copied from my notebook...

I am writing this sitting on a full bus, squeezed against the window by a burly overweight Moroccan man taking up part of my seat. I was the last one on the bus as I hopped on the slowly reversing bus. The guy at the bus counter had told me to run for this bus, and so I did, letting the conductor grab hold of my bag to store underneath. I can only trust that my luggage is safely stored and not left behind. As I got on and walked down the aisle of the bus, I felt all eyes on me. I was frantically searching for a spare seat. I also felt increasingly conspicuous as I walked down, the only female with her head uncovered and the foreigner on the bus. When I neared the end, it was clear there was no seat. Was I to stand for the hour journey clinging on the rack? But then a man stood up and offered his seat to me; thinking the right thing to do was to accept, I said, shokran (thank you in arabic). For the minutes I sat on his warmed seat, I felt bad that he now didnt have a seat. But alas, a seat was made for him at the front. I dont think standing up is allowed on long distance buses.

This bus is not going where I had planned. It is destined for Tetouan, while I want to go to Chefchaouen, a large village to the east of Morocco. After the limited reading I did on the ferry on Morocco, and deciding on Chaouen (shortform) as my first stop I thought to myself, yes: I have a destination to get to, I dont have to wander around Tangier aimlessly. But whatever plan I seem to make, it seems this country has other plans. Sounds like India to me. Now, I am forced to make a detour to Tetouan and catch some form of transport to Chaouen. I am groaning now. I have travelled enough today. Im told that this bus takes one hour to get to Tetouan. But I have great doubts. We have made a few stops on the road since moving.

The bus conductor just came around to sell me a bus ticket. Actually, everyone else seemed to have already gotten a ticket. Last one as I was, I had no chance to peer over someone else to see how much they paid. The conductor mutters a number but I dont understand. I shrug. He showed me a 10 dirhim coin and some other coin I forgot. I shove some coins in his hand and he gave some change. The ticket was probably around 12D. cheap. less than a quid. Im trying to breathe through my mouth now. The guy next to me smells really bad. The smell is a mixture of sweat and urine. No kidding. Nice guy, I am sure he is, but I dont know how I can last the rest of this journey. So, I turn my head the other way and watch the scenery pass by. The window is muddy streaked, in need of a good wash. I wish I can open these windows but I cant. I need a breath of fresh air. There isnt anything particularly Moroccan about the scenery. The bus is driving through rural areas, passing meadows littered with debris. What a shame. Bored of the scenery, I raise my head and look ahead. I see the drivers reflection in the rear mirror. He is looking very cheerful. The afternoon sun is shining intensely, its rays penetrating through the window. I am squinting as I write this. But I dont mind. The sun feels warm against my face. But I suddenly realize, the man next to me may not like it. So I draw the curtain with a questioning look on my face. He nods with relief. I close it. Im cut off from any sceneries and any stimulation other than a quiet conversation going on at the front of the bus. With the curtain closed, I dont feel like continuing to write.

I am glad to say with relief I have arrived in Chaouen after an extremely long day. The day started in our cave in Granada. I woke up to the warm air and smell of fried egg cooking on the stove. My mum was making breakfast. We were to pack and leave the cave by 6am, yes, very early to drive me to the train station. My train was leaving at 7.10am but we were staying in Sacromonte and it takes a million narrow windy roads to lead down to the city. Granada is a headache to drive through. Its not congested. It is just convulated. A maze of one way roads and a lack of street names put up. But once we were on Gran Via road or Camino de Ronda, we could orientate. My parents were heading to Madrid that day, a long drive for them north. I was heading south and crossing the Straits of Gibaltrar to Africa.

