Well, without making this too drawn out, we were driving a Fiat, which, believe it our not, was a major luxury car in comparison to the beat up Peugeot pick up trucks and 2CV's that you would see chugging along the road. We were headed out into the Sahara, to see the dunes. Dumb idea, I guess. We had plenty of H20, but hadn't been too concerned about fuel, because in Morocco there seemed to be as many gas stations as New Jersey. But this particular stretch of road was different: a long, long road which ended in a little flea bitten town on the edge of the desert. As we drove, the needle dropped, and we were nowhere. I was still not very concerned, because there was a fair amount of traffic, and there was a town somewhere-not far- ahead. Well, I underestimated the distance to the town, or maybe the map was poor, so when we arrived, the tank was nearly empty, not enough to take us back. But we were in town, no problem, so I thought. So we drove down the main drag hunting for gas stations. The town was sort of like the wild west, but with Islamic tribesmen and camels instead of cowboys and horses. But no gas stations.
 
 

When the town ended, so did the road, there was nothing ahead but 1000 miles of empty sand. So we turned around, looking for the familiar gas station. Nothing. As we swung around for yet another pass, we decided to ask, only to discover that folks in those parts speak only Berber, a language that was totally incomprehensible to us. It was getting alarming.

Finally we spotted a policeman, or perhaps more correctly, some one in a sort of uniform, and speaking in our best French, enquired for "essence". He pointed us into a side street that we hadn't noticed previously. The "street" was just a flat stretch in the sand, it dead ended in a sand dune. As we came to a stop, the entire town came out to see the foreigners in their fancy Eye-talian car. Nobody spoke English. Nobody spoke French. There were a half a zillion people, and ten flies for every one of them, and to a man, they were begging for pennies. Well, just then, a guy shows up in greasy Goodyear coveralls. "Combien?" He was asking "how much?". Thinking he was bargaining, as is the cultural norm in Morocco, I offered him something like 30 cents a litre or whatever the equivalent was. He shook his head no. "Combien d'essence?" He was asking me "how much gas?". This seemed an odd question, because there was nothing to be seen but an ocean of sand, and a little mud hut. Why didn't he just direct me to the pump? "C OM B I E N D' E S S E N C E????" Rule one of any language situation, if they don't understand, they must be stupid or deaf, so talk louder and slower. Or was he really angry? "C O M B I E N D E L I T R E S????" I had only a vague idea how much gas goes into a Fiat, so I took a guess how much would be needed to return us to civilization, and replied, "Vingt (20)". He grunted, and disappeared into the mud hut, followed by a sea of kids. A minute later, he came out with an arm load of green mineral water bottles, which were absolutely encrusted with dirt. He opened the tank, and poured in a bottle slowly, like the most precious wine. This continued for some time, the kids running back to the hut for more bottles as he ran out.

Eventually, he finished. We were now totally surrounded...if there were half a zillion people previously, now there was an even zillion. And ten zillion angry, biting flies, carrying who-knows what diseases. It suddenly occurred to me that we could end up in that sand dune at the end of the street, and nobody would be the wiser. As the last bottle drained, and the cap slowly turned to a positive lock, the bargaining began. "Combien?", my turn to ask. He gave me a number, which I plugged into my calculator, worked out to over US$300!. So we spent the next quarter hour under the blazing desert sun, surrounded by a sea of pitiful, begging, humanity, dickering over what seemed to be the last gasoline on the planet. When all was said and done, I paid about US$35, not counting handouts to appease the crowd, and hopped in the car and beat it back to a real town as fast as that little Fiat could go.

And that's my petrol story.

Copyright © 1999 Michael Frank, all rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission of author.