Sometimes Things Go Away Like That

For those of you who may be dreaming of an exotic life of travel and adventure, here’s a little reality check. Written a few weeks before my recent trip to Slovenia, it chronicles some of the more maddening aspects of international living.

So they’ve imaged a black hole.  It’s a staggering accomplishment, according to those who know.

I will now attempt to image for you the black hole that was my Saturday morning.

It started last week when I tried to pay for a few things in dirhams instead of dollars.  Big things, like a course at the French Institute and a plane ticket to Venice.

You see, ex-pats in Morocco are limited in the amount of money they can send out of the country in any given year, and as I don’t want to exceed this limit before it’s time to send my last paycheque home, I am trying to make big purchases using the local currency instead of my Canadian credit card whenever possible.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. 

I tried to pay for two things online using my Moroccan bank card.  It took multiple restarts, emails, and pleas for help, and in the end I did not succeed.  All went well until the very last of many agonizing steps: I was supposed to receive a security code from the bank by SMS to complete my transaction, but the magic numbers never arrived.  (Side note: This is not unusual.  SMS confirmations from Uber, Airbnb, and various other enterprises have also been sucked into the black hole before they ever reach my Moroccan phone.  This is why I keep using other people’s numbers to do things that should be easy).

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In this way, several hours were lost to the void before the day even started.  The only thing I could do, I was told, was go to the bank.  Any branch.  Just go.  They would know what to do.

So that was the first thing on my list of things to do this Saturday morning.  Then, I could come home, make my two online purchases, and my life would be complete.

BAHAHAHAHAHAH.

Common sense reeled me in.  Exactly how likely is it that the bank would be able to instantly remedy this situation? If you’ve dealt with Moroccan banks, you already know the answer: highly unlikely.  Therefore, it is always wise to have a back-up plan.

In a normal world, I would return from the bank, try to make the transactions, and then consider alternate courses of action if necessary.  But in Morocco, one must be wily.  One must think ahead.  Way ahead.  Kind of like this:

I can pay for the course and the plane ticket in dirhams if I go into the city and pay in person.  If I drive to the French Institute at 9am, the traffic will still be bearable.  I can then pay for my course, walk the 15 minutes to the Air Arabia office, buy my plane ticket, walk back to the French Institute, and drive home.  It should only take a couple hours.

Upon minimal reflection, I decided to make Plan B my Plan A, and make the trip to the bank a side errand.  In this way, I would be certain to make my purchases in one day, and getting the annoying SMS issue fixed would just be the icing on the cake.

Step 1: Drive to the French Institute.  Check.  It wasn’t even awful.  Waze actually found me a tolerable route.  There was parking.  There was no line-up at the cashier.  All went eerily well.

Step 2: Walk to the Air Arabia office.  Check.

Step 3: Pay for plane ticket.

And here is where the day began to fall apart.

“Why is this price higher than the one on the internet?”

“There is a 150-dirham fee for paying in the office.  You should have paid online.”

150 dirhams? That’s twenty Canadian dollars.  Not a fortune, but enough to send me right back out the door and off to the nearest bank (which was, happily, only five minutes away).

“Do you have your passport? Carte de sejour?” the banker asked.  No, and no. “Then we can do nothing.”

And yet, in that curious Moroccan way, when I lingered a while with a little pout on my face, they managed to access my account using my bank card instead.  Funny how that happens.

“Is this your branch?”

“No.  I was told I could go to any branch.”

“Go to your branch, or call this number.”

I called that number.  On speakerphone so the bank guy could help me with the tricky stuff, like how to access my account without my passport or carte de sejour.

“Read this extremely long number to them,” he said.  Et voilà, it worked.

“We can certainly help you with that,” the agent said, “but it will take between three days and two weeks for the security feature to be activated.  If you prefer, you can go to your own branch and get it done on the spot.”

“How far away is my branch?” I asked the wizard beside me. 

“Not far,” he said.  “But it’s closed.  You should go on Monday.”

You don’t understand.  I work on Monday.  And by work, I mean that I get up at 6am and don’t stop for another twelve hours.  There is no room for the bank in that kind of day.  That is why I do these things on a Saturday.

I chose the “wait two weeks” option and left the branch-that-was-not-my-branch, with words of profuse thanks to the magician who got me further into the Moroccan banking system than anyone else ever has. He looked at me kindly and a little longingly, with a hint of a question on his face.  “You know, if you want, we could…”

Oh, no.  Please don’t ask me to marry you.  Please don’t ask me on a date.  Please, just don’t.  You’re kind and helpful and I like you very much, but please…

“…we could open an account for you at this branch…”

“I’m going back to Canada,” I said, to his great disappointment.  And I trotted back to the Air Arabia office to pay the ridiculous 150 dirhams for the “convenience” of booking in person.

