16. Surviving Intrepid Travel.
The bus from Palamós to the Barcelona airport took a couple of hours or so, stopping occasionally to pick up and drop off passengers.
 |
| Finding My Footsteps |
The driver was a lady in her 60’s and she was a very grumpy woman and an impatient bus driver who spent more time honking the horn than holding the steering wheel.
She approached corners with absolute vigour, only hitting the brakes to avoid collisions before jumping on the accelerator with all her weight to pass any vehicle in her way.
Perhaps it was because the bus was late leaving and then faced heavy peak hour traffic on the main road into the city.
Once in downtown Barcelona, we drove past the still incomplete Sagrada Famìlia, an impressive church I last saw in 1990 when on a Contini holiday.
We were eventually dropped off at the airport and as I stood in a long slow line to drop off my pack and get processed for the Casablanca flight, I couldn’t quite move the travel-sickness from my belly.
 |
| Doodling |
Time passed and when I noticed people getting up and lining at the gate, I packed up to join them. When I looked up at the screen above the check-in desk I saw the destination was not Casablanca.
At the same time another gentleman next to me had noticed the same thing and he asked another man in Arabic… Casablanca? No, back up there, the man motioned.
What? Where? I looked at the time. Dang. The plane was scheduled to leave at 7:40pm and it was 7:36pm.
Oh no! I must have missed the flight, I thought, as I started running with the man in the direction that had been pointed.
We went around the corner and saw the last customer leave a gate with Casablanca on the screen above. Oh what? Please let us on!!!
The man got there just before me and thankfully we both got scanned through. The attendant told me they changed the gates last minute. I wouldn’t have understood any of the non-English notifications over the loud speaker, just saying.
As I entered the front of the plane I saw it was full to the brim with dark Moroccan faces looking back at me. The air was thick with body odour and every seat filled, except for my one at the back of the plane.
I may have been the only pale-skinned person onboard this Royal Air Marok flight and once again I felt a tinge of unease with the foreignness of it all.
I settled into the middle seat between two big men and accepted comfort was not going to be part of this flying experience.
Thankfully the flight was around three hours and only towards the end did my knees start jiggling with the discomfort of not moving for so long.
Once the flight took off, I relaxed back into my seat and thought about the weight of my pack. When checking it in, it was only 13.7kg and I wondered how it dropped so quickly.
Later I would discover I had left behind my eye makeup and brand new shampoo and conditioner bottles at the hotel in Palamòs.
As the sun drifted towards the horizontal, a pretty orange haze developed across the sky and I felt my body relax a little. I was tired after the long day of travel and those long airport lines.
 |
| I Love You, Kitty! |
My thoughts went back to my pack and I wondered what the ultimate pack weight should be. Maybe 10kg would be best. Whatever was I thinking leaving with a heavy pack weighing 20kg! Honestly.
The plane arrived in Casablanca at 10:30pm and it took over an hour or more to clear customs and get my pack.
Instantly I realised I’d need some local data when my Europe-based eSIM didn’t work. I used the free airport wifi to download a new eSIM for Morocco.
I got my pack after going through immigration and walked outside into a chaotic scene with people lining both sides of the entrance calling out to all and sundry.
I was no sooner out and men were approaching me asking if I wanted a taxi. I was looking for a sign with my name on it, as I had at least pre-booked that.
Well I thought I had. Turned out I had booked the taxi for when I left Casablanca but not when I arrived.
To make matters worse, my new eSIM wouldn’t work and the free airport wifi wouldn’t download anything now that I was outside.
A man kept pestering me for a taxi but I needed to find out where my accommodation was first. Another man came up to me and said that man is a thief. Then another said the second man is a thief too.
Shssss…. Can you all leave me alone to concentrate? I can’t think with all of this going on.
I found the official taxi office and asked if they would call the Hotel Campanile as per my itinerary on Google Sheets. I realised then and there that I hadn’t added an address for it on my Itinerary.
