Have you ever wondered where old Mercedes go to die? Me too and now I know—they go to Morocco, but not to die. They have a second life as grand taxis, the main method of transportation between towns. Since few Moroccans own cars, most rely on public transportation, mainly buses that only run once or twice a day, vans often carrying twice their capacity, and grand taxis. The grand taxis carry six passengers plus the driver, and will wait to go until they are full.
When we want to go somewhere, we go to the parking lot that serves as the taxi stand, find the one going to where we want to go, and wait. Sometimes we’re lucky and only wait for a few minutes, and sometimes we just buy an extra seat so we can get going. A seat from here to Fez costs the equivalent of $3 so it won’t break the bank, but we don’t want to act like rich foreigners. Moroccans rarely buy an extra seat, no matter how big they are. Four adult passengers in the back seat make close quarters, especially on a hot sweaty summer day. Moroccans also seem to have a proclivity for motion sickness so there’s that to attend to on occasion. The drivers have more hand signals than a baseball manager, and they can mean anything from a friendly greeting to “what the *&$%!” They are generally good drivers and also some of the most helpful and reliable people we have met.
The grand taxi lot in Fes is a chaotic mess of drivers shouting out the names of their destination or at each other, milling passengers carrying all sorts of baggage, children selling gum, Kleenex or chocolate bars, vendor carts selling oranges and bananas, bread, and sweets, and makeshift cafes. Taxis are parked every which way with vehicles regularly arriving and exiting, always accompanied with honking. Occasionally fights break out. There’s a small shelter where passengers huddle in the rain or try to avoid the harsh sun, but generally everyone is at the mercy of the elements. Our first stop here on the way to REK was wondrous and terrifying. There is an unseen order to this chaos though in the form of men who direct the flow of passengers and vehicles. They know us now, and as soon as we arrive at the lot, the head multaxi starts shouting “Ahermoumou” (the Berber name of REK), hands are shaken, money changes hands, and we are directed to a vehicle within minutes. And then we wait of course to continue our journey home.
The main roads are generally paved and in good condition, but the road to our village is of a lower standard. It’s paved, but there is really only one wide lane of traffic—but not wide enough for two vehicles. I used to think the pavement had eroded at the edges, but it seems more likely that the road was only paved down the middle in the first place. So driving between our village and the main road is basically a half hour of playing chicken with the oncoming traffic. This is especially fun when meeting a truck overloaded with butagaz cans. I always hope OUR driver will be the first to veer off the pavement and swerve through the gravel or mud until we can bounce back on the road. Taxi drivers will usually yield, but once, passing through El Menzel, we came to a head-to-head standstill with a large truck while the drivers shouted at each other.
In a recent taxi ride, we stopped along the road for no apparent reason. A nicely dressed young man got out, climbed on a waiting donkey tied to a tree and road off over the hill—probably to one of the olive farms which stretch for miles.
Although we manage to get around the country in taxis, I look forward to the fast-approaching day when I can get in a car and drive where I want to go when I want to go.
