Our Chechaouen home was packed into six bags and many a good memory. A plaza restaurant lunch and a steep downhill walk to a dusty bus stop. Six tickets to Marrakech with a bus change at Fez and we wait.
Pause… sneaky Mister Tickets only gave us five tickets for the Fez-Marrakech leg of the journey. All good, easily fixed. What if our first bus runs late and we miss the next bus? “No, no, you get bus at Fez, no worry.”
And we are on, seated, ready, full bus. The most windy (as in lots of turns, not lots of moving air) roads at high speed and lots of dramatic breaking (as in slow downs, not smashing things). The guy next to us threw up into a plastic bag pretty early into the journey, tied it up and hung it on the chair in front of him so that the aroma could permeate the poorly air conditioned bus.
Two hours in, the bus kept cutting out. After a final non-engine powered coast for several tens of meters, she finally wheezed and spluttered a final sign of “no I will not take you to Fez”. Hot, flat, dry, donkey scattered terrain. We laughed mostly. Locals seemed to know the drill and made quick use of cars that saw us and instantly became taxi’s to Fez. We were indecisive and care-free. Another bus eventually arrived. 30Dh each later we were again Fez-bound. Hmmm, it was looking like we would be spending the night in Fez. Even more so when Ramadan ended and we all piled into a desert-surrounded, middle of no where, Moroccan pit stop for free soup and bread.
But it was great. Hot-aired veranda, full moon, black nothingness in all directions. Fed and running horribly late, we all piled back on to the bus. We arrived in Fez at 8:45pm, our ticket to Marrakech for 8:30pm. The CTM office calmly informed us that a taxi could take us to where the bus stops next and he would call them and they would wait. Would he call? Would they wait? We had to try. Exit, swamp of taxi drivers, haggle, haggle and we’re off. Let’s catch that bus people. And we did. They waited! Screw bus schedules, lets get these kids to shopping capital.
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