Back on the bike

So for two months I have not been able to ride my Moroccan motor bike. Most of that was due to my extended trip home, and since then, the battery has been very dead. However, as I was sitting in a taxi the other day watching some kids whip by I remembered that I was, in fact, one of them, and it finally seemed worth it to bring her out again. So, I brushed off the dirt and dust that had accumulated on ole Sunshine, and I pushed her a few grueling blocks to the closest mechanic.

Now, in Fez, the closest mechanic and I did not get along. He had certain ideas about women on bikes (namely that they should not be on them) and he proceeded to remind me of that fact when I went to him for help. My bike was dead, I still very green to Morocco and motorbikes, and it took everything I had not to break down and cry on the side of the road. The fact that my anatomy is different doesn’t prevent me from owning and driving a motorbike, and it shouldn’t prevent me from finding a mechanic. But alas, it did, and after making a fairly large scene, which included yelling at the mechanic that he doesn’t respect me, I proceeded to push my motorbike the 3 kilometers to the New City. There I found a great mechanic, who was always patient and very willing to work with my limited knowledge of motorbikes and arabic.

You know though, after some reflection I realized that this original mechanic, who I so easily wrote off as being sexist, just didn’t understand how to deal with me. I learned that he had never had a female client before, and what I mistook as a lack of desire to talk to me (he spoke to me through some man at the shop) was his attempt at communication. He thought that if he tried to speak to me, I wouldn’t understand. Ever since that experience I have tried to understand where people are coming from without assuming that I always know the answer. I mean, maybe that guy should have tried to have a conversation with me before he wrote it off as impossible, but maybe I should have tried to calmly explain my frustration instead of assuming the worst. Oh well, we all make mistakes, and hopefully, I have learned and I have progressed.

Now, however, I don’t have that problem in the least bit. You see, Marrakesh is the city of women on motorbikes. There is the highest rate of female drivers in this city, and what I love about it is that driving a motorbike does not correspond with the type of woman at all. I have seen women in burkas with gloves and a small eye-slit driving around the city next to a liberal western looking woman in skinny jeans and high heels. Women are almost equal in number on the road, and whereas in Fez, I stood out, in Marrakesh I am one of the pack.

Although this means that I am theoretically less special, it also means that women seem to have more indepedence in Marrakesh. I have seen them on the street in higher numbers, driving cars in higher numbers, and running shops in higher numbers. According to some Moroccans, women in Marrakesh even speak in a more manly way than any other Moroccan woman.

One of my friends attributes this equality to tourism. Due to the large presence of foreigners in the city and the strength of the tourism industry, women can make more money and garner more freedoms. I agree with her, to a point. My question is does the appearance of equality actually indicate equal standards of living? Just because my mechanic instantly knew how to talk to me, does that mean I am seen equal in his eyes? And should the original mechanic be counted as perpetuating inequality just because he has inexperience with the concept?

These are questions I haven’t really found the answers to yet. I don’t think I have the time to address my project as well as the appearance of equality within society, and maybe I am just being jaded right now. Maybe the point is that this all has to start somewhere, and even if that only means a woman in Marrakesh can drive a motorbike, that is something to be happy about. In that moment she can feel powerful and in control of her destination, and in that moment it doesn’t matter the anatomy of the driver, it only matters that you know how to get the hell out of the way. I mean let’s face it, driving in Morocco is crazy no matter who you are.

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