No problems with catching the bus from Azrou, although the pronuciation of Azrou (Ah-za-ro-ou) certainly through us. We didn’t think you could get four syllables out of that spelling.
Our bus ride was an adventure worthy of Morocco. We wound our way along well-paved roads through the pine forests that opened up to ancient cedars. The cedars are squat, old looking trees that we would be hard-pressed to get three people to tree-hug holding hands. We made multiple stops along side the road when a solitary figure was standing there waiting for the bus with no town or houses in sight. We passed boys herding sheep, many people harvesting grain by hand, stands along the road selling rocks and and pottery and tons of olive trees.
The bus ride was serene, but rather hot… until… the bus hit a pot hole when it pulled to the side of the road to let a car safely pass. The huge bus window directly in front of us shattered and threw glass over five rows of the bus. We were covered from head to toe in glass, and thanked Allah that it was safety glass. The mom and kid sitting on the window seat took the next hour shaking out glass.
To give Moroccans credit, they weren’t daunted by this turn of events and had the glass mostly kicked out of the bus and everyone on their way down the road in less than 15 minutes. We had crunchy, cooler seats for the remainder of the trip. At the police blockades (we found out the road blocks are due to the government looking for some dissidents, a.k.a., terrorists from Casablanca), the police (nice looking young men) would come around and frown in puzzlement at the jagged edges of the window, then shake there heads and wave the bus onward. Could you imagine this happening in the states? We would still be there waiting for a replacement bus, and everyone would consider sueing the bus company.
The sights were spectacular as we headed south in the country. The olive orchards and wheat fields gave way to a sagebrush Utah landscape that gave way to an Arizona landscape that made us wonder if the Grand Canyon was lurking somewhere around the next bend. We passed a Berber market with open air fruit stands. It was a large market with donkeys and carts, and run down trucks parked about. Men and women were wrapped from head to toe in colorful cloth and a handful of people had the understated Islamic wraps that are the fashion. It was just a trading outpost, we didn’t see any cities or towns for miles.
We finally reached a small town and had a stop of about 15 minutes while people wandered off to get fresh orange juice and whatever else from the nearby stands for lunch. We didn’t understand the instructions from the bus driver and stuck with the 25% of travelers that stayed on the bus. This isn’t to say that entertainment doesn’t come to you. We had about three beggars come through asking for 1 dirham pieces (about 10 cents USD), one had tears going and the whole bit, each waited patiently for the other to make the full loop up and back down the aisle before making their own assault on the passengers. That eventually petered out and we considered they made about 5 dirhams each. Begging for alms is the social security system of the country. After that started gold necklace sales (don’t think he got a taker) and a boy selling a chewy peanut brittle that would make my dad proud. The peanut brittle was fantastic and we kicked ourselves that we didn’t buy a few more before the bus took off again. I don’t remember the rest of the sales going up and down the aisle, but we probably could have been completely outfitted in new clothes and jewelery by the time the bus departed.
The scenery became amazing as the red cliffs of Arizona were sliced through by the Ziz Valley. Palm trees grew by the thousands along the banks of a river, adding a stark contrast of green and red under the summer blue sky.
We arrived slightly melted in Er-Rachidia and discovered the Austrailian that we had met yesterday had booked his bus ride all the way to Rissini. He looked a bit pained when we had to part ways, since he was counting on some company for the next few days. In our melted state, we stepped of the bus into the blazing sun (we are in Sahara desert country)… and we were assaulted by three 18 year olds trying to get us to a hotel or sign us up for some tour or another. We couldn’t talk to each other to get our bearings because all three were shouting at us and wedging their bodies between us. It was the only time in Morocco that I about lost it. We couldn’t shake them and we finally had to just walk away. We lost them after we went around the corner and headed over to some shade. We didn’t stand there for more than 60 seconds without getting another crappy salesman attached to us. We shook more glass out of our clothes and headed into the bus station. At this point the only opinion we had was that we didn’t want anything to do with this town. Our personal space infringed on one more time in the bus station and I finally got the guy to give us 5 minutes to talk and then he could come back and give us his spiel. We determined Erfoud was a smaller town of 7,000 and therefore would probably be much easier to deal with than this mayhem. They guy did indeed return and informed us that there was a bus at 3pm to Erfoud, he later had his friend come over to inform us that the bus had been cancelled today. We didn’t bite and bought tickets from the ticket window anyway, sure enough, the bus arrived on time and got us away from this ‘hell hole’, as Derrell seemed to want to call it.
Erfoud was much calmer, but poor. The south of Morocco has no money and no universities. We checked into a hotel that didn’t look too bad on first glance, but then upon closer inspection was a disaster in almost every regard. A broken plastic toilet seat, no hot water (not that it really matters in this heat), no soap, no towels, no toilet paper (we already learned to travel with extra).
We got a sales pitch from just about everyone we met, and everyone told us not to trust the sales pitches from anyone else. Once we were able to drop our bags in the room, the sales onslaught didn’t seem quite as annoying, but it was still tiring. We tried to eat dinner, but had a guy riding down the street stop and smoke a chain of cigarettes at us one table over. We knew we had less than five minutes before he would start the Moroccan pastime of chatter:
“Hello!”
“(swallow) hi.”
“Where are you from?!”
“(mumble) san francisco.”
“I have a friend in .”
“(chew, chew) good.”
“Welcome!”
“(chew) uh, thanks.”
“Are you going on a camel ride? My family has a kasbah….”
We certainly were in a different world in this town. There was a dust storm while we were eating. Our silverware had come out of the kitchen with a greasy film of dust on it. The dust being okay, but the greasy film rather disturbing. Derrell’s glass had a solid crack and a stone embedded in it; mine still had the price sticker. And this was at a restaurant recommended by the Lonely Planet guide and the hotel. No wonder our digestive systems are upset.
We finally retired (after buying a few more liters of water for drinking and brushing our teeth.. and of course, more Papier Hygenique). The room was baking even with the fan blowing in cool air. I’ve never slept on a matress that radiated so much heat in a room that had 90-plus degree stone walls. We both considered it would be a miracle if we ever got rehydrated.
And so ended one exhausting and hot, yet dirty and unhygenic birthday for Derrell. I think we need to reschedule his birthday for a more pleasant day and I believe he thinks the same.
