Morocco or Bust
So I just got back from my adventures in Morocco and London this week, and good gravy were they intense. I actually got to meet my predecessor Rebecca, who is pretty awesome, and got to enjoy some time with my dad’s side of the family.
Simply because it’s fresher on my mind though, I’m going to start at the end of my trip in London. I’ll give you a little background first, though. Paulette, the ALT from Miyakejima, had plans to go to Morocco right around this time since her Peace Corps friend Anita lives there. Paulette, more than anyone I know, has a propensity to fly all over the world, so it was unsurprising that she made a stop-off in London for my dad’s wedding.
Afterwards, she left for Morocco, and suggested that I come with her. I told her I’d think about it, but that it was probably too late to get a ticket.
The night after she left, I started going online and researching flights to see where I could go for the next few days. I’d spent plenty of time in London in the past, so I figured it would be a great time to explore Europe. I was checking out flights to Amsterdam and Portugal, and had gone so far as to start booking a hotel in Rome, when I noticed a little (1) by my inbox on Facebook. I clicked on it, and it was a cryptic message from Paulette.
“Paulette Waltz (12:02 am): go on gmail”
I jumped on, and then… Well, I’ll let the chat logs speak for themselves.
me: HEY!
Is it really awesome awesome?
Paulette: um YEAH
ITS SO AWESOME
that i should go soon
but it really is
i mean
me: Ok, I’m fucking crazy, but I’m coming
That’s all I needed to hear
Paulette: can you make it
with the flights?
like seriously?
I wasn’t sure that I could. I started searching, and Paulette suggested one at 5:30pm that night. Seeing as I couldn’t spend more than a few days in Morocco anyway, I decided that it wouldn’t be worth it to take that flight. I started searching around some more:
me: damn i’m really glad i have you around
I’m not too certain about how this stuff works… looking at it…
How about the 6:45 AM flight?
fuck nm there’s no way I could make that
Paulette: eh?
me: the 645 one
Paulette: you mean like in a few hours?
hehehe
you could make it
me: as in six hours
At this time, I went into massive planning mode. The ticket was 150 pounds. I had six hours to make a flight, and no idea how I was going to get to the airport. A taxi to Gatwick would have cost more than $150, and none of the trains were running yet. All hope seemed lost – this was going to be tricky.
It was 1:30 am, and as I had absolutely no idea what to do, I woke my Dad up. He is an infinitely patient and gracious man, as he disregarded the fact that he had a meeting in the morning, got out of bed, and started helping me make my travel plans.
Me: So I decided I’m going to Morocco, but the flight leaves in five hours from Gatiwck.
Him: Is there no other flight?
Me: Not until 5:30.
Him: This will be difficult.
Anyway, he started calling around, and managed to book a taxi to come get me at 4:00, and gave me a very specific train itinerary.
Him: “You’re going to be cutting it close. Head to East Croyden and take the 4:52 train to Gatwick. You’ll arrive about an hour before the flight. Have you booked your ticket yet?”
Unfortunately, I hadn’t, as I ran into a second snag: the airline’s website wouldn’t accept my credit card. Even though it didn’t was valid for two more days, the site said “card expired” every time I’d try to put it in. This was very bad.
Dad: “I guess you’ll have to pay for it in cash.”
Me: “Shit.”
I had never paid for a plane ticket in cash before, especially an hour prior to a flight. I sucked some air through my teeth, and wondered if this really was a good idea after all.
Me: “Fuck it. I’m going.” I shot off a quick e-mail to Paulette, praying that she would get it by the time I landed.
Dad handed me some pounds for the cab ride, and his ATM card (since mine was expiring the next day), and headed back to bed at 2:30 am. I began getting ready for the trip.
At 4:00, I hopped into the taxi that was outside, and had a rather dull conversation with the Polish driver. I popped into East Croyden just in time to catch the train, and, delirious, got into Gatwick at about 5:40. I ran up the stairs with my luggage, and bolted up to the easyJet ticket desk.
Me: “I need a one-way ticket to Marrakesh!”
Her: “Okay… For when?”
Me: “For right now.”
Her: “Okay, no problem, sir, 5:30pm…”
Me: “No. Not 5:30pm. NOW. I need to get on the 6:45 flight.”
Her: “I can’t do that for you. You won’t make it in time.”
Me: “I don’t have any bags to check. Trust me, I can make it.”
Her: “Okay… But if you miss this flight, it’s non-refundable.”
Me: “I won’t miss it.”
Her: “Okay, let me see your passport… That’ll be 188 pounds 17 pence please.”
At this point, I had a massive “What the Fuck?” moment. How the hell could the flight have gone up by 33 pounds in two hours? I didn’t have enough money.
Me: “Umm… Is there an ATM around here?”
Her (incredulously): “You’re paying with cash?”
Me: “Yeah, I am. Is that okay?”
She pointed across the room, obviously a little bit sketched out by me.
Me: “Thanks!”
