This is a simple tale of a taxi ride through the Moroccan countryside with an entertaining co-passenger.
When the A/C finally turned on, it smelled of stale cigarettes and aged body odor. Out of Tangier we had managed to survive with only windows down, but passing a landfill near Teoutan prompted the driver to make a change of plans.
The taxi was filled, no seat left empty on our trip to Chefchaouen, the Blue Pearl of Morocco. I sat in the back directly behind Amanda who had managed to hold on to one of the better 2nd row seats. To my right was another traveling couple. They annoyed us at first, seeming a bit too self-involved. But soon these barriers would be broken down as we found common ground with a common foe. Next, there was the amiable but quiet driver and a lady wearing copious layers of clothing and enormous sunglasses in the front passenger seat. But the truly memorable member of this ride to Chefchaouen, the life of the ride, was the man who sat next to Amanda in the 2nd row. We’ll call him “our friend”.
We pulled past a larger town, passing shorter and shorter buildings until the concrete yielded to the fields and farmland. Onward, into the foothills of the Rif, the clouds began to take shape, and appeared like a mirage of mountains hanging low on the horizon.
As we continued further and the peaks stretched upward, they pushed into the white above and the clouds draped themselves on the mountain tops like syrup on ice cream. In other places, they grazed past the peaks like cotton candy being pulled over finger tips.
It was against this lovely tour of sky and earth, our friend made his full debut.
He talked like seagulls at the beach: unceasing, loud, and to seemingly no one.
When words finally failed him -briefly- he went on his phone and found a few of his favorite songs for everyone to enjoy.
I winced at the latest, screeching tune he managed to squeeze through his treble-troubled phone speaker, and saw that the couple next to me was suffering as well.
We exchanged glances and soon smiles turned to stifled laughter.
The music droned on as the landscape continued to impress and mile after mile rushed by. Soon the annoying songs became a charming accent on our little adventure. But our friend was not finished.
Suddenly a thick, musky haze swirled around the mini van. Our friend had somehow acquired an aerosol deodorant spray from the driver and proceeded to spray himself -excessively- as the turbulence from the open windows carried the deodorant everywhere else except for on himself. We all squinted and wrinkled our noses in defense, covering our faces and eyes in an attempt to protect against the onslaught.
But luckily, our breathing continued, and the drive went on.
Then, just as I began to doze, head nodding to the beat of the road, a great yell awoke me. Our friend was having a renewed and even more animated conversation, this time, with the driver. Unfortunately this meant that our formerly attentive wheelman was taking his eyes off the road frequently to engage with his energetic passenger. This seemed to typically occur whilst passing very large trucks making very tight turns on very cliff-adjacent sections of road.
The new conversation clearly began to delve into something extremely emotional. I concluded it must be politics or soccer (it was politics). This went on for several valleys and ridges-worth of scenic road. And the fellow next to me began to translate the discussion, which proved quite interesting.
Apparently our friend had spent many years away from home (Morocco) traveling, and was quite proud of his accomplishments and destinations abroad. He spoke glowingly of Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Turkey, and much more, frequently producing photos for the driver to see. Our friend had developed many opinions on his travels, and he wanted to make sure the taxi driver was fully aware. His volume drowned out the rumble of the road and made passing trucks seem like tame hybrids. Throughout the whispers of occasional translation, the fellow next to me eluded our friend’s conversational grasp by feigning sleep when ever he turned to look back at us. I did the same.
Then. Another gas attack seemed imminent.
After passing a particularly stinky stretch of road, our friend again recovered his can of manly scent (We think it smelled of axes) and wielded it intently. We all braced ourselves for the swirl of spray… covering noses and eyes, holding breath slightly…. but he stayed his hand. It was a miracle. He had got so involved in his latest volley of words towards the driver that he momentarily seemed to forget about his need of a second dousing.
But only if we were so lucky.
He finally let loose, first with a trickle, then a torrent. It swirled about the cabin and filled our nostrils. This time he aggressively insisted that we all partake, offering the can for all to use. When none would accept, he finally offered it to the quiet women in front, who swiftly placed it in a secluded cup holder far out of his reach, as if reading all our minds.
She was a good person.
A few moments later, at an entirely nondescript stretch of un-developed road, our friend yelled and motioned to the driver. We had reached his destination. Though instead of a town or house nearby, there was simply an abundance of road-side cactus and wild agave, overflowing, untamed in a mess of brown and green as it all rambled up the hills to our left. To our right the shoulder gave way to a steep slope that spread into the valley below.
The van braked suddenly on the side of the road, sliding slightly on the gravel before coming to a stop. No sooner than we had stopped moving, our friend lept out, with no baggage of any kind -and kindly donating his body spray to the common good of the taxi- and then he walked off.
And so ended our journey with our friend. I promptly took his seat (which unfortunately carried the scent he was so desperately trying to cover up), and we pulled into Chefchaouen a few minutes later.
West Road Adventures 