I boarded the train to Algericas, a very southern town where many ferries depart to Morocco. It was a four and a half hour train journey. I got there about 11.40am and walked to the pier to book my ferry ticket. A staggering 32 euros one way. Should I blame my out of date guide book? or the extortious ferry companies? both. The ferry was due to leave at 12.00 noon. I booked my ticket at 12.00. The lady at the counter said, I can make it. My guide book had told me the ferries are always delayed by at least an hour. The guide book is so far right on one thing. The journey felt longer than the promised 2 hour duration. I didnt bother checking my watch because I was confused with Moroccan time; apparently, its one hour back from Spanish time. The ferry was quite empty. I was surprised because the ferry could take on so much more people. It was huge and takes on buses and cars. I spotted a few backpackers. The rest were locals. It was obviously not peak tourist season. We arrived at the port of Tangier. The guide book had described this place has having a seedy charm and notorious for its touts and hustlers around the port who try to lure you into their taxis etc. When I left the terminal, it wasnt so bad. Only a few touts followed me.

I decided to walk out of the whole pier and find transport outside. I saw CTM terminal, recognizing that as the national bus service. To my dismay, there was only bus leaving to Chaouen and that was at noon. It was about three pm. The only alternative was to go to the other bus station which private bus companies operate from. I was trying to avoid taking a taxi after reassuring my parents I will endeavour to take buses. But petit taxis is the norm here and its what the locals frequently take. So I hailed one down. it was a cheap 6D to the bus station. When I reached the bus terminal, I was told that the next bus to Chaouen was at 5pm and it would take three hours. I didnt want to take wait. So the guy at the counter hurried me to catch the bus, which I could see reversing as he spoke, to Tetouan and then change bus there. And the account of the bus ride is as written above.

Finally arriving at Tetouan one and a half hours later, I knew it would be late before I get to Chaouen. Not wanting to take another bus which would take even longer, I sought a grand taxi which I had read in the guide book. The petit taxis are a way of getting around within a town or city. A grand taxi on the other hand, goes between towns and cities. They charge a bit more than bus but they are quicker. So, I went in search for a grand taxi. It took a petit taxi to get me to the grand taxi stand. It operates so that a taxi only departs when it is full, namely 6 people in a car; yea, squeezing four in the back. I was the first and so had to wait for four more people to turn up. It was a tiiight fit. Squished in the back between this old woman and man my arms were paralyzed for an hour or so in the ride. Not a cool way of travelling. It was quite hilarious though, because in the beginning we were struggling to fit four adults in the back. The driver was literally slamming the car door again and again until it fell into lock. The poor man sitting on that end. The journey was longer than an hour. Darkness fell a third of the way. Rain started pouring. The roads for the most part were unlit. The only light that could be relief were the cars (and that of the oncoming car).

We arrived safely and quite late. It was about half seven. It was raining in drizzles and I was without an umbrella. I didnt pack very well for this trip. I didnt even bring proper sneakers. I was so frustrated walking in the rain completely lost after stumbling out of the taxi. The map in the Rough Guides was totally useless. Save for a few roads marked, the map is not annotated. so unhelpful. And it didnt help that my french was just as useless. I had to ask for directions from people on the street. The ends of my jeans were went and muddy and the wetness was seeping through my shoes. Not comfortable. I settled for the first hotel (hostel, but they call them hotel here). I had to make sure they had hot showers because it was freezing and also hammams would be closed now...and if not, I could not be bothered to look for one. Hammams are traditional turkish style bathhouses. Basically they are hot rooms with buckets of hot and cold water. You are supposed to clean a space on the floor, lie on it and sweat out all the dirt. The hammams are of course separated by sex. Unfortunately, I only read all about this on my train ride from Granada and I had packed my bathing suit with my parents thinking I wouldnt need it. ahhh. So, its going to have to be knickers and bra. Apparently hammams are a great way to meet the Moroccan women, which is normally difficult because of the culture and the tendency for them to stay at home and entertain any friends at home as well.

Even at night, I can already see why Chaouen is such a charming place for travellers. As I was guided by this boy through alley after alley, I noticed all the houses had blue-washed walls. The boy brought me to the plaza square buzzing with music, cafes and people. I tucked in a meal as arabic pop music playing in the background.

I better go. It is late, and I want to make up early to explore this town. I hope to make my way to Fes tomorrow evening. Shall update soon.