Casablanca To Essaouira

We woke up in Casablanca tired and warm. Though the damage was done, I tracked and crushed three blood-filled mosquitos--Elena's blood must be avenged! We went out for a nice coffee and made out plans about how to handle the day. We made one more trip to the internet cafe and Elena looked at stuff about Essaouira while I just tinkered around a bit.

Then we headed to the hotel to check out. A cab took us on a very harrowing ride with several close calls. The taxis here leave no margin for error. None at all. I've almost been hit a few times trying to cross the street. And just as you might expect, there are many many one legged people running around (I guess I shouldn't say "running"). I've never seen so many one legged people as in Casablanca. I suppose they could have been injured in various ways, including maybe even the 2003 bombings or from stepping on mines in the conflict with Western Sahara separatists. But I can't help but think they mostly got their feet run over in traffic accidents. Anyway, the cab got us there for only about 17 dh.

I knew Elena didn't like the look of the station. The CTM station was almost attached to the Sheraton, but this was a chaotic station. Already, French had become a language not used--and barely usable. A guy carried my bag. The ticket vendors aren't behind a window, but out circulating in the crowd with little books containing pink sheets all stapled together. They write out a ticket for you and mark the price (70 dh each). You pay the guy. Then all you get is a pink slip of paper that doesn't seem to have enough information to be a ticket. But it is. We found our bus. It would be a little over an hour. It leaves at noon and it was 10:50 am or so. I waited in our seats on the bus while Elena waited outside.

While waiting, dozens of people come onto the buses one or two at a time and sell everything from cold beverages to gum, to music tapes, to sunglasses, booklets, candy, sandwiches with fries, and pastries. Actually that list just might be exhaustive. I bought some gum from a guy for 1 dh.

Elena got some water from a store inside. While she was getting water, the bus moved. I hoped she wouldn't panic, but she probably didn't even notice it was in the neighboring place when she got back. A couple of guys who were managing the luggage asked me for 5 dh. I asked why. He said to watch it. It sounded vaguely like something between a threat and a joke. So I gave him 10 dh. Only a Euro. It made him happy. And kept my luggage safe.

It was hot, no doubt about it. The bus had little prospect of air conditioning. It was starting to fill up. Finally right around noon, it got full. Elena came on next to me. We were the only non-Moroccans on the bus. I told Elena she should be happy because I was showing her something most tourists don't get to see, but she prefered to look at the empty half of the glass. ;-) It had 2 TV monitors showing which Arabic songs were playing. They were ong songs--about 40 minutes to an hour each. 002.mp3 was 55:00 minutes, for example. The AC was in fact a modified version of the famous WD-55 AC (that's Windows Down 55 mph for the unknowing)--WU40 (Windows Up 40 mph). Not so good. There was a slight bit of circulation. But not much.

After about an hour, the bus stopped on the side of the road and the driver and his assistant went out and got something out of the compartment outside. They appeared to be fixing something. They came back and got a length of wire and went back. When they finished, the driver's hands were covered in something black--like he dipped them in oil. People seemed confused. Finally the driver came back on and we started out again. Elena and I certainly didn't want to get stuck in a bus in the desert. We were worried.

The bus went through all sort of little villages. Most of them had someone wanting to unload. Sometimes someone came on and the assistant to the driver wrote up a pink ticket. About half way through, we stopped at a rest stop. It was nice to get some fresh air. A few beggars asked for money, but I didn't give any. Elena gave a little girl some bread. Some people ate and then we headed on.

Again, more stops in little villages. I shouldn't really call them stops. The bus driver doesn't really ever apply the brakes. The bus is always moving a little--sort of like on many gondola systems. He starts to accelerate while his assistant is still outside, then the assistant runs to the door and gets on just in the nick of time.

Six hours after our "Adios, Casablanca!", we finally got to Essaouira. The bus was flooded with people trying to drum up business for their riads and apartments--much like in Mykonos.