The plan was to catch the 7:45 train from Casablanca to Tangier. But I ended up having so much fun at Rick's and in Casa in general that I slept through the 7:45 train... and the 9:45 train. But I did make the 11:45 train!... that had no air conditioning! And it was about 90 degrees outside (and a sight hotter in our rolling tin can). And I, as the Czech say, had a monkey on my back- which is to say I was hungover. Actually, now that I think about it I've been doing a great deal of traveling while hungover on this trip. Which says one of two things about me: (a) I'm drinking too much (ha! ridiculous right?); or (b) I've got to stop going out the night before I leave a place (this, by comparison, seems much more reasonable).
That nonsense aside, back aboard the Marrakech Express it's hot and I'm sweating bullets. Sexy. Good thing the train ride is only... oh wait, five hours?!? Balls! After sweltering for several of said hours, I went to the back of the train and hotboxed myself with 4 chain smoking Moroccans just to get a bit of a breeze. From here I witnessed an odd phenomena. See if you can tell the difference between this photograph:
And this one:
That's right, on the main line from Casa to Tangier, there is a segment that has but one rail. Suddenly my apprehension over the heat began to give way to a fear of a head-on train collision in middle-Morocco. Back aboard the main cabin, someone had mercifully shattered a window on the train to get some air circulating. No no, I'm dead serious.
After sweating out all of the prior night's Moroccan wine, I felt pretty solid when I arrived in Tangier- although suffice it to say I've sufficiently fulfilled my goal of washing up in Tangier as I was essentially riding the high crest of a wave of perspiration. Not wanting to deal with the hassle of acquiring a cab, Mike and I made our way on foot to the port area.
And no, I'm not suddenly suffering from dissociative identity disorder- I met a Canuck named Mike in our mobile sauna to Tangier. Having just arrived in Morocco he did not yet possess the immense desire to get out of Morocco. Accordingly, he was planning to bum around the country for the next several weeks. I, on the other hand, had an essential and pressing need to board the ferry with all due haste. So we said goodbye at the terminal and I was on my way.
But like anything as simple as buying a ferry ticket, boarding a boat, and setting sail, in Morocco this couldn't be accomplished without two things: a hassle and a shakedown. The shakedown came thankfully upfront when I was charged some sort of "processing fee" for the ticket even though I booked it AT the terminal. Ok, fine, that's cool, just let me on the damn boat. Then, the attempted shakedowns continued to occur at the hands of every child and adult standing along the one mile stretch to the actual port terminal who, absent anything better to do, have decided to spend their afternoons heckling the one white guy to actually walk this distance. This, in itself, makes absolutely no sense because if I had money to give you, don't you think I would have taken a cab to avoid this entire series of unpleasantries? It's to be expected in Morocco, but that doesn't prevent me from wanting to grab them by the scruff of the neck and say "where is your pride man?!?"
The hassle came as, for one, my ticket said "this is not a ticket- please exchange at the time of travel for an actual ticket." That seems like it's going to be a problem. Despite asking several people about this apparent pitfall, every Moroccan I approached kept telling me I needed to simply "get your passport stamped." I began to get the feeling my question was not being properly addressed. Having my passport stamped, however, turned out to be a whole different adventure in itself as I was continually pointed in different (and incorrect) directions. Finally, someone sent me upstairs in the terminal where I needed to have my bag scanned before hitting passport control. Only the scanner was operating on Moroccan time, which is to say it was going to be operated whenever they felt like it. So me and about 25 other people stood around with the 5 Moroccans who were supposed to be directing this circus, staring at each other with great perplexity.
Finally, someone hit the button on the machine, I scanned the bag, and then proceeded to passport control to get my stamp. At this point I, again, asked about the ticket issue and was told to go on through. I then found a guy in a neon green vest whose job it was to direct us to the proper boat. I asked him the same question and he insisted that I was in good shape and proceeded to lead me to the boat. When we were 200 meters away, he stopped me and asked for some cash (another shakedown!). I stood there looking at him incredulously. Eventually I mustered a stammer- "dude... you work here. This is your job!" He replied "yeah, but only one coffee. a few euro."
I was stunned. I finally snapped to my senses and replied "Ok, if I get on this boat and the hell out of Morocco without further problems I'll mail you enough for a coffee. But if this is the wrong boat or there is an issue with this ticket and I have to walk all the way back to the ticket office or go through security again, I will kill you with my bare hands." It appeared my message was received as he retreated at a quick march. His response, however, did not bode well for my chances of being able to board the ferry.
By the time I had made my way to the actual boat I was so done with Morocco that I was ready to swim the channel if they gave me any grief- which of course they did. The guy at the security gate says, upon examining my ticket, "you need a different ticket." Using one of my favorite tactics from my professional days, I looked him dead in the eyes and said "no, I don't." It was a bit like that scene from Star Wars The Phantom Menace when Watto explains to Qui Gon that Republic credits will not, in fact, do fine. And equally like that scene, my insistence that, no, I had the proper ticket and was boarding the boat, eventually won the day.
When I finally boarded the damn ferry, between the sauna train, the several mile hike to the port, and the debacle getting through security, I was extraordinarily parched. I walked straight up to the bar and ordered a water and was told it would be 1.50 euro. I was also informed that they didn't accept dirham or credit cards, and I decided at that exact moment, if I reached in my pocket and didn't find 1.50 euro I was just going to chug the water as quickly as I could and tell the guy at the counter that I'd return it in an hour or so when I had to pee. Thankfully I had exactly 1.60 euro on me and avoided what would have likely been an international incident.
After that, the rest of the ferry ride was more or less uneventful and as I walked out of passport control in Tarifa a gigantic wave of relief washed over me. It got even better as the hostel I was staying in had a washer and dryer so after almost 4 weeks since my last wash, I was finally able to do laundry! The next morning I had a brief walk around Tarifa where I snapped a couple shots and then boarded my bus for Gibraltar. For relaxing times, I plan to make it Gibraltar times.
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