Taxis, Buses and Trains
Traveling in Morocco is an essential piece of the Moroccan experience. While we saw tourists on the beaches, in the restaurants and at the mosques I was always the only blonde on the bus.
Our journey to Tafraoute was particularly challenging requiring multiple taxis and trains that all required unnecessary amounts of haggling. Moroccans assume blondes are stupid and ready to be taken advantage of unless proven otherwise. In many ways this was true since I was only armed with my lonely planet that had prices printed before gas skyrocketed.
When trying to find a taxi or bus to Tafraoute we could hardly trust a word anyone was saying. Two men approached us in Asni first claiming to want only tea and then to be friends and help us find a ride. They insisted that there was a bus arriving shortly to Marrakesh and we decided to wait for it at a table with them. They used this opportunity, that they had probably created by inventing a bus, and tried to trade silver jewelry for American goods. After sitting around bartering ski team stickers for small jewelry boxes a man approached and in Arabic told them men that a car was headed for Tarodannt, the town we were really trying to reach. The price was higher than we'd anticipated but they insisted after a heated argument with the taxi driver that we were getting a good deal. We were just glad that they were doing the haggling for us. As our taxi drove away a man desperately tried to sell us a box that was also a bracelet. He was scary desperate, running along our open door, insisting that we buy his goods as he lowered his prices by hundreds of percent without the slightest interest on our part. We wondered what life event prompted his desperate clearance sale of his silver inventory. We urged the taxi driver to keep going since he was waiting to see if we were going to finish the deal.
The road wound out up and around mountains on a narrow one lane road. The cars were infrequent enough that everyone drove as if no one was ever coming in the other direction. Occasionally we'd pick up someone on the side of the road who would give the driver a few dirhams for a quick ride. They always squished into the front leaving us the entire back seat to ourselves.
Around one corner a yellow truck forced our driver to swerve onto the shoulder. There were no barricades preventing us from falling down the bank to the river hundreds of feet below. Without barricades I got a clear view of our tire only inches from the edge spinning us at 40 mph around the corner on loose gravel. I turned to Laura terrified. She did not want a description of how close we were to death but I was too shaken to remain quiet. "Laura, that is the most close to death I've been on this entire trip."
I compare it to climbing Toubkal, walking down dark alleys, trusting random Moroccans and it is no contest. I reflect on reading about the tourists who died on this road in 2005 an the lonely planet description of the road as "the most perilous in Morocco." I try to think of a time in my life that I have ever felt that close to death and I still can't come up with anything. I question my sanity for getting into the car but think that getting out in the middle of the mountains is not the appropriate solution. The decision has been made and before long we see the valley and begin the descent to flat desert.
We leave the taxi, find a bus, and take another taxi to Tiznit where we spend the night, too tired to push on to Tafraoute. The next day we take an old stationwagon over the mountains. It can only go around 25 mph uphill but we don't mind as it seems preferable to falling to our death as we speed around corners.
When trying to leave Tafraroute we inquire at our hotel about buses since we know it will be much cheaper than taxis and more comfortable than being mushed into the backseat four across. The hotel concierge(yes our hotel was that awesome) tells us that the bus leaves at 6. When we try to buy tickets the man insists that his company is the only one going to where we want and it leaves at 5. We decline buying tickets even though he tells us it might fill up(fat chance) and ask our concierge again. He's sure that it leaves at six and tells us that the green bus we refused to buy tickets for goes the wrong way. We we return to the correct bus and ask where it is going they say that we must take a taxi because there is no bus. We are confused and insist that we want to take the bus. When they tell us more conflicting information about the buses destination I hop on board and ask a few passengers where the bus is going. Satisfied that it is indeed going to Agadir I hop off and again ask to buy a ticket. They tell me it's going to Rabat, the capital which is hours away and has no bus service to Tafroute. Even if it did the bus would go through Agadir so I'm confused. We leave the men who are trying to get us in a taxi and decide that maybe buying the tickets at the bus ticket window will solve our problem. We are convinced that they are just trying to sell us tickets and the bus is really going where we want it to. At the ticket window the man tells us the bus goes to Marrakesh and that we must take a taxi. I know that the only way to get to Marrakesh is through Agadir or crossing mountains and desert with a 4 wheel drive vehicle. I ask them to point on my map the route and they invent a road that doesn't exist that bypasses Agadir. I'm horribly frustrated with my French at this point as I try and fail to explain that they are making up fake roads and the bus clearly goes to Agadir. I end up shouting in English, "I want to go wherever the bus is going!" A nice girl tells us we can buy tickets on the bus and we hop on, almost missing it after spending 20 minutes trying to convince them to sell us tickets. We decide that the man at the ticket window must get money from the taxi drivers for telling tourists that they can't take the bus.
The bus winds through pretty hills and villages up a mountain pass. We stop for snacks at the top of a huge hill and as we start rolling again a man comes around with plastic sacks. We recall Jane's stories about puking Moroccans and wonder what is about to happen as over half of the people accept bags. We decline and I hope that I'm not jinxing my stomach. In any case we don't eat our drinkable avocado yogurt despite being quite excited at buying food at the rest stop.
Only a few turns later we hear the first retching noises and turn to each other in amazement. The man in front of us looks back at our shocked faces and laughs. Next the kid behind Laura starts puking and I grab my bag off the floor and put my feet on the footrest afraid that he might not have made it all in the bag.
Later we speculate that Moroccans puke so frequently because taking cars is so unusual for them.
Our next few trips involved a lot more arguing as taxi drivers swarmed the blonde to rip me off. Eventually we arrive in Tahazout at 11:00 pm and a man whisks us off the street to stay in his house for a few days of relaxation by the calm cool seaside. We needed it!
