Bus Ride to Morocco - Part 2

The bus ride

Once on the bus, we had two rows of seats on same side. Everyone else seemed to be Moroccan; mostly adults. As the driver got us under way, there were two other men in the back of the bus who were helping out. They were the conductors of the bus, helping with baggage, taking tickets and money and finding seats for passengers.

In addition, the two men had a large pile of rice bags piled in the last seats of the bus. They started redistributing the rice bags into other parts of the bus. Each bag has 5kg. so it was manageable to move around. The bags went under other seats and in overhead racks throughout the bus.

It looked like there was a negotiation with one older woman to store some of the rice under her seat. She received another gift of something – maybe peppercorns.

The trip was under way – through the rolling hills of Northern Morocco. There was a lot more green than we foreigners associate with Morocco. No sand dunes here. The country side was actually fairly lush. We were reminded of the Palouse of Washington. The only difference being the bright red poppies (just like the California red poppies in the US) scattered through green hay fields.

One obvious aspect to Morocco was the extreme poverty in many places. It was quite clear that many things we take for granted have not been developed. I pointed out to the boys in one village where I saw a young boy carrying a 5 gal container of water back up the hillside. He clearly had been into town to get water for the home.

The morning ride was quite uneventful. Our halfway point was the small town of Taza. The bus stop was in the center of town of course. Town center consisting of a small dusty square. We had left the glamour of clean cities and polished marble.

The lunch stop consisted a few food vendors at the square. Everything seemed very questionable hygienically. I braved a kebab, and everyone else stuck to the lunch food we brought with us.

We considered switching to the train for a change and because the bus seemed slow. Also it was not possible to get up and move around. We thought the train might be better for the kids. However, everyone we asked, absolutely everyone, said to avoid the train.

After a hour or so interesting things started happening. We started seeing more army people along the road. This was not necessarily out of place. In many places outside the US, you often see army personnel on patrol where you would see State Police or Sheriffs in the US.

The bus started making more stops. Apparently anyone with their hand up could board the bus to the next “stop”. The next stop was wherever anyone wanted to get off. The two conductors were still busy helping people to their seats and moving luggage around.

Then the bus stopped at one of the checkpoints. A checkpoint consisted of a jeep, a soldier and an officer. Typically the jeep and the officer were in the shade farther from the road. The soldier and the driver talked for a few moments and then the bus moved on. It was curious that few vehicles were stopping. Many cars passed us while we were stopped on the side of the road.

This same routine happened a couple of more times. We would stop, the driver and the soldier would talk, we would drive on. The officer would stay aloof behind his sunglasses.

The trip started to drag on quite a bit. We had gotten up very early and been on the bus most of the day. On top of the checkpoint stops the bus starting having mechanical problems. About every 45 minutes the engine would start running poorly. The driver would pull over and he and one of the helpers would work on the engine for a bit. They would get back in the bus and we would driver off. Whatever it was had been resolved – until it happened again.

At the next checkpoint, the soldier decides to do a bit more inspecting on the bus. He talks with the driver and then comes down the aisle, looking over the bus. I was a little nervous because of the rifle, but he completely ignores us. The only foreigners on the bus with 2 blonde headed kids.

Our curiosity is starting to get the better of us at this point. Next to me, across the aisle, is a friendly man who speaks a little English. He is a doctor in Fez, our destination. We try to get an understanding of what is going on, but don’t get much of an explanation.

After another ½ hour there is another checkpoint. This time the officer talks with the driver. The officer goes behind the driver seat and finds some of the rice bags. He gets really hot and starts throwing the rice off the bus through the front door onto the side of the road. It gets very heated very quickly. The driver is pretty much dragged off the bus and there is quite a tirade from the officer. I’m sitting on the right side of the bus. There is a dump truck next to us which is half full of rice. Evidently we are not the first bus to come by with some rice on it.

The officer and the soldier come back a few more rows and find a couple more bags of rice which they take and throw out the front door also. The officer goes back to the side of the road with the driver and gives him another earful of his thoughts. The driver doesn’t say much and is looking scared. I’m thinking that he is going to get arrested and we will be stranded without a driver.

Finally the driver is released, gets back on the bus very quietly and we go on. Everyone on the bus is very quiet as if things could have been worse. Everyone seems relieved that we are on our way again.

Next one of the conductors comes forward in the bus and approaches the old woman who received the “gift”. You don’t have to understand Arabic to watch the conversation.