I couldn’t access the G-Adventures app without data, and with all the panic, confusion and interruptions from those men… I was becoming overwhelmed.
Incredible they found it for me and handed me the phone and I heard the man say hello. I gave him my name.
No, you aren’t booked here, he told me.
But I must be. It’s where my tour starts.
How do you spell your name?
K R I S…
S?
S, for Sally.
No… you aren’t here, he said, before he hung up on me.
I looked at my watch. It was midnight and I could tell the airport was emptying out.
I had to weigh up my options.
I could get a taxi to the hotel and risk being dropped off at the wrong hotel and end up wandering alone in a city with roaming wild dogs or worse… (I was really tired by this stage) or I could book and pay for a central hotel with proper wifi and sort this mess out from there.
I chose the latter.
The very helpful men in the office recommended a central hotel for me and I paid $50 or 300 DAM for a taxi to take me to the IBIS hotel.
In the quiet of the back seat as the taxi driver drove me the 30-40 minutes into the city of Casablanca, I managed to get my eSIM working.
Once dropped off at the Ibis, I was relieved that reception was still being manned and there was a room available.
Once I found my room on the 8th floor, I set my pack down and searched for some much needed water. Usually there was a bottle of water for guests but in this hotel, there wasn’t any.
I was so tired and so thirsty, I risked it and drank from the bathroom taps in the glass provided.
It was now after 1am and I knew the tour group had offices in Australia. With wifi working, I rang a friend in New Zealand, thank goodness for the 14 hour time difference.
I asked if he could contact G Adventures in Australia for me to check the hotel details. He came back to me saying I had the correct hotel.
What? Why was I told I had no booking there?
I went back down to the ground floor and asked the receptionist to call the hotel. I didn’t care about the time… I was angry by the stage. Angry and really tired!
I got the same man.
Now listen to me, I said, slowly but sternly. My name is there! I am booked to leave tomorrow morning. No, I can’t go there now. It’s late and I’m at another hotel now because you told me I’m not booked there. Please-just-find-my-name!
Yes. K R I S. S! No, not F. I not Y. Wtf!!! R… R for rabies I told him. It was the only word I could think of after seeing roaming stray dogs recently.
Oh…. I see you. KRIS, yes?
Oh boy! Yes, finally. What time do I need to be there in the morning?
Oh… early, he said, happy with himself. Be here at 6:30am, he shouted down the phone.
Okay, I replied, before hanging up.
I went back to my room that I had just paid 600 DAM for… $100 or so. It was now well after 2am and I desperately needed some decent sleep. I took a half sleeping pill and crawled into bed, utterly exhausted.
Fortunately I had set an alarm and at 5:45am it woke me up from a deep sleep. I had a quick shower, got dressed and swung my pack on to my back and strapped it in.
Using GPS, I walked the 1.7km to my hotel and walked in. I spotted a young backpacker standing near reception.
Are you with G Adventures, I asked?
Yes…are you Kris?
Yes.
Oh…. We were meant to share a room last night, she said. I wondered when you’d turn up.
Yeah, it’s a long story, I told her.
I turned to the reception desk and on the counter was a list of the group leaving that day. At the very top of the list of names was my name! K R I S !
Apparently, there were just the security guys on reception that night and obviously they knew NOTHING, let alone limited ENGLISH!
Part of the slip up was mine, I had to admit. I forgot to enter the address of the hotel onto my itinerary. I made a mental note to go through the rest of my itinerary and check all addresses!
I quickly met the rest of my group - 13 of us in total, a couple of Aussies, Brits, Americans and a Canadian, plus the local tour leader.
I was able to enjoy the free breakfast at least before we all left the building and climbed into a waiting minivan with a driver.
As we drove along, I felt increasingly unwell. I knew I was exhausted, dehydrated, and suffered car sickness… but what worried me was that tap water I drank the previous night.
