Casablanca...

FROM MARK:
Well, our too-good-to-be-true EasyJet flight deal from Madrid to Casablanca came to be.... true! Yes, without hitch or problem we placed the wheels of our plane on the Moroccan tarmac at precisely 13:50 on May 29, only 10 minutes late. We slid through customs and picked up our bags with ease. With nothing to declare we walked through a line of people all waiting for their loved ones. We were apparently not in the looks for a Moroccan loved one, as eyes quickly glanced over us after some initial looks of disbelief. Dani had e-mailed our hotel just before we left indicating that we'd take a room and we'd also like their pickup shuttle service from the airport, so we scanned the signs only to find names of which we did not recognize. We had no idea if they could actually pick us up, but we had high hopes. We set a plan in action, which included getting local currency and then calling the hotel to check the status of the ride (we've heard things can be customarily late). We once again scanned the taxi driver signs for good measure and then proceeded to make the call. Luckily the gentleman spoke English, as my Arabic is lacking. I asked about the ride and he requested that I call back in 10 minutes... I think, or someone would be there in 10 minutes? Both his English and my clarification skills obviously needed some improvement. I realized this when I had to convey the not-so-clear message to Dani. So, we sat down and rested for a while and then I decided to give the hotel another call. This time he had solid news. He said that his driver could pick us up in one hour. I kindly declined the offer and we decided to catch the economical train into the city (much less than a taxi) only to find that the 15:00 train actually left at 15:00 on the dot. We watched it's taillights disappear. The next train was at 16:00, and we were now tired, hot, and mentally fatigued after less than an hour in Morocco. Dani was feeling a little dizzy from the flight too, so the last resort was a taxi. Keep in mind that up to this point we've gone everywhere and done everything via public transportation, so relying on a taxi was just a shift for us. Don't get me wrong, taxi's are great and serve a niche, but we enjoy traveling as economically as possible--it just makes things more fun. We accepted our mini-defeat and tried to think of the efficiencies as we entered the airport taxi area where a guy walked up asking if we needed a ride. I wasn't sure if he was just some guy off the street or not, as he held an "official as can be" looking piece of brown paper which looked to be torn from the bottom of a brown grocery sack. So, we chose honesty and said yes and I guess the paper was official. He guided us to a line of old, white, Mercedes with a small group a men sitting in a circle beside them. Several immediately rose, we showed them the name and address we had written down of our hotel, they exchanged some words and we were off in an official taxi. Our driver slowed by another taxi and said something in Arabic and then kept going. The national language in Morocco is Arabic, which I can not read, speak, or comprehend verbally a single word. I'm still working on thank you, which I believe is pronounced "Show-krahn". I enjoy languages, but wow, this one is a doozy. Oh, the second language of choice is French, followed by Spanish. Our fourth place English is a bonus if we get past hello. We were toodling along fine when the driver once again slows by a gas station and honks. Maybe he's just a really nice guy and likes to wave at everyone? Another white, old, Mercedes pulls up from the pump and before I could decipher the situation and come to my senses, we were shuttled into another vehicle of similar character, however, without taxi markings that I could see. As we picked up speed you'd think that at this point you would jump out of the car and just take the roll versus waiting for the endless possibilities. Once again, we chose to sit it out and be mindful of open fields and dark alleys.

After we showed the new driver our hotel information he indicated with complete assuredness that it was no longer operational. That's strange, as we had just spoke to someone at the hotel about a ride. The second lump in my throat began to form. The seats were springy and the black vinyl was warm in the naturally air cooled car. I started taking note of the general direction we were headed and making mental notes of the car's description. We had about a 1/4 tank of gas; good, he couldn't drive us too far if he had ill intentions. Wait a second, didn't he just pull out of a gas station? Maybe he didn't intend to take us very far. His inky black hair had specks of gray and his mustache was bushy and tapered down to the edge of his lips.

Then, silence. Silence has to be the worst form of torture when your nervous or on edge. Think of the sound of your front door opening at 2am in the morning. Then, think of hearing nothing more as you listen with everything you've got. Wouldn't it be more comforting to hear someone say, "Hello there, I'm sure you just heard the front door open, please don't get up as I'm going to rob you." You could respond with, "Thanks, I'll stay right here and you take what you want." At least everyone is on terms. When you hear the front door "just" open followed by a pure silence, you start coming up with scenarios. My mind was racing at this point, and the "silence" endured.

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The Arabic music played in the background. I tried to tell if the car was a legit taxi. He had a box of tissues in the rear window. The seats seemed moderately worn. We knew the airport was well outside the city, but we didn't know exactly how far. I watched for road signs and indications that we were headed towards a major metropolitan area. We passed houses with blankets for walls and saw kids playing make-shift soccer in dirt fields. One gentleman in a suit rode an older ten-speed style road bike; he was in his 60's and carried a cane.
Buildings soon grew larger and we were definitely entering a city. At this point my nerves finally eased and I figured heck, if the worst is coming, then I mise well enjoy my last few minutes in the back of a taxi. Dani smiled at me and I gave a true, honest smile back. I was happy to be next to her and glad to be in Morocco. Well, kind of glad to be in Morocco. We finally pulled up to the hotel and I was so glad to see it that I paid and gave the driver a tip (mostly because we were alive), and we proceeded to our room. *Dear taxi driver: sorry for not trusting you (if you happen to be reading this), I think you're nice and all, but I was just a little worried for a while; maybe you'll understand now. Maybe next time we can talk a little more.