My first lesson at the driving school:
In the beginning, I thought it was going to be extremely easy to get my motorbike licence in Morocco.
For one thing, every male Moroccan seemed to be zipping around on a small motorbike; old men, 15 year old kids, whole families, whole families with a hog-tied sheep: If they could do it, so could I.
So, I enrolled in the local driving school. It's mandatory to do a minimum of one month schooling before being allowed to take the driving (or riding) exam.
my first session in the school, was an hour of consternation that I don't speak Darija (Moroccan Arab), nor do I speak Tasheheit, the local Amazigh language. What followed, was a lot of running around amidst many people peeking into the room, to see the Iroumin (me), punctuated with many "Insh'Allahs".
Finally, they found an old computer, and after trying several mice, settled on one that worked, mostly, when it didn't zip across the screen, intent upon its own business.
The people showed me the computer application, proudly pointing out that I could do everything in French. I settled down, alone in an ice-cold room, and studied the Moroccan highway code. After 15 minutes, the cold stopped my mouse hand from working, so I went to the reception and explained the problem in a mixture of Berber, French and sign language with blue fingers.
A small gas heater was procured, lit, and set down close to my right leg: I started work again.
It was a strange feeling, one side frozen, the other being slowly toasted by the heater. I started to become a little drowsy with the comparative heat, several times realising that I was close to nodding off. I was woken by a rush of feet, a lot of chatter in Tashelheit and a gust of oxygenated air rushing in from the window they'd just remembered to open.
I went home.