It was a good road, light traffic and the speed limit was 60. We were driving in 83, the polisemen said as we pulled over. Our driver tried to give them shoes instead of paying the ticket, but no. 500 dirhams they wanted, the information had been sent straight to the office in Rabat so there was no chance not to pay.
As M tried to talk out of the fine, me and B were still in the car. I was trying really hard not to laugh out loud, there was our driver, speaking almost no French, and the policemen who tried to tell him that he had gone too fast. They had patience. “Soixante monsieur, vous quatre-vingts trois” they said. “Sossante kattreväng? Jaja… Jaja…” our driver said. “Look here, look here. Come here.” He opened the trunk, showed them the shoes. The big officer shook his head. Told him in French that he must pay 500 dirhams. “Jaja…” our driver said. I held both my hands over my mouth, tried to think about something else.
There is no place on earth where I’d rather be right now.