Hustled and bussled

It’s the little things you begin to appreciate when you’re travelling; at this moment, it’s the joy of cool air hitting my face on an air-conditioned bus; quite a contrast to our last bus journey... N, K and I are 5 days into our 2-week girls holiday in Morocco and we're wising up fast! With the help of a few friends along the way we’ve learned how to say no to the many talented salesman that line the souks (markets) as they tactfully shove beautiful herbs under your nose and drape pretty scarves around your shoulders. It works a treat, delighting your senses as you reach for your wallet without having had a chance to take anything in. We’ve learned the rule of haggling here (start at 50% of their first offer and go up slowly from there) and have tasted just about every Moroccan dish that can be found on most of the (fairly identical) menus; from tagine to cous cous and back to tagine (let's not leave out the bread and olives!) - the variety is endless. 

The only picture I could find of us in Marrakech
The Oureka waterfalls

We spent a bit too long in Marrakech as we settled into Morocco slowly – 2 days would’ve been enough to see a waterfall or two and have a night stroll through the steaming night markets but 3 days gave us enough time to make a real Gambian connection. Our next destination was Fez, the second largest city in Morocco known as the Mecca of the west; the journey there was no hajj but it definitely tested our endurance. It'd been sold to us under the pretence that it was a private bus that left at 11.30pm and was going to take 8 hours with 2 bathroom breaks and chairs that reclined. 
Instead, we waited in the bus station until 12.30am, steaming in the African heat that was trapped in the building for lack of airflow. Various men stood around calling the names of different destinations over and over again. "Tangir, Tangir, Tangir" as there were no notice boards in sight. The sounds echoed those of the wallahs in India that would wander the streets at all hours selling their wares in a rythmic chant. After an hour had passed and the bus still hadn't arrived, the sounds became easier to differentiate - the loud, parrot-like melody of the man besides us who was still repeating the same destination (even though the bus had surely left?), the low, gruff tones of the hunched man in the center of the room, shiftily holding a stack of bus tickets out of sight and the high pitched sounds of another man that was standing somewhere in the shadows. Lots of last minute, dodgy deals were being made to shift last minute tickets just as the buses began to leave and we remained, sat, waiting, hoping someone would notify us when it was our turn (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tqQP7i3Qxs)... I began to murmur 'Fez, Fez, Fez' under my breath, hoping we'd be called next.

Eventually we were lead to a sidewalk where we blindly followed a man murmuring in Arabic who stopped on the side of a highway. A public bus pulled up, our bags were shoved in the side of it and we were shuttled through the door. Just as K had lifted her back foot off the ground, the bus began to drive down the busy highway. We held onto the walls to prevent a nasty accident as we waited for the mass of people in front of us to diffuse into the space. We looked over the heads, hoping to find 3 seats near the front to soften the bumpy ride. A man motioned to the back of the bus and behind the last row of chairs, 3 squares of cardboard had been placed, one for each of us, joy. What a laugh he must have had... the fact that we were women amongst a commotion of people with no ability to speak French or Arabic meant that there was no room to argue; so we sat on the hard floor and let the wave of fatigue consume us. Holding our handbags close, we entered a broken sleep, woken continuously by the sharp knocks of our joints against the hard surfaces around us. I'd have spurts of anger every 40 minutes or so and as a new influx of people shuffled on and off the bus, I'd catch the eye of the man directing the flow of traffic and motion with pleading hands to a chair. "Next stop" is the message he'd motion back.

About 5 hours in when my tailbone was at breaking point, I sleepily pulled my makeshift pillow (my crumpled up Levis jacket) up to my cramped neck for the 50th time. The bus stopped for 2 minutes, I spotted 3 free seats and we jumped at the opportunity for a softer surface... YES! We sunk back into broken dreams, my eyes opening with the jerks of the bus to catch glimpses of beautiful desert villages built on red sand, beneath hazy skies that were teaming with a million dust particles. There was a new scent in the bus now, wafts of vomit were circulating and 10 new sets of eyes were glued to me - the delirious, sweaty white girl. I must've been a sight - back to sleep. That scene repeated itself again and again; each time I felt my hair becoming more matted as the intensity of the stench grew with the rising temperature as we neared midday - still no sign of Fez. The background noise was now a harmony of the mother and her baby in the seat behind me, vomiting in tandem. I felt a mixture of sympathy and disgust as a new sensory level was added to the uncomfortable scene that we were trying so hard to remain calm in. Finally, 11 hours later we'd arrived in Fez, feeling conned at having paid extortionate rates for a public bus that must've cost a fraction of the price.

- Note to all travellers, when in Morocco try and use the CTM or Supratour bus companies as they're the only ones we've found with fixed rates that’s description matches their service -

I unstuck my legs that were now glued together with sweat, dodged the men that were trying to put our luggage into wagons and rustled my way into the crowd to find my bag buried in the pile. Deeep breath - tired and fez up already, the scattered journey had laid the foundations for a very weird and wavy day.

Song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixn1r_JHLIw