Morocco, day ten: Casablanca

Friday's driver was unable to collect me today so I ventured to get a taxi by myself.

The day started with breakfast, as all days should, and going up to the roof from my room I noticed there had been rain overnight and that Fès today was a little overcast. Still, this had no impact on the breakfast feast experience, which now included a yoghurt, but I thought I'd mention it in case I'm ever interrogated by meteorologists about my experience of Morocco.

I had until midday to check out and took all the time I needed, thinking that I'd get lift to the station from Friday's driver, but he texted early in the morning to cancel because of a family emergency and so I decided I would set forth in a taxi of my choosing without any assistance. It was a most exciting prospect and to gird myself I found a table on the terrace of a café next to the roundabout of last night where I nursed an espresso and a mint tea while drawing up my plan of action. In retrospect it seems silly that a grown man should find taking a taxi such a challenging experience, but when tired and laden with baggage it is quite daunting.

This morning I was not to be deterred and shortly after a quick-fire verbal altercation between the kindly waiter and one of his patrons who'd taken it upon himself to suggest that he'd be my taxi, I chose a Dacia Sandero to my liking, agreed on a price of 20 dirhams, and braced myself for the drive to the station. I didn't bother looking for a seat belt. Like Friday's drive this was full of imaginative interpretations of lane discipline and traffic signals, but I was delivered to the station in one piece where having got out of the taxi and hoisted my bag onto my back, I was set upon by taxi drivers asking me if I needed a taxi.

Fès station is woefully devoid of places to sit, particularly with other travellers disinclined to move their bags while waiting for someone to return from some errand for which a seat had been reserved as reward. In the end I just had a poke around the station looking at things and marvelling at the audacity of the chandelier. Since my experiences of Scandinavia stations with chandeliers during the last Interrail Extravaganza I have been of the opinion that railway stations need chandeliers for some reason, but Fès is showing off; the chandelier and ceiling carving dominate the space.

We were told we'd need to be on the platform a few minutes before departure and indeed this was sound advice as it seemed that the walk to