Our journey to Tafraoute was particularly challenging requiring multiple taxis and trains that all required unnecessary amounts of haggling. Moroccans assume blondes are stupid and ready to be taken advantage of unless proven otherwise. In many ways this was true since I was only armed with my lonely planet that had prices printed before gas skyrocketed.
When trying to find a taxi or bus to Tafraoute we could hardly trust a word anyone was saying. Two men approached us in Asni first claiming to want only tea and then to be friends and help us find a ride. They insisted that there was a bus arriving shortly to Marrakesh and we decided to wait for it at a table with them. They used this opportunity, that they had probably created by inventing a bus, and tried to trade silver jewelry for American goods. After sitting around bartering ski team stickers for small jewelry boxes a man approached and in Arabic told them men that a car was headed for Tarodannt, the town we were really trying to reach. The price was higher than we'd anticipated but they insisted after a heated argument with the taxi driver that we were getting a good deal. We were just glad that they were doing the haggling for us. As our taxi drove away a man desperately tried to sell us a box that was also a bracelet. He was scary desperate, running along our open door, insisting that we buy his goods as he lowered his prices by hundreds of percent without the slightest interest on our part. We wondered what life event prompted his desperate clearance sale of his silver inventory. We urged the taxi driver to keep going since he was waiting to see if we were going to finish the deal.
The road wound out up and around mountains on a narrow one lane road. The cars were infrequent enough that everyone drove as if no one was ever coming in the other direction. Occasionally we'd pick up someone on the side of the road who would give the driver a few dirhams for a quick ride. They always squished into the front leaving us the entire back seat to ourselves.
Around one corner a yellow truck forced our driver to swerve onto the shoulder. There were no barricades preventing us from falling down the bank to the river hundreds of feet below. Without barricades I got a clear view of our tire only inches from the edge spinning us at 40 mph around the corner on loose gravel. I turned to Laura terrified. She did not want a description of how close we were to death but I was too shaken to remain quiet. "Laura, that is the most close to death I've been on this entire trip."
I compare it to climbing Toubkal, walking down dark alleys, trusting random Moroccans and it is no contest. I reflect on reading about the tourists who died on this road in 2005 an the lonely planet description of the road as "the most perilous in Morocco." I try to think of a time in my life that I have ever felt that close to death and I still can't come up with anything. I question my sanity for getting into the car but think that getting out in the middle of the mountains is not the appropriate solution. The decision has been made and before long we see the valley and begin the descent to flat desert.
We leave the taxi, find a bus, and take another taxi to Tiznit where we spend the night, too tired to push on to Tafraoute. The next day we take an old stationwagon over the mountains. It can only go around 25 mph uphill but we don't mind as it seems preferable to falling to our death as we speed around corners.
When trying to leave Tafraroute we inquire at our hotel about buses since we know it will be much cheaper than taxis and more comfortable than being mushed into the backseat four across. The hotel concierge(yes our hotel was that awesome) tells us that the bus leaves at 6. When we try to buy tickets the man insists that his company is the only one going to where we want and it leaves at 5. We decline buying tickets even though he tells us it might fill up(fat chance) and ask our concierge again. He's sure that it leaves at six and tells us that the green bus we refused to buy tickets for goes the wrong way. We we return to the correct bus and ask where it is going they say that we must take a taxi because there is no bus. We are confused and insist that we want to take the bus. When they tell us more conflicting information about the buses destination I hop on board and ask a few passengers where the bus is going. Satisfied that it is indeed going to Agadir I hop off and again ask to buy a ticket. They tell me it's going to Rabat, the capital which is hours away and has no bus service to Tafroute. Even if it did the bus would go through Agadir so I'm confused. We leave the men who are trying to get us in a taxi and decide that maybe buying the tickets at the bus ticket window will solve our problem. We are convinced that they are just trying to sell us tickets and the bus is really going where we want it to. At the ticket window the man tells us the bus goes to Marrakesh and that we must take a taxi. I know that the only way to get to Marrakesh is through Agadir or crossing mountains and desert with a 4 wheel drive vehicle. I ask them to point on my map the route and they invent a road that doesn't exist that bypasses Agadir. I'm horribly frustrated with my French at this point as I try and fail to explain that they are making up fake roads and the bus clearly goes to Agadir. I end up shouting in English, "I want to go wherever the bus is going!" A nice girl tells us we can buy tickets on the bus and we hop on, almost missing it after spending 20 minutes trying to convince them to sell us tickets. We decide that the man at the ticket window must get money from the taxi drivers for telling tourists that they can't take the bus.
The bus winds through pretty hills and villages up a mountain pass. We stop for snacks at the top of a huge hill and as we start rolling again a man comes around with plastic sacks. We recall Jane's stories about puking Moroccans and wonder what is about to happen as over half of the people accept bags. We decline and I hope that I'm not jinxing my stomach. In any case we don't eat our drinkable avocado yogurt despite being quite excited at buying food at the rest stop.
Only a few turns later we hear the first retching noises and turn to each other in amazement. The man in front of us looks back at our shocked faces and laughs. Next the kid behind Laura starts puking and I grab my bag off the floor and put my feet on the footrest afraid that he might not have made it all in the bag.
Later we speculate that Moroccans puke so frequently because taking cars is so unusual for them.
Our next few trips involved a lot more arguing as taxi drivers swarmed the blonde to rip me off. Eventually we arrive in Tahazout at 11:00 pm and a man whisks us off the street to stay in his house for a few days of relaxation by the calm cool seaside. We needed it!
posted by Cammie at 3:18 PM
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