It takes a village...

I know what you're thinking. It takes a village to raise a child. Right?

Wrong! What I am actually thinking of is how it takes a village to catch a taxi.

Transport in and out of my village is not especially plentiful; the long and short of it is, if I want to catch a taxi into town, I've got to get up around 6 am, be outside waiting at 6:30, and be prepared to wait up to an hour and a half for a ride. Not my idea of fun, especially when it is cold and/or raining, but at least I've seen some beautiful sunrises.

Moroccan hospitality being what it is, my host family is generally loathe to let me wait outside alone and applies a great deal of pressure to come inside and have some hot coffee (read: fresh from the cow milk steamed with sugar and coffee..yum). It's hard to turn down, especially in the cold, though it makes it less likely I'll hear the honk of the taxi as it careens around our corner on its way into town. The family always insists they can hear the taxi coming from their kitchen, which is decidedly less than true. But their kitchen is so welcoming and toasty, and their coffee so good, that often I find I just can't resist, and I take the risk.

So the other day I was faced with an all-too-familiar situation: I was sipping coffee and making smalltalk and pretending to be relaxed, only to look up suddenly, stop talking, and adopt the same frozen expression as my host mom and brothers: what was that sound? A tractor? Motorbike? Milk truck? I swiftly drained my glass and set it down on the table before rising as we all reached the same, awful conclusion: it was the taxi.

Not only was it the taxi, but it was moving faster than usual that day - and by the time we'd all scrambled to the front door, the taxi had turned the corner and was zooming to the village center. Bravely my host brothers waved their arms and shouted for the driver to stop, come back, but it was too late.

My host dad, who has proven himself time and time again to be one of those reliable guys who speaks mostly through his actions and generally makes it his business to get things done, sprinted off, shouted to the nearest bicycle commuter (who was no doubt on his way out to the fields), asked to borrow his bike, hopped on and began pursuing the taxi before I even realized what was happening.

A bit confused, I gathered my luggage and decided I'd at least walk to the village center, which taxis from other villages sometimes pass through, trawling for customers, later in the morning. The butahanut (village store owner) I passed on my way had already been apprised of my transport situation and told me to sit and be patient.

15 minutes later, just as I'd begun to lose hope, the familiar rumble of the taxi brought me to my feet as it rolled back up the road. My host father had chased it down through at least two villages till he'd caught up with it and urged the driver to return. With a satisfied look on his face, he restored the bicycle to its proper owner and saw me off.

What struck me most about the whole affair was how genuinely happy everyone was to help me catch my taxi - my entire host family, the man with the bicycle, the butahanut, and the driver. So often here it seems to help another person is a source not only of pride, but of joy - done not merely out of obligation, but willingness too. It's refreshing and more than a little touching.

Like I said, it takes a village to catch a taxi.