I last wrote about being a pedestrian in Morocco. This took the form of a screenplay, because that’s where the money is these days.
What Rocky did for Stallone, and Good Will Hunting did for Affleck and Damon, Marrakech Matadors might do for me. Of course I will star in the movie myself, as did Stallone, Affleck, and Damon. The loss of that starring role may be a great disappointment to George Clooney, but he has all that tequila money, so don’t feel too sorry for him.
It will be a while before Hollywood moguls start the bidding war on Marrakech Matadors. I will use this lull to tell you what it is like to NOT be a pedestrian in Morocco.
Not Pedestrians sometimes ride in taxis. Of course experienced travelers like us know the importance of agreeing on the fare before we get in a cab. What we didn’t appreciate was the importance of first determining that your taxi is, in fact, a taxi.
* * *
We had traveled from Marrakech to Essaouira, and from Essaouira to Safi. Now we had to ride a bus from Safi back to Marrakech. The bus would arrive at 6:00 p.m., leaving plenty of time to catch our 10:30 p.m. flight back to Alicante. Easy-peasy.
Our bus arrived in Marrakech an hour behind schedule. We still had 3.5 hours before our flight, but Denise was getting antsy.
Denise looked at her watch as the bus rolled to a stop. “The airline says we need to check in at least three hours before the flight.”
“That’s crazy,” I said, knowing full well that it wasn’t crazy. Apparently it sometimes takes hours to get through Marrakech’s passport control. “We’ll be fine,” I added, sincerely believing that we probably would be fine.
We got off the bus in the dark. And I mean pitch black. The night sky was overcast. No moon, and no stars. The terminal building may have had lights, but it was shielded from view by all the buses surrounding ours. Not so much as a firefly illuminated the station grounds.
We planned to take one of the airport shuttles that left the station every half hour. If we had to wait the full thirty minutes we still would arrive 2.5 hours before our flight. Less than recommended, but we should be okay.
That made perfect sense, and I mostly believed it.
I crawled into the storage space under the bus and retrieved our two bags. Each of us holding a suitcase handle, Denise and I looked around. Is one of these giant vehicles the shuttle? Where is the station? To the right? The left? Up ahead? All these views were blocked by huge motor coaches.
A young man approached. “Taxi? You want taxi?” I brushed by him and we walked to our left. That proved to be a wrong turn. We pivoted and were met by the same young man. “Taxi? You want taxi?”
I hesitated.
He had a laminated card hanging from a chain around his neck. As if this would seal the deal, he held the card for me to see. It looked like someone had photocopied a magazine image and pressed it between two pieces of plastic. “It’s good,” he said. “I have taxi.” He gave the plastic a little shake for emphasis.
In the dark the image on the card looked like a bus, not a taxi, and it definitely looked homemade. But what do I know or care about Moroccan certifications? “How much to the airport?” I asked.
“Twenty euros,” he said. That was twice what we would pay for the shuttle but, unlike the shuttle, he was right here, right now.
“Let’s go,” I said.
He led us across the periphery of the station lot, explaining that we had to walk to his taxi. He paused at the station entrance long enough to argue in Arabic with a well-groomed man wearing a nice-looking djellaba. He turned and bade us walk with him while Djellaba Man continued his harangue. Not yelling, but clearly Djellaba Man was unhappy. The driver ignored him and, walking between us, again held up his plastic card, like it disproved the other fellow’s accusations. “It’s good.” He said. “It’s good.”
We walked a few more yards. He told us to wait while he fetched the car.
Five minutes later our driver appeared in a small work van. The vehicle was maybe thirty years old. It was dirty and rusty. If a plumber showed up in this van you would immediately suspect you picked the wrong guy to unclog your toilet. The driver jumped out, ran around the van, and slid open the side door.
Inside, there was no back seat. There was instead a backless wooden bench bolted to the floor. Someone had stapled a couple of thin pillows on the bench, and then covered the pillows with a blanket. Some tools leaned on the bench. The driver moved those and motioned for us to get in.
Denise hesitated. She took a step away from the vehicle.
The driver again held up his talisman. “It’s okay. Very safe. It’s okay.”
I started to laugh and Denise punched me. I like to laugh and she likes punching me, so this was a win/win situation. “C’mon,” I said. “The man has that card around his neck, and it’s laminated! Let’s go!”
Denise punched me again, but followed me into the ancient miniature work van. She looked around for a seat belt. Our homemade wooden bench did not have seat belts. Denise was upset. “There are no seatbelts!” she said.
I pointed to the driver’s seat. “There probably are air bags built into the seat backs,” I offered.
Denise did not laugh.
“At least you can sit upright,” I said. I was sitting with my back forming a question mark so that my head did not hit the roof.
Denise studied my forced folding and saw the extent of my discomfort, which was considerable. She instantly felt much better.
The driver closed our door and quickly jumped into the driver’s seat. No doubt he did not want to give the American woman time to realize she should be more assertive with her easily amused husband.
At this point I could describe the man’s reckless driving. How he passed other cars in the face of oncoming traffic, how he would suddenly turn left, also in the face of oncoming traffic, or how he went way too fast while minimizing the space between his van and the vehicle in front of him. But in this regard, our driver was not unusual. The fact is, Moroccans drive like drunk California teens. That may sound racist, but it is not. No matter the race, creed, or color, of the drunk California teens, they will drive much like a Moroccan.
Some people might think, “Dan, those folks have different ways of doing things, but that doesn’t make OUR ways better.” But I bet YOU are not thinking anything like that, because I know you, and YOU are not an idiot.
Denise and I spent three days in Marrakech, and most of those three days were inside the walled medina, where cars are not allowed. In the five or six hours we were on the actual city streets, we saw two separate incidents involving an apparently lifeless body laying face down in the street, a mangled bicycle or motorcycle close at hand. In each case a civilian seemed to be guarding the corpse. We did not see a car that might have done the damage. We neither saw nor heard an ambulance or police car.
Possibly I should have thought of those bodies as our gypsy driver careened through the Marrakech night. But instead I was using Google Maps to follow our progress to the airport. I could see we needed to make only one more right turn and we would be there. Inexplicably, however, our driver turned left, onto a frontage road, and stopped. “We are here!” he announced.
Denise and I objected. We both have traveled extensively and therefore knew for a fact that this frontage road was not an airport. We told him so. “This is not the airport!” we both said.
The driver looked at us with pity. When he said he would charge 20 euros for a ride to the airport, we should have understood that he meant he would get us NEAR the airport.
Denise and I were stressing the terms of our oral contract, supremely confident in the merits of our argument, when the driver got out and unloaded our bags. He pointed across a very busy six lane street. “Airport RIGHT THERE!” he said.
“How the hell are we supposed to get across that highway?” I demanded. “No way!” I might have added, “Have you not seen Marrakech Matadors?” But the movie hadn’t been written yet, much less filmed, so that rhetorical flourish would have been premature.
“I take you.” He grabbed a bag in each hand and rolled them to a crosswalk. This turned out to be a controlled crosswalk, with green and red lights and everything. There even was a cop stationed in the center median.
You may be thinking that the walk across the street was easy, because there were traffic control lights, and a policeman. Our driver was indifferent to all those niceties. He dragged our bags, and hence ourselves, across the street in direct contravention of red lights. The policeman watched with profound indifference. “This,” I thought, “explains everything.”
Soon we turned a corner and could see the airport terminal. It was about 75 yards ahead. I stuck my hand in a pocket and pulled out 200 dirhams, the Moroccan equivalent of 20 euros, and bid our plucky driver adieu.
During our walk Denise and I put two and two together. Our man’s argument at the bus station no doubt was with a certified cab driver who took exception to the young fellow stealing business from legitimate operators. The driver didn’t want to go into the airport for fear of being caught doing something illegal.
* * *
Should we have refused to pay the driver, or at least paid him less? I didn’t think so. We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare. We got a little exercise. And, most important, that ride gave me a great idea for a movie sequel! I will call it, Revenge of the Marrakech Matadors!
Maybe I will let George Clooney play the gypsy cab driver.