Morocco

So after an hour of dribbling self pity to Karolina in our safe Casa hotel room I had only got the gentle understanding of a loving girlfriend and not the kick in the pants I was really after. Finally we packed and headed for the train, with the adrenalin of yesterday long gone, but my worst enemy, self doubt had snuck in for the first time on the trip. Maybe I have bitten off more than I can chew, it would be nice to go home or even just hang out in Stockholm for the rest of the year. After sitting in the sun on the platform too scared to leave our perch on our backpacks in case the train left without us (not an invalid fear) it finally squeaked and ground its way into the station.

Now its 30 degrees and this thing is looking like the Piccadilly line at rush hour, Karolina and I fight our way on but there is no where else fit apart from where the two carriages join. "No problem it will clear after a few stops" it is translated to me through a Swiss couple from a German speaking Moroccan gentleman. So four hours later as we pull into Marrakech we are still sitting on our back packs trying to stop them from touching the shit and piss that has trailed from the overflowing toilet that makes us gag every time the door is opened. So even though I have spent the last 4 hours being thrown around in a tin can, that is hot, cramped and stinking, some little sadistic bone in my body loves the adventure. We watched the green coast of Casablanca turn into the red rocky foot hills of the Sahara, with random mud brick villages appearing from nowhere and the barren landscape only broken by the occasional sheep herder and his flock in the middle of no where looking for the odd stalk of grass. We arrive in Marrakech ready to see what is now in store.

The next day we hit the town with two English students, Ali and Elliot, these two doughnuts have hitch hiked from London to Morocco as part of a charity event called Link. and an American guy called Dwayne and a Spanish guy called Elfant I think. The problem was he didn’t speak English and everything had to be communicated through Ali or Elliot who spoke French with him. Dwayne was in his sixties and lived in France as a base to learn Arabic. So along with Karolina and me we formed a rag tag group to go and explore Marrakech. Marrakech's heart is the Medina. This is based around a huge square with its maze of Sauk’s running off it, drawing in many a lost tourist who then try their luck with the local salesmen. This Medina comes into its own at night when it becomes a melting pot of colour, noise, spice and action as the restaurateurs try and convince you to take a seat to dine on anything from Cous Cous tanjine, boiled sheep’s head, spicy snails, freshly squeezed orange juice or ginger tea which is claimed to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

The snake charmers play their flutes "calming" Cobras and chase you with whatever snake they can lay their hands on. Men with monkeys throw them upon you to take a photo only to refuse you that price offer of 20 dirham (2 euro) and then demand 200 dirham. There are acrobats and musicians playing traditional music and little kids, that could use a good bath, still out at midnight begging for money. Of course there are the peddlers in the markets selling everything from traditional Kaftans to the latest cross trainers.
However after 3 days of dodging taxis, dodgy sales men and horse drawn carts it was time to head north to Casa for Karolina fly home to Stockholm and for me to carry onto Spain.

Because of the strikes I had to catch the train from another station which involved a switch to get out to the airport so that I could pick up Karolina who was visiting me for six days over Easter. Due to the "cell phone in the guiness" night, I had devised a simple but full proof plan. I would meet her at the airport and then we would go to our pre booked hotel in Casa.

At the change station I walked through the under pass and caught the eye of a young Moroccan guy who I asked for directions. After he got me on the right platform we got chatting. His name was Siam and he was a student who lived locally. We talked about surfing and my trip. He asked what hotel I was staying at in town which I thought was a little strange so I made one up. He then did the usual sale of hash to which he brushed off as a way of life in Morocco when I refused. Soon enough the train arrived and conveniently he was going in the same direction as me.

He left me with his bag and whipped outside and came back with a Moroccan girl dressed in trendy European styled clothing, another clash of ideals I have noticed here. He sat there and babbled away in Arabic to this girl which didn't worry me as it meant I didn't have to make an effort coming up with conversation in easy English. All of a sudden at the next stop “old matey” jumps up and says “Dave, we have to get off here!” I protest a bit but he says that there was an announcement and that there was a problem with the train because of the strike, coming from the UK transport system. This was more than feasible, so I blindly follow until he starts leading me outside the station saying that he wants to get a coffee. I tell him that I have to get to the airport now! To which his reply is to throw his bag at me and start kicking it going on about fighting Marrakech and funnily enough forgetting all of his English. Then he starts yelling "go get the train then see if I care!"
"Bro you need to lay of the hash" was my only reply and I was quite relieved to lose this nut case and get out to the airport, where Karolina would now be waiting for me.

