the guy at the hostel was like: “do you want to make a real moroccan experience? then get a taxi.” of course I wanted. imagine:
one taxi (built ca. 1971).
6 men (same year i guess).
my recommendation to you: if you ever go to morocco, take a taxi and reserve only one place. this means namely that you will share the coast of the ride with 6 other people. but of course not only the coast, also the car! 🙂
so i booked a taxi from tanger to asilah (a beautiful, calm city), which is about 40 km driving distance. the price was not even 2 euros. after this 30 min ride i couldn’t feel my arm and neither my leg.
it was about 30degrees in the car, the driver loved arabian music and practiced his sing skills loudly. the men had to discuss some very important things (no i didn’t understand, but it looked like they were talking about saving the world or similar) and because of the driving superstar they had to talk a little bit louder than normal.
sometimes they were looking at me and saying something in arabic-french, which i didn’t understand. they were really friendly and amused that a foreign woman was sitting in a car with them. it was so funny and i was amused about the whole situation.
but you know, there was also a very scary affair.
the side door.
yes, you read right. this was the most scarring thing in this car. as the men were real gentlemen, they offered me the place next to the door, so i hadn’t to be jammed between them. but this wouldn’t be that dangerous than sitting outside!
as you can read above, we are talking about an old car. I guess that somebody didn’t use it anymore and gave it for free to the scrap metal, maybe 20 years ago :p
so the door didn’t close that well and the taxi driver tried to close it several times. but it opened itself again and again. during his door-closing-efforts he saw how i was looking at him and maybe the colour of my face also changed, because he tried to calm me down:
“don’t worry stephania, this is normal. you just have to hold yourself at the seat.”
luckily he had some good humour and it was just a joke. he arrived to close the door and we started our journey. until today, i always thought that portuguese and italian have the wildest driving style (it was my personal experience) but now i know it better..
maybe you understand that i was not really relaxed. i hold myself at the seat like crazy and was lucky to arrive in asilah – where i had to step out at the other side of the car, because the door didn’t open anymore.