Daily Photo: small shop.

My Favorite Things.

Okay, so we travel hard and cheap and that’s really what our problem is. I mean, that’s why we’re always suffering, that’s why we have moldy rooms, lumpy pillows, smelly bathrooms in our hotels, That’s why we don’t eat enough, and that’s why we suffer the humiliation of late night bus transportation and sleeping in bus stations, in city parks, and on curbs. Being cheap is why we take overnight transport – we don’t have to pay for a hotel and we move to a new location all in one – double savings. Trying to get things for nothing is why we can’t find lodging when we need it, why we walk a dozen miles in the night to reach a little town or why we carry backpacks instead of nice wheely luggage.

And so, because we’re cheap and find ourselves in a multitude of uncomfortable situations all the time, there is one item in my pack that is worth ten times it’s weight in gold on this trip: my tiny stuffable pillow. It rolls up into a package the size of a parka and fits in my carry bag without a problem. It fluffs up pretty quickly and has two sides, a fuzzy one for when I want things to be warm, and a smooth side for the heat. I have used it every single day for something, so far it’s been more comfortable and less smelly than every single pillow I’ve been offered in a hotel. Plus I’ve used it on planes, trains and buses and in the park, laying on the grass. I will never leave home without my little pillow ever, ever, again.

Daily Photo: lost in China Jail

 

Okay, the final, final leg.

But we didn’t make it. As we sat in the station waiting – eating our sandwiches and drinking our beer – our bus left without us. We’d set our clocks incorrectly and missed it. It almost made me cry. Instead, at 10 pm we were forced to find a room and settle in. We were grumpy.

This morning we got our bus to Seville. Seville is the most beautiful city I’ve never set foot in that I know of and have seen. The buildings, churches, museums, and neighborhoods we drove past – on the bus – were magnificent. Colorful, detailed and adorned with sculpture, the roundabouts sport large statues and everywhere are leafy green parks, lazy rivers, and cafes. We stared out the windows and Michael said two things,

1. “Why can’t we ever get stuck in towns like this?” And it’s true, these past few days we’ve stayed in smelly, dirty, nasty cities with little to do but wait on park benches, bus station curbs, or moldy hotel rooms. Why doesn’t Seville ever happen to us?

He then said, 2. “We have to put this on our list of places to go when we have money.” I agreed, whole-heartedly. It may be a long list, and it’s always growing, and we may never actually live up to the requirement that dictates the list, but at least we have aspirations.

We made our connection with only a few minutes to spare in Seville. Michael bought us another sandwich to share at the station and I stood there, trying to get on the bus and wave to Michael to hurry him along at the same time. I was desperate not to miss this bus.  In five hours we were in the airport in Lisbon doing what I’d dreamed about these last three days on buses and trains: getting a rental car.

Daily Photo: Alex.

Daily Photo: backgammon.

The final leg.

We backtracked from Casablanca to Sidi Kacem where we got the connection to Tangier. We’re tired: just as we were when we arrived here in Morocco, we’re dragging ourselves through a broken fog of exhaustion.  From the train station we manage to get a cab through the grey concrete city to the port where we scramble to get cash, tickets, and make it on the ferry to Algeciras on time. I pee for the first time in 24 hours. It is dark enough to be whiskey.

At the port in Algeciras, Spain, we walk over to the bus station and get tickets for an overnighter – our fourth in six days – to Lisbon. Michael buys us sandwiches and beer; since being at the camp in the Sahara two days ago this is my first meal. I am looking forward to Portugal and having a rental car now as if it is winning the lotto. I’m feeling tired and desperate. I want the public transportation part of the trip to end, it has been one mistake and one missed connection after another and I’m exhausted. Tomorrow morning, Insha’Alla, we’ll be getting a rental and spending the next 20 days in Portugal. I don’t think I have to mention that I’m looking forward to it.

Daily Photo: after the nightly prayer.

An unknown guest.

Our night bus had arrived in Rissani just when we got there. We piled Matt and Alex’s bags on the corner where the taxis come and we loaded our bags on the bus. It was horrible to leave them that way; sick and alone along the edge of the Sahara. We agreed to check our phones each day at 10am and 8pm for text messages. We hugged and got on the bus. By the time the bus got out and around the corner and off into the night, Matt and Alex were gone. We hoped they had made it into a cab and off to Er- Rashida.

Our bus was full and noisy. There was a loud, constant chatter in Arabic. Phones rang and just as people all over the world do, their voices raised another octave once talking on them. The devout Muslim bus driver played prayer music all night excruciatingly loudly over the bus sound system. The singer, a man, intoned each sentence with flourish, paused and started another sentence. The noise was overwhelming and was punctuated with horn honking as the bus warned each car, cart and donkey that the road behemoth was passing them. It took hours to fall asleep.

Finally in Mekenes, we got directly on to a train for Tangier and fell asleep in a small compartment. Another man spread out on the bench seat opposite us while Michael and I shared the second bench.

We were woken by a group of boys, calling into the compartment. We couldn’t figure out why. One boy grabbed my water bottle off the floor and called out again, not even looking at me. I reached out and took the bottle from him and looked at him curiously. What was going on?

Soon Michael felt something kick his bag; his camera bag which was on the floor, but strapped to his knee. He always has his camera bag touching him in some way, especially as he sleeps. So Michael reached under his seat. He touched a head. A head with sweaty hair.

A man lay there, stretched under the bench seat, among the candy wrappers and the chewed gum. We moved the bags we had on the floor and he slid out without a word. He joined his friends and they all ran down the hall together. Before the train stopped, they jumped off and we saw them run away from the train and jump a fence.

A stowaway. We couldn’t believe it. The kid must have ridden all night under us. We soon fell back asleep to wake at the tap of the train official. He looked at our tickets and frowned. We were, he said, on the wrong train. This train was going to Marrakesh, not Tangier. We missed our connection four hours ago, deep in the night.

Dail Photo: At the fountain.