)
The Bottom Line When visiting the Kasbah I suggest carrying a fire extinguisher, or a spare moped.
It was my first afternoon in Marrakech. I'd arrived the night before and had spent the morning on an official tour of the city. that's Moroccan for let's visit every shop owned by one of my cousins so you can be subjected to high pressure sales pitches for those who've never visited this ancient and wondrous city.
Later on I found myself alone having eluded the guides and tourists and strolling through the area of the city south of the Djemma El Fna. This collection of winding streets was Marrakech's Jewish Quarter and the famous Kasbah. I came around one corner and into a small open space that abutted onto one of the massive red walls that surrounded the old city.
In front of me was unfolding a scene straight out of a biblical epic, authentic setting not withstanding. A crowd had gathered and everyone was of course running around screaming and shouting and generally doing their best imitation of recently decapitated chickens. At the centre of the crowd was the reason for the commotion.
Standing there was a young man with a moped. Nothing really odd about that, half the population of Morocco it seemed owned mopeds. They were a major source of transportation, especially in the cities with their narrow winding streets and heavy traffic. What was different about this particular moped though, and incidentally the reason for all the huff and fuss was that it was on fire.
It appeared he had just been riding it around the corner when the engine caught fire. He immediately hopped off and was now incredibly standing there holding and inspecting it at arm's length. This for some strange reason had attracted a crowd.
No one was actually dealing with the fire aside from I presume offering superfluous advice as I strolled up to get a better look. Just about then one local, obviously quicker thinking than the rest came running out of his shop with a pail of water. The crowd parted as he made ready to toss it on the burning bike.
Now I'm no expert but something told me that throwing a pail of water on a burning engine would probably have the same effect as throwing one on a stove top, or other grease fire. End result BBQ Berbers. Something told me yelling "no don't do that" in English was pointless, but I did it anyway. I also dashed forward and grabbed the bucket from him and emptied it's contents on the ground.
Naturally this had the decided result of turning the entire crowd against me. Not stopping there I rushed at the man who was still standing there holding the moped which incidentally was now completely engulfed in flames and probably about to explode. I kicked the bike away from him and into the dirt.
I then dropped to my knees and began frantically throwing dirt on the flames trying to extinguish them. All around me the crowd stared dumb struck at the antics of the deranged, and extremely forward, tourist. Then the collective bubble dropped, and they all stooped to help me.
For several minutes we all frantically worked to bury the moped in the hard packed dirt of the street. When we exhausted the supply of loose dirt around us, others ran off to grab more from near the wall. A few daring souls grabbed some rags and began to beat the flames out.
Eventually it was done. In front of us now was a small smouldering hill. Everyone stood up and there was much back slapping and mutual glad handing. A lot of it was directed at me and it was obviously that my efforts were being rewarded because nobody even tried to pick pocket me during it.
One guy even made a effort at trying to slap the grime off my jeans. To be honest he actually tried doing this while we were still trying to put out the fire for some strange reason. I just guess he thought tourists shouldn't get dirty.
I appreciated his efforts but they were in vain. When I got back to my four star hotel in the French Quarter later that day my jeans and shirt were covered in dirt, grim, soot, and camel dung. At least I hope it was camel. That of course went over well with the concierge.
The next day I went strolling though that same neighbourhood. All the shop keepers came out and began pointing at me again. In my imagination I began to imagine that they'd be telling this tale of daring do for generations or at least until the end of the week.
At least I was better off than the Moped owner. I last saw him while we were still all standing around congratulating ourselves as men are wont to do. He patiently unearthed his moped. Then he stood up and slowly began to wheel the charred remains of it away, in search of a mechanic with a sense of humour.
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