The conductor takes back the gift and tells the woman that since the rice was taken he has to take back the gift. The woman tells him he’s crazy. It’s not her fault that the rice as taken. She did her part, she kept the rice under her seat and she keeps the gift. The conductor grabs the gift and takes it away. The woman is very angry and grabs the conductor’s sweater. She tells him what a cretin he is, how he has lied to her and not kept his part of the bargain.

The conductor gets very angry also, he is almost at the point of striking this frail, but proud, grandmother. Several passengers get involved and pull the woman off the conductor. At the same time, the 2^nd conductor tells his co-worker to cool down and not make such a fuss over it. Some of the rice has been taken, most of it is still on the bus.

I ask the doctor next to me about the rice. He professes not to know, but I think he is embarrassed for his countrymen’s behavior. I don’t get an answer from him on why all the fuss over the rice. I can only guess that somehow it has been imported from Spain illegally.

The trip continues on with the sputtering bus. We continue to stop, hear them fiddle with the engine, and then continue on with the engine running well for a short while.

Next stop, another checkpoint. This time the routine is different. This time the soldier comes on the bus and ignores everyone else on the bus. He comes straight to me, points to me and says “passport”. He walks back down the aisle to the front door as I grab my backpack and follow. What surprises me most are all the previous stops where we were totally ignored.

As I’m walking down the aisle of the bus, I’m not really scared. I’m realizing that I don’t know the first thing about the physical mechanics of giving him the money. I know that somehow I’m going to give him some money, I just don’t know how. A couple of ideas come to mind. Do you put it inside the passport and hand it to him? Do you make an offer and see if its enough? Do you wait for him to name a price? Do you shake hands with a bill in your palm? I don’t have the faintest idea of the correct protocol.

The soldier doesn’t seem to be the typical Arab Moroccan. He is more of an overweight jovial African. His uniform doesn’t fit very well. My impression is that his brother couldn’t make it today and he’s filling in. He just doesn’t have that firm military bearing. He almost seems as uncomfortable as I am. He speaks just a few words of English, my Arabic and French are nonexistent and the Spanish no help.

He pulls out the “official book” which is a spiral notebook like you would use in high school. The way he says “official book” indicates he knows it’s all a charade. It’s been used, but all the remaining pages are blank. He takes my passport and writes down the information.

The officer is across the street, in the jeep, in the shade, behind his sunglasses. After the passport information, he asks for “father’s name” & “mother’s name”. I’m baffled by this. I can’t imagine what they need this information for. But when you’re on the side of the road, talking to a soldier with a rifle, in a foreign country, you tend not to quibble about what questions are appropriate.

Then comes the big moment. How is the money going to change hands? The shock of my life comes next. He hands me my passport, gives me a great big friendly smile and says “Have good day!”.

I’m back on the bus and we’re off down the road. I can’t believe things are like this. It seems so bizarrely funny. After we calm down from our hysterical laughter, I approach the doctor again. I’m trying to understand all the roadblocks and my questioning on the side of the road.

The best explanation is that the new King of Morocco is entertaining the new King of Jordan in our destination city of Fez. Apparently the army is out for security reasons.

We continue on the road and once again the engine begins sputtering. This time we limp into a gas station. They put some fuel in the bus and we go on with out problems. I never did understand what they did in the back of the bus to fix the engine, when it really just needed more fuel.

Finally we get in to Fez. We’re winding our way into town to the bus station. On the way there is an unscheduled stop near one the old town’s original gates. Crowds are all around in that uniquely Arab/mid-Eastern way. There’s construction work, business deals are being made, street vendors are selling their wares.

The bus is met by a small crew of laborers with wheelbarrows. They unload the rice bags under the counting of the boss. All the rice is off and some is missing. The drive and the boss have an argument.

Again you don’t have to speak Arabic to understand the conversation.

Where’s all the rice?

The Army took some.

We gave you so much rice. You are supposed to deliver it here. You have to pay for the rice you didn’t deliver.

I’m not paying for any rice. I did my job. It’s not my fault the Army took it. That’s your problem.

After a while it seemed like one of those arguments the boss was obligated to start. Everyone knew that they were not supposed to be doing this. Everyone knew that the Army was going to take some and that was just the cost of business. The driver wasn’t responsible for losing the rice, but the boss had to argue with him over it to do his job.