By now the small office was packed with other potential clients, and I occupied much of my 40-minute wait trying yet again to do the booking on my phone.  I even took a screenshot of the price.  When I finally got to the counter and gave the agent my bank card, she quoted me a higher total than she had an hour earlier.

I pointed this out, and she shrugged.  “The price went up,” she said.  In the last few minutes? I showed her the screenshot on my phone.  She shrugged again.  “That’s not the final price.”  Okay, show me the final price.  “It will be on your ticket,” she said.  No, I want to see the price breakdown.  How you got this number.  The details that you see when you buy your ticket online, where all of the fees are itemized separately.  I don’t want insurance.  I don’t want baggage.  I want to see that you didn’t charge me for these things. 

“It is impossible.  This is the actual price.  Have a good day.”

Wait.  Shouldn’t I have had to enter my PIN, or sign my name, or something? Are you saying I’ve already paid for this, without my own consent?

“Je ne suis pas contente,” I muttered as I stomped out the door, with tears of frustration threatening to spill over onto the “actual price” of the cursed ticket in my hand.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait a minute.  She didn’t use my points.  I asked her to use my points.  She asked for my username.  She said she had done it.  She should have taken 450 dirhams off of the cost of this ticket.  The only reason I chose this airline was that I knew this would be my last chance to redeem four years’ worth of accumulated travel points.  That’s 62 Canadian dollars.  So, she overcharged me for the ticket, added a 150-dirham service charge, and didn’t deduct the value of my points.  Taken together, I’m out almost $100, Air Arabia.  I am not okay with that.

I marched back into the Air Arabia office, for the third time that day.  I delicately imposed myself between the counter and the next rightful client.  “Madame,” I said sweetly, “I think you forgot to deduct my points.”

“It is not possible to deduct points.  You can only collect points.  If you want to use your points, you have to pay online.  No, you can’t get your money back.  We do not reimburse.  It is too late.  Good day.”

“It’s only money,” I said to myself.  “It’s only money, it’s only money, it’s only money.  Sometimes money goes away like that.  Just suck it up.”

By now it was after noon, and I had decided to never, ever again enter this infernal city.  Therefore, I must do next week’s errands today, so I don’t have to return next Saturday.  

And so I was off to the medina to change my dirhams to euros on the black market in preparation for my upcoming trip.  This is another trick we ex-pats play on the Moroccan bureaucracy.  Some colossal administrative ledger somewhere keeps track of every dirham we exchange at the bank, thereby reducing the amount of money we’re allowed to send home over the course of the year.  We get around this by going to a little shop with a green awning that passes itself off as a seller of dusty Moroccan knick-knacks, and sidle up to the counter discreetly with our wads of cash.  (Side note: do not take this to think we are rich.  The largest bank note in Morocco is the equivalent of $20.  It doesn’t take many of those to make a wad.)

So, after a visit to the French Institute, a visit to the bank, and three visits to the Air Arabia office, I embarked on one last foolhardy task.  But even I was not foolish enough to drive to the medina on a Saturday afternoon.

I took a taxi.  It was almost pleasant.

I changed my money.  It was a friendly neighbourhood transaction.

I took another taxi back to my car.  It was uneventful.

I started the arduous drive home.  I was now dealing with Saturday afternoon traffic, and Waze could not find this morning’s secret route.  I drove in circles for a while, then triangles and parallelograms, and eventually found my way back to my bedroom, where I immediately collapsed into a fitful sleep.

And now, as is my tendency, I will tabulate the wins and losses of the day:

Win: Drove into the city, parked my car, walked around, and took two taxis without incident.  Point for me.

Loss: Took an hour to drive home.  Point for Morocco.

Win: Purchased a delicious quiche, a croissant, and a chocolate fondant for a mere 25 dirhams.

Loss: Paid 30 dirhams for a glass of moldy avocado juice.

Win: Complained about the moldy avocado juice.  Complained again when they remedied the situation by adding sugar.  Got orange juice instead.  Did not leave a tip.

Loss: Cried a little.

Win: Accomplished all of these admirable feats using passable French.  Not a single word of English.  Some people were actually surprised to learn that I spoke another language.  And then they thought maybe it was Italian.  This tells me that my accent is starting to border on persuasive.

Loss: Could not retrieve the words for “moldy” or “awning” in my moments of need.

Win: As soon as I said “money,” the taxi guy knew exactly where to go.  Everybody knows the money guy.

Loss: Overpaid for my ticket to Venice.

Win: I am going to Venice, and then to Slovenia, and that’s not so bad at all.

Loss: I now have to book another flight with Air Arabia if I want to use my travel points before I return to Canada.

Win: I am now fiscally obligated to fly to Europe for one last mini-vacation in June.

And if the bank really will solve my SMS problem in three days to two weeks, I can book that final flight online.

I know.  Unlikely.  But one can dream.