11: It Was Bound to Happen – Diary of a Single Girl – Morocco

11: It Was Bound to Happen

Despite the protestations of Mara’s house mother, the horror stories of other females and the US Advisory against travel in Morocco, it started as a pretty cool plan. Mara and I were going to take a weekend trip to Morocco – zip on down to Casablanca, rock the casbah, make a killing in the markets and zip back to Seville in time for school on Monday. A bus, a ferry, a train and return. Simple.

Except for the bus strike…
…and the delays….
…and customs…
…and the scams….
…and the stalker…

Yes, here it finally was, the ‘if it could go wrong it did go wrong’ story. Welcome to my personal version of ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles…’

While waiting one and a half hours for our schoolmate to join us for our adventure (she never showed) we found out the major bus line to the port was on strike and no one knew if another bus went there. Despite many calls by well-meaning people at our Spanish school, we eventually had to go to the bus station to assess the situation. We managed seats on a 4:30pm bus, giving us plenty of time after the 2-hour ride to catch the last ferry to Tangiers at 7pm.

Three and half hours later, we pulled into the port assuming we had missed the last ferry. (Later we found out we hadn’t.) We’d met a Norwegian couple on the bus and went looking for a pension, with plans to take the first boat at 6 or 7 am to Tangiers. We had no luck until I accosted a British couple for help. They took us to their ‘great’ cheap hostel where we found the only room available slept four. Our sweatbox came complete with ants in the Norwegians’ bed for only 1300 pesetas (US$7) a night.

That night, after 5 sleepless hours of sweating, and listening to snoring, moaning, trash collecting and a myriad of other noises, I went to the roof for relief where I found it was actually rather cool and comfy outside. Luckily, I found a linen closet on the roof, stocked with a bed roll, sleeping bag and clean sheets. I made up a little campsite and slept under the stars, until waking up in a start from a dream where I was busted for breaking into the linen closet.

The night before, the pension owner/travel agent told us the first train to Casablanca was at 11 am, so we slept in. We arrived at the 8 am ferry at 7:55 only to be told we were supposed to be there 10 minutes earlier and we’d have to wait for the 9 am boat, which ended up leaving at 9:30.

We arrived at 10:30 Morocco time (there’s a 2-hour time difference) with a half-hour to catch the train to Casablanca. After waiting 20 minutes to disembark, pushing past baby buggies and the largest suitcases I’ve ever seen, we were sent back on board by passport control for not having the proper entry stamps. After another 10 precious minutes, we disembarked again and found a cabbie who agreed to take us to the train station for the going price of DH15 (about US$1.40). We arrived at the train station where the driver insisted we’d agreed on DH50. I gave him 20, called him a con artist and several other things, and we rushed into the train station…

…to find the train had left at 7:15am and another wouldn’t come until 1pm. We calculated with the train schedule, ferry delays and time changes we’d have to leave Casablanca at 7am the next morning to make the last bus back to Seville. We’d made a major logistical error and now we’d have to spend the weekend in the port city of Tangiers. But hell, it was Morocco, so we’d get a flavor for the country – and how bad could it be? Every other warning Lonely Planet had given about a city turned out to be overblown; for sure this would too.

We managed our way back into town, with an honest cabbie who actually went out of his way to make sure we got to the right hotel. We donned our baggy shirts, having both been to Egypt before and knowing you shouldn’t show a figure of any kind in Arab countries. We ventured into the 100+ degree heat in our long sleeves and long skirts. On the way to the marketplace we were approached by a man trying to give us “friendly advice” on where to go and what to do, assuring us the entire time he wasn’t trying to get money from us. This scam was familiar from Egypt. Someone pretends to befriend you, they invite you into their shop for tea, and then hardcore pressures you to buy something.

We thanked him for his offer and walked off. He followed, and approached again with more advice and handed me a card for his shop. We thanked him again and turned away. He waited until we headed down the street and approached us yet again. Finally we ignored him, and this just angered him. He insisted on getting his card back because he didn’t want ‘paranoid’ people in his shop. Then he accused me of thinking of Moroccans as ‘animals’ and began yelling what I can only imagine was a variety of Arabic curses… but at least he finally stopped following us. We decided we needed a nice lunch to make up for that bit of unwanted excitement.

We ordered a ravioli in tomato sauce appetizer at a 5-star hotel (no chances with food poisoning after a bout of it in Mexico once). Our appetizer was served with a flourish by a waiter in traditional Moroccan dress and our appetizer was… Chef Boyardee. I’m not kidding, you could practically hear them opening the cans in the kitchen, and Mara is an expert as a grade school teacher…

Then we decided to take a tour based on our guidebook’s recommendation as a way to avoid being hassled. For US$10 for both of us, we thought ‘why not?’ (our theme from Greece). Our ‘official’ guide, arranged by Hotel Boyardee, talked on his cell phone half the time (cell phones in a country of people with no teeth – go figure). He made me overpay the cab driver – then got huffy when I questioned him about it – kept staring at our breasts and, even though we told him we weren’t shopping, insisted on the mandatory ‘stop in a shop for mint tea and a sales pitch.’ Luckily the sales people really could see we didn’t have money or inclination to buy, and they let us escape relatively pressure-free, but not before first proudly showing us their pictures of Bruce Springsteen and Sting, who had bought rugs in their store. Our tour ended with the price going from DH100 to DH120… we didn’t pay it.

Mara went earring shopping while the shopkeeper’s helper kept trying to distract me. We finally reunited and realized a conversion calculation error: Mara thought she was bargaining for $7 dollars, and in reality they were trying to get $70 out of her! We ran off, much to the surprise of our new ‘friends’.

In frustration and seeking solace from our day we did something I swear I’d never do: we went to McDonald’s. We got our fries and shakes and went looking for a seat in this Mickey D’s bulging with teenagers, and found that the best view of Tangiers is from McDonald’s patio! (which has a guard to keep the riff-raff off). So we’d eaten Chef Boyardee in a 5-star restaurant with a view of parking lot when we could have come to good ol’ McD for a spectacular view at a fraction of the price!

After all this, I just wanted to sleep and headed back to my room… to find out there was a disco across the street playing obscure Madonna and screechy Moroccan music, so back to the streets of Tangiers it was. The people-scape had transformed. No longer was every woman dressed conservatively or head to toe in a robe, there were actually women who looked like they were competing to see who could squeeze into the tightest fashions. But none of the women, robed or otherwise, apparently ever sit anywhere (except McDonald’s) as all the street cafes were exclusively male-patroned.

I finally returned to my now-quiet room (but light-filled because the huge white neon sign of the hotel across the street was right in front of my window), exhausted and ready to pass out with only 2 ½ hours sleep in the past 40 hours. I was awakened a few hours later by the call to prayer that rings throughout the city over a squawky loudspeaker. I blinked at my watch several times before it registered that it was 3:18 am. I know Muslims pray 5 times a day, but I didn’t know Allah required 24-hour attention.

Then, around 4, a distant rooster began to crow. This apparently woke up the birds, which woke up the cats which roused the morning mosquitoes. It’s 6:27 am as I write this, and I’m wondering just what adventures today holds – and if I can stay awake to experience them.

But there is a bright side to this story.

1. Mara slept through the night.
2. We’re still speaking to each other.
3. Every other adventure is bound to be better.
4. And at least the crazy stalker and high-pressure salesmen don’t think we’re rude stupid Americans – because we told them all we were from Toronto…