It took a few moments to cross the road as I had to dodge the stream of blue and red taxis racing around at break neck speed. As I step up on the curve on the other side I felt to where my wallet should be..... After a quick pat down it was nowhere to be found.

"Bastard!!!" I screamed across a busy car park full of locals going about their day in an unknown part of Casablanca. As I spun around on the spot I saw Siam’s blue shirt about 100m away across the square. Without even thinking I run out in front of the traffic which came to a screeching halt, horns blazing and Arabic being screamed out the windows. Now, without a word of a lie I covered that 100m in 10 seconds flat still wearing my Jandals (For the international community, flip flops, thongs or sandals). Siam still hadn't seen me coming as I tackle him into the middle of the road in front of another screeching taxi. This was the final straw and man I went to town on him until I was dragged off by the taxi driver that fortunately spoke excellent English and asked what was going on.
"He stole my wallet" I yelled going through his pockets..... Nothing, I panicked …oh no I have beaten a guy up for no reason. Quite a big crowd had gathered by this stage and I was starting to fear for my life, then to my amazement they turned on him and hello there was my wallet down his pants. (Yeah I did think about letting keep the wallet)

"Thank You, Merci, Shurkan" I managed to get out as I started to return to the Train Station. As I crossed the car park there was a bloke leaning on a taxi, I asked him to take me to the airport, as Karolina didn’t know where the hotel was and I didn't have a phone. He said no, I tried offering him double to which he still said no and finally I told him that guy over there just tried to pick pocket me pointing to the still rather large group of guys laying into Siam.

While sitting on the platform waiting for the airport train that ran hourly, two big Moroccan guys strolled over the tracks neglecting to use the underpasses and came right up to me. Then, the one I recognized as the taxi driver, told me that I have to come with them to the police station to sign some paper work, it turns out he was an under cover cop.
"Hang on there big fella lets see some ID please" I’m not going down twice in one day. He pulls out a pair of hand cuffs "I can buy those in the market then go round and rob tourists too champ!" I say rather cynically. Finally he digs out an ID out of his wallet and I get dragged out of the train station for the second time in a day.......... Yes it did occur to me later that I had and still have no idea what a proper Moroccan ID should look like.

As I walk through the door to the station I am confronted by Siam screaming his innocence. He even has the nerve to tell me, in his selective English, that if I get him off we can go for coffee and everything will be right.

First of all, I was a little put off by being in the same room as this guy, but after five minutes the guards gave me the thumbs up for my handy work.

We had to wait for the Captain dude to turn up so I used my spare time entertainingly.
"So Siam, you know what is going to happen to you in jail mate? two years just for trying to steal a wallet, man it sucks to be you"
"Siam you better give me double the money you stole or I will tell them you're gay mate, man the death penalty sucks dude."

“Sergeant have you searched him, …. he offered me hash"
Five minutes later, a big bloke wrapped in paper appears.
"Dude, you are having a bad day"

After an eternity the Captain turns up, Siam continued his usual routine of wailing and trying to plead his innocence. All of a sudden “smack, smack, slap,” I look up and the Captain in beating the living day lights out of him using his diary and what to you know it doesn’t leave a mark. So, the five minutes that I was told this would take on the platform, has now taken about 40 minutes and now they want to take me to the main station in town.

Despite my protest, Siam, the translator and myself where put in the back of a van and driven down to the main police station. No problem I thought, I will be able to email Karolina from there and sort this mess out. It was during this trip that I learned that the translator was not a police officer but just a local guy who used to drive taxis and had learned English while doing so; he was there off his own back helping me out. During our conversation he brought up a reoccurring theme "Why did you follow him? You can't trust anyone, this is Africa man."

When we arrived at the main station I am confronted by a 5m by 8m concrete room with white peeling walls and two desks with typewriters sitting on them and a few chairs.

I explain what had happened for the 6th time and it was recorded down on the type writer using carbon paper to make it triplicate.
The Translator went to the shop and bought me a bottle of water out of his own pocket and then another guy turned up and acted as a witness. This guy I recognized from the crowd of guys that had swarmed around and he had had to make his own way down to the station just to give a statement on my behalf.

Every time someone new walked through the station Siam would scream his innocence, to which the answer was a lot of yelling in Arabic and then a couple of clips around the head. However I did notice that afterwards they would show him compassion by giving him cigarettes if he asked for them.

Finally I signed a police report totally in Arabic, (it did cross my mind that this was an elaborate scam for me pleading guilty to every unsolved crime in Morocco this century). I jumped in the front seat of the police car beside the Captain and automatically put on my seat belt. He looked at me quizzically and then said through the translator "you are in a police car no one is going to pull you over".
"That’s not the point.........." I trailed out smiling and mumbled something about going to jail in New Zealand.

Three hours later I pull into the airport train station. Even though I just want to run around and try to find Karolina I force myself to help a lady with her bags off the train just to prove that there is a sense of civility in this country. As the doors open I hear the sweetest sound ever, my name called out in a Swedish accent. As luck would have it Karolina had spotted my day bag through the window as the train pulled into the station. She was just about to go into the city and find a hotel, as it was, it took us nearly two hours to get back into the city.... cursed strikes.

Having caught the bus from Seville to Algeciras and then the Ferry to Tangier I walked down the gang plank two hours late but in high spirits only to be met by a customs officer who sent my newly acquired English mate Christian and I back onto the boat to get our entry visa. Not surprisingly, there were the four other English speakers that I had met on the crossing also waiting, not having understood the French, Spanish and Arabic instructions to get our stamps on board.

This was all a good laugh until the passengers heading back to Spain had all boarded and the doors were shut. After much confusion, being led around the boat about three times, we finally got our visa and were kicked out via the car entrance in the middle of the port and made to walk to the terminal.

From here a nice taxi driver sorted the six of us out with a ride to where we were going, this involved four in the back seat and the American student and I sharing the front seat. As we approached the police check point I turned to the driver and asked if this was okay, picturing my first night on the dark continent being in a prison cell. He simply smiled at me and said "Of course my friend this is Africa" then simply drove around the car in front which was being searched by the police, and drove straight through the check point without even a look of bother.

So, being locked out of my hostel, but sitting in a cafe drinking mint tea and chatting with the cafe owner, I learn that there is going to be transport strikes throughout the country, with no taxis or buses and only limited trains starting the next day. Having to meet Karolina in Casablanca I thought it best to get there right away.

***
I took a seat, escaping from the chaos of the crowded bus station, full of yelling people, revving engines and the smell of diesel fumes. I felt a cold damp feeling creep through my jeans. The seat was soaking wet with what I could only hope to be water. As luck would have it in this land of contrast, they actually had allocated seating, so I was promptly moved to my seat at the back of the bus. I sat next to an old man in his Caftan and two big old ladies in their traditional gab with green lines tattooed from their lower lip to their chin.

A few hours into the trip I woke up to be offered half of an orange that the lady beside me was eating, I accepted gratefully. Later on I came out of my doze and again she gave me half of her egg sandwich, which I tried to turn down but it turned out I didn’t have a choice in the matter. My new best friend then went on to offer me half of her loaf of bread which I managed to decline only for her to reply in sign language that I was much too thin in her eyes.

***
Casablanca, or Casa as it is commonly referred to, is the commercial city of Morocco. You can, in the space of minutes, be walking around the ancient Medina hassled by locals, to walking down pedestrian streets that could easily be in any major city around the world. I befriended a Canadian guy called Corey who was studying in France and spoke fluent French, a handy skill to have as French is Morocco’s second language. It had occurred to me that Corey was never keen to walk into the Medina at night and I couldn't work out why. The next morning we decided to go do a little shopping, within seconds of walking into the Medina a local guy came up to us and shook our hands (very standard stuff ) until he held me in an arm lock while he turned to shake Corey’s hand. Instinctively I broke free and kept on walking but this guy continued to follow as and kept on touching me. Corey calmly spoke French to him while I got more and more stern. Then all of a sudden he stood in front of me looking me in the eyes all the time reaching into his back pocket hissing through his teeth
"I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill you"
To which I replied in full Kiwi drawl
" Mate! you can piss off!"
After a few more unprintable expletives he went away yelling in French "I really need a cigarette"
Five minutes later while sitting at a cafe having a coffee another guy walks passed saying
"Hello how are you?"
"Good, how are you?" I replied
"F##K You, You go to hell" he yells in reply.
Corey and I giggle “nice people around here aren't they"

I just can't believe this place one minute people are so welcoming and then the next they make you want to get on the next plane home.