on the road with Shiri and Ziva

It was a full house come Tuesday night with EB, her mom, and her sister. The plan was for Shiri, Ziva, and I to leave for Chefchaouen early in the morning. We figured we’d take a bus—we didn’t want to deal with arranging a grand taxi, and no trains run that way. We didn’t count on stomach problems—all of us were upset in one form or another (we blame breakfast or lunch from our previous day). A new low was reached when Shiri vomited. We waited until everybody felt safe for the five-hour trip and then headed up the wet, steep hill out of the medina, carrying my one small travel umbrella and three big duffel bags.

I was soaked by the end of the ten minute walk and went off in search of a suitable taxi (the direct buses for the day had already departed) after depositing Shiri and Ziva at a café. My trusty umbrella preventing my dripping hair from getting any wetter was of little consolation—the taxis were much further than I had been led to believe. Smelling the tourist in me, the prices were inflated, and besides, there wasn’t anybody really out braving the weather, so drivers were reluctant to make the trip. In a last act of desperation, I went next door to the el-cheapo bus station (the one with the fancy buses is across town) and found an option departing in fifteen minutes. I ran (as will this sentence J) to a petit taxi, made him wait while I again ran to find my folks, pay their tab, and recharge my phone card, then got back in, rushed back to the station to purchase the tickets and get on the bus [DEEP BREATH, drip, drip].

The bus ride was fine for the most part. We had another hospitality moment as I offered some candies with the bearded man across the aisle and he reciprocated with handfuls of pistachios. We stopped in Ouezzane to change buses, drink some tea, and use the toilet. The ticket man for the connecting bus tried to overcharge me for the luggage—what did we look like, tourists? I knew better and paid him no more than his due, but these constant episodes eventually drive a person to remain home all day. Ziva was put off by the squat toilets and opted to wait, though when she was led to a different facility (they must not have grasped the issue at hand) she swallowed her concerns and performed, only to be chased back to the café by the toilet guardian who wanted—drum roll, please—payment. It got pretty windy and stomach-turning toward the destination; Shiri had me prepare a barf bag as a failsafe.

We finally got dropped off at the edge of Chaouen’s medina as the sky grew dark, and in contrast to my first visit to the town, a group of otherwise-adorable children immediately accosted us and insisted to help with our luggage. This time, though, we were prepared with candies and souvenirs. I paid them off while we had our fireplace lit up at the charming hotel. As it was already getting late, we had time for little else than dinner and a quick walk through the beautiful blue town. Not before meeting Hat Man, however—his shop a Rasta caricature, replete with the cloud of aromatic blue smoke. His knitwear was fascinating and priced so fairly I had trouble carrying out the ritualistic bargaining. Back at the hotel’s family room we found a group of men getting high and playing music. We opted to sit in, though we abstained from participating in anything but drinking tea. The hotel’s owner was an interesting Italian chap whose vibe is best summed up as a little weird. Lots of young male help, all getting high; the picture was simply disconcerting.

The last embers from our fire kept us warm as we slept. My alarm clock failed, causing a late awaking, and we scrambled to make the best of our short morning. Breakfast and packing was followed by some nearby gift shopping and a hasty second trip to chat with and buy more knitwear from Hat Man as we waited for our hotel-arranged grand taxi to Tangiers. It was a disappointment, then, when the taxi driver finally arrived but wanted double what the hotelier’s “son” had  quoted me. It was all a very shady ordeal—the hotelier got defensive rather than apologetic, insisting on the higher price. I would have been negotiating for a taxi or searching for a bus hours earlier had I not been misled to wait for the crooked taxi. Alas, on our walk over to the taxi stand, the shady driver offered a discount, and desperate (now a theme), I accepted.

Nacer met us as we arrived at Tangiers and helped us lug our luggage up to his fifth (European=American sixth) floor walkup before a quick tour through town. The traffic in Tangiers was about as time-consuming as the drive from Chaouen. He handed us off to his friend Marouane who generously accompanied us and kept us out of trouble until we left for dinner at Nacer’s hotel. The thing is, apropos this approaching hospitality moment, is that I would rather have eaten elsewhere. I knew this even before I saw the menu (actually, it was a buffet). I agreed to the meal for the same reason I agreed to stay in Nacer’s apartment—for the magic Moroccan idea of hospitality. For the same reason they all need to give, I have almost come to feel it my duty to accept. It was not good enough for Nacer to give us a few recommendations or to hang out for a while—he needed to host us and make us feel a sense of welcome that is alien back home. So I was only slightly surprised when the manager informed me that our meal had been completely paid for by Nacer.

In a final flourish for the night, Nacer arranged for a friend to drive us home. My mom was understandably frustrated not to be able to just pay for a night at Nacer’s swanky hotel, which is what I would have insisted upon were we to do it over again. Still, as history has it, we climbed up to the apartment and bared it. Sadly, but hardly surprising us, we were without showers or western toilets. This, of course, only added fuel to my mom’s fire, and it was all we could do to go to sleep without further conflict.