A Man, a Bus, a
Border
Granger Tripp
FNIDEQ, MOROCCO – He stumbles towards my resting spot in the
bus’ cool shade and asks in spit-slurred Spanish:
- Where
are you from?
- We
are a group of American students who are studying in Rabat.
- How
many students are there?
- I
don’t know. 40 maybe.
It’s nice to converse (albeit poorly) with someone in a
foreign language. He walks slowly to the bus’ open door and looks inside before
turning his fuzzy gaze back to me.
- Where’s
the ------?
- What?
- -------?
- I
don’t understand.
He pretends to turn an oversized steering wheel while making
deathly engine noises like a key in a vacuum.
- Ah…he’s
[the driver] on the bus.
He staggers back to the door and takes a longer look in.
- No!
He’s not! He’s not! He’s not there! Look! Come ------! The driver isn’t here!
I don’t know why he’s yelling, where his dying urge to find
the bus driver comes from but since I know he’s right, I remain still, confused
and worried and afraid of his intentions.
- Yes. On the bus. Yes he is.
- No he’s not! Come here and look!
I don’t respond and the next minute is spent in silence, his
screaming black pupil directed at the driver’s empty seat and mine towards him. What does he want? Money? A ride to Casablanca? Student
hostages for negotiation with the American government? Sutton comes outside and
Ella does too and I can’t help but notice her outfit, which is a deep and windy
blue like the Spanish coast. The man continues talking drunken gibberish.
- Where’s
the driver? Where are you going? ------- Spain? ---- France?
We stand silent and stare and don’t answer because there
isn’t one. I call Badrdine, our Moroccan program coordinator, over. He speaks
to the man with a forgiving softness, like he is some confused child. Although
the man refuses to leave, Badr can’t stay so he gives me the signal to keep an
eye on him. Sutton tries to tell him off too.
- No,
thank you. Enough. No.
- Shut
your mouth. ----------- me. You ------- ------ me. You don’t know what
----------. Don’t say anything to me. All I want ----------. I’m the son
----------- of this town, I ------------ do ---------- you. I’m his son! You
faggot. You little ---------, shut your mouth. You are a bitch, you -------.
I don’t understand everything he yells. Sutton can but he
knows he can’t punch so he stares, straightens his back and crosses his arms for
protection against the slew of insults soaring. The man begins flapping his
arms like a bird with slow and sticky wings, turning the normally elegant
motion into something rigid and stiff. Why is he so desperate? What is he
trying to fly away from? How did his eyes learn that dialectic dance, soaring
then crashing, in hope and then despair? Noel, the other program coordinator,
watches for a minute before coming over:
- He’s
crazy, please get back on the bus.
We leave the man with a look, something between pity and
fear, and take our seats. When everyone is aboard and the door is closed and
the wheels moving, Badrdine walks to me and I ask him:
- What
did he want?
- He
thought we were going to Spain and then to France. For work maybe or maybe he
had a brother there, I’m not sure. I told him we weren’t going to France, that we’re
going back to Rabat but I guess he thought I was lying. He was crazy, drunk.
But, yeah, he wanted us to sneak him into France.
A flashback to earlier in the day. 40 American students
crossing into Morocco from Ceuta, Spain; red faced, noisy and drunk from the two
hours they spent there. They proudly hand their passports to the border
guards and the loud stamp like welcome back (anytime). It’s strange how
differently people can see the same thing. To us, that fateful fence, which we
could see as we talked to the man outside the bus, appeared as some open gate
to paradise, while all he could see was a prison wall and the bus his ticket
out.
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