LATE NIGHT TAXI TOUR OF RABAT MOROCCO
Apr 04 '02 (Updated May 09 '05)
The Bottom Line See the first comment.
I followed the directions of the Brits I'd met in the lobby bar of the Hotel Chellah and soon found myself in the lobby bar of the Hotel Balima which my guide book said stayed open late most nights. The good news it was full of locals who welcomed me to come over and join them. The bad news was the bar was just in the process of closing. The other good news they were all heading to another party and invited me to join them.
We all trooped outside and jammed ourselves into a petit taxi, which it turned out one of the party crowd was the operator/owner of. I presumed that we were heading to a night club or an after hours joint, but we were soon speeding towards the river and the outskirts of the city. Possible travel tip, do not get into a car full of strangers you've just met in the middle of the night in some seedy North African bar.
I asked where we going, fully expecting that the answer would be out into the dessert and for me it would be a one way trip. "Sele" someone replied, and then added that the party was in some residential neighbourhood in that town across the river from the capital.
My guide book had told me that it was illegal for petit taxis to operate between cities, that privilege being reserved for grand taxis only. I guess someone forgot to tell our driver that. Just before we reached the bridge he pulled off to the side of the road. That he did it in a unmarked unlit little lane way really wasn't helping my rather addled thought process by the way.
He jumped out and quickly removed the illuminated taxi sign, which was held into place by a couple of bungy cords, and stored it in the trunk. Now we were just another beat up old Renault. A few minutes later we rolled over the bridge, up the hill and into Sele. Shortly after that we pulled up to a collection of dark and seedy apartment buildings that just screamed low income housing units in any language or hemisphere. This was where the party was.
The party by the way consisted of lots of Berbers, young and old staring at me, while music blared from a boom box in the corner. There was of course nothing to drink aside from water and tea. It seemed everyone was under the impression that I as both a foreigner and non Muslim should be the one to provide the booze. Of course no one had mentioned that before we got into the cab.
Things got even more awkward when one of the ladies began to imply through a mixture of Berber, Arabic, and pidgin French and English that I might be interested in going into the other room with her. She reinforced this with rather universal and explicit sign language. She also implied that of course there would be a financial transaction involved.
I was not really interested in taking her up on her rather generous invitation for several reasons. First and foremost, I was trying and so far succeeding in staying faithful to my girlfriend in Canada. Secondly, while Morocco does have some very beautiful women, lets just say that the lady in question wouldn't be wearing the sash for Miss Morocco in any international beauty contests in the foreseeable future. Finally I really don't consider that particular activity a spectator sport, and it was a rather small two room apartment with thin walls.
Besides I had no money on me. I'd tried to use an ATM earlier in the night and the system had been down. I had a couple of Dirhans on me and about $20.00 US secreted inside my sock.
So we went back to the staring game again. Of course now we added a lot of smiling and head nodding just to break the monotony.
After about another half hour of this I decided it was time to leave. I smiled, nodded, stood up, stretched, and quickly dived out the apartment door and down the stairs. A couple of seconds later I was on the street.
Now of course there was one other problem. The taxi driver that had brought me here had promptly drove off after dropping us all of. Not so promptly as to get me to shell out for the fare of course while the other passengers stood sheepishly around giving the universal hand gesture for "I haven't got any money." Come to think of it I wasn't even too sure exactly where here was.
There were a couple of cars parked across the street. One of them was a twenty year old Mercedes with the words TAXI badly painted on it. I crossed over to it and looked in. Yup the driver, or at least someone, was passed out in the front street. Repeated banging on the window and door achieved the desired effect, the driver woke up with a start.
"Taxi?" I yelled through the window. After he seemed to get over the shock of waking up and discovering some poor dumb tourist standing in front of his cab, he nodded yes. I jumped into the taxi and yelled out "Rabat." I got another nod and away we went.
Now the fun really began. It seemed that my driver didn't speak any French. Obviously English was out of the question and to be honest I don't think he was too up on his Arabic or Berber. Once we crossed over the bridge he looked at me and shrugged as if to say where to now.
The Hotel Chellah had little coasters with maps on them showing how to get to the hotel at the front desk. I'd grabbed one on the way out that night, but somehow had managed to misplace it. Of course my guide book with it's detailed city map was back in my room. "Chellah, Hotel Chellah" I told him and he smiled and we sped off.
The problem is that the Hotel Chellah is of course named after a famous Rabat landmark, the Chellah Necropolis an archaeological site well to the south of the city. Guess where we started heading to. Banging on the car seat failed to get his attention and have him stop the car. Banging on the back of his head did.
Desperate situations require desperate measures. I seriously considering throwing him out and driving the taxi myself. Then I realised that I had no idea where the hotel was either. I instead resorted to pantomime.
I remembered that there was a rather large Mosque near the hotel. If I could get him to drop me there, then I could find the hotel. Of course it never occurred to me that in a major city in a Muslim country that there just might be more than one Mosque.
I frantically began pantomiming praying, both Christian and Islamic interpretations in the hope that he'd get the idea. All this succeeded in doing though was to make him break out in fits of hysterical laughter. This by the way allowed me to observe that he thought little of the Moroccan dental system. On the bright side he did seem to respect and use it more than the girl back in the apartment did.
Then it hit me. There had been a railway station about a block from the Mosque. I remembered passing it earlier. If I could get to the railway station., then I could find the hotel. Frantically I began doing imitations of trains complete with sound effects.
At first all this did was get him laughing again, along with applauding my amateur theatricals. Then all of a sudden the light bulb went off. Off we sped into the night and five minutes later pulled up in front of the railway station. Not wanting to chance my luck, I jumped out and paid him off with the last of my Dirhans. Ten minutes later I was safe and sound back in my hotel room.
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