I had asked one of the people in the group what I missed in the briefing the previous day and they said, firstly, don’t drink the tap water.
Oh. Dang.
 |
| Two Seas Meet |
We pulled up to a tourist spot where below us the Atlantic and Mediterranean seas met. I couldn’t stay for long - I needed the loo. Yep, diarrhoea and I really wanted to vomit too. Not good!
I had filled my water bottle at the hotel with filtered water and drank heavily from it. Sweat beaded on my forehead and gas burped from my mouth… the kind of burps you have before you vomit.
I heard the tour guide call out to get back in the van. Oh no.
We travelled on for a couple more hours and stopped at the port city, Tangier. Another toilet stop and I used all the toilet paper!
Next we had a two hour walking tour with a local city guide, and all I could think of was don’t shit yourself!
Soon I needed another toilet stop, and there was no toilet paper! I searched in my bag for tissues. Oh thank goodness.
I followed the tour guide with the group but couldn’t concentrate on anything he said because my entire focus was on containing the internal pressures that desperately wanted to escape out of any orifice.
Yet another toilet stop and by now the others in the group were asking if I was okay. No, I am not!
 |
| Funny City Tour Guide |
We went into the fortified part of the city, down some skinny paths with buildings either side, walls almost touching, and I only looked up when the guide was showing a photo of him and Matt Damon on his phone.
The film Bourne Identity… you know it? Yes? He was here, filming. I was here too! Look. This is us together!
 |
| Too Sick to Listen |
I drank the last of my water as sweat dripped down my face.
Kris? I heard.
Yes… I replied, weakly.
It was our tour guide. His name was Nour… rhymes with tour.
Are you okay? He asked me, looking into my eyes.
Oh… I am sick. I told him.
You are the only one booked to climb the mountain. Only you…
A mountain? I can’t even walk up the step of the mini bus. What mountain? I asked him.
You booked and paid for an excision, to climb Rif Valley Mountain, at Chefchaouen!
When?
Tomorrow. Morning. Can you still do it?
I don’t think so. I’m sick.
I don’t think you can get a refund, he said.
Oh…. Ask me again tonight. Maybe I’ll feel better, I told him.
The group continued from the Kasbar, grand souk and petit souk into the old Medina, the food market… where the acrid smell of fish, dog and people threatened to unleash the last of the contents in my stomach and bowels.
 |
| Still Not Listening |
The final toilet stop of the tour left nothing behind. I had been completely emptied. I later bought a 2 litre bottle of water and started drinking heavily.
Sweat continued to pour from my body and I felt my damp clothes cling to me like plastic wrap.
This was going to be a long day but already I was thinking about that mountain walk the following day. Could I do it?
Whilst I couldn’t concentrate on what the tour leader was saying, I did notice the street cats and somehow they sensed my suffering.
 |
| Cats Listen to Me |
Unlike the cats in Europe, these cats approached me for a pat. Some were in horrible states with swollen and diseased thin bodies, no doubt covered in fleas and worse, but I still patted them. Every living thing responds to love.
I hated seeing their suffering but loved their survival instincts in the face of real adversity. I thought of my time up on the Milford track and those beech trees along a dried up river bed, their roots firmly rooted over and around the rocks. Some trees had fallen and died and surely the other trees knew they would too… but that didn’t stop them from holding on with all they had through the next inevitable flash flood.
 |
| Life = Struggle |
I too would persevere through this temporary and very inconvenient illness, it was nothing compared to the suffering of the street cats, and those beech trees.
The tour eventually ended and we got back in the mini van and drove for a few more hours. It was after 7pm when we finally reached the mountain village of Chefchaouen and our accommodation for the next two nights.
 |
| Chefchaouen |
I told the tour guide I would do the walk the following morning because that is what this life is all about. Struggle and perseverance, and hopefully some growth.
Are you sure? he asked.
Is it worth it, I asked back?
Yes, it is.
Okay then. I’ll do it.
Comments
Post a Comment