I ran over, pulled out some money, came back, and paid for my flight. Only when I was standing in line at security did I realize why she was acting so funny. Let’s break it down a bit:
1. I had just bought a one-way ticket
2. With CASH.
3. An hour before the flight.
4. And I had no baggage.
Let’s just say that if I wasn’t a tall stereotypical white guy, or if my name was “Omar Hussein,” I would have had about the same chance of getting on that flight as the person that checks “yes” next to the “are you carrying any explosives, firearms, or illegal drugs?” box.
Anyway, I got on the flight, and with plenty of time to spare. I ended up arriving in Morocco at 10:30 after getting absolutely zero sleep on the plane. I was completely delirious stepping off, as at this point I’d been awake for almost exactly 24 hours. I stepped into the ludicrously long and slow customs line, and stepped out into the lobby of the airport, looking for Paulette.
She wasn’t there.
Fuck.
I started weighing my options. I needed to get a return flight ASAP, but what would happen if Paulette showed up in the meantime? I’d miss her, and have absolutely no way to find out where she is. On the other hand, if I wait too long, I might not be able to get out of the country. Then I remembered that I had a phone number.
I frantically dug through my bag until I found the notebook emblazoned with a Union Jack that I had used as a journal and to keep my itinerary. I ran over and asked the nearest person where a payphone was. He cocked his head to the side and stared at me, confused. Unfortunately, up until this point my brain hadn’t processed the fact that I was in a country that didn’t speak English or Japanese.
Eventually I found someone that spoke a few words of English, and they directed me to this booth where you have to buy a card that you use to call from payphones in Morocco. I bought one, headed to the phone, and typed in the number. Then, something truly awful happened.
“You have dialed a wrong number. Goodbye.”
Fuck.
I had the wrong number.
Immediately, my mind started racing. What the hell would I do? I’m stuck in a country that I don’t know the first thing about, surrounded by a language that I don’t even remotely speak. Is Morocco safe? I had absolutely no idea what the first thing was about the country. I had only decided to come there a few hours before, and had absolutely NO inkling about it.
Eventually I headed to this area where there were some taxis, and saw a sign next to a bus that said “Centre Villa”.
I repeated my mantra for the day, “Fuck it,” paid the driver 20 dirham, and jumped on the bus.
What followed was an otherworldly bus ride through surroundings that were completely unfamiliar to me. Hundreds of beige 240D Mercedes from the early 80s were clogging up the roads, sharing them with donkey-pulled carts and pedestrians. Everything seemed to be a shade of brown, including all of the buildings, which invariably had giant satellite dishes on them. I felt like I was on Mars.
About twenty minutes later, the bus drove through an opening in the high city walls, and chaos ensued. People were driving on all sides of the road, oxcarts were pushing their way through, bikes were trying to fit through every nook and cranny, and pedestrians were crossing the road with a reckless disregard for safety. The bus pulled up to a stop, and I stepped out into the hot Moroccan weather.
The following minute was perhaps the most disorienting and confusing of my life. I hadn’t slept in over a day, I had absolutely no clue where I was, I was alone, I didn’t speak the language, and I didn’t even know if I was in a safe place. Would I even find Paulette and Anita? Slowly, I gathered myself back together and resolved to find an internet café. Surprisingly, there was one not even a block away, marked by the blessedly similar French word “cyber”. I entered the broken-down doorway and found myself in a hallway that looked several hundred years old. Several older Moroccans sat on the floor, staring at me as I walked by.
I entered the room with the computers, booted up a PC that was, according to my best estimate, built during the Qin Dynasty, and signed onto Gmail. I started typing a frantic message to Paulette, and then noticed that many of the keys on the keyboard were exactly where they should not be. Q had switched places with A, in order to get an M you had to type a ;, and god help you if you want to put a period in, because you have to hit shift-comma.
After writing two much-labored sentences, a miracle happened. A little green dot appeared next to Paulette’s name. Evidently, someone up there was looking out for me.
me: Ahh where are you?
Paulette: where are you
where are you
me: city center lol
Paulette: in the medina
thats crazy
hahahahahahahaha
where tho
me: i have absolutely no idea; i know zero french
Paulette: whats near you
HAHA
me: i just jumped on a bus
Paulette: you are awesome
and crazy
are you in the big square
?
me: the phone number was wrong
Paulette: was it the number 19 bus from the airport
me: i dont see a big square
probably
Paulette: her number is **************
so can you come to hotel tazi
get in a petit taxi
and tell them hotel tazi
whoa
you are crazy
hehehe
me: i called that and it kept saying zrong nu,ber
fuck these keyboards lol
ok ill be right there
So I jumped out of the café, and started looking for these supposed “petit taxis”. Eventually, I saw one – it looked like a little yellow Ford Focus, but a lot older. I hailed the driver.
The Driver: (a bunch of stuff in French)
Me: “Uhh… Hotel Tazi si vous plait?”
At this point he begins laughing hysterically, and points into the car. I jump in, and he drives around some one-way streets, and we end up at the end of the block, a mere fifty feet from where the cyber café was. I asked him “how much?” and he laughed me off, and drove away. That was the first, but certainly not the last free taxi ride that I would get. As soon as I jumped out of the car, Paulette and Anita were right there waiting for me with huge grins. I still can’t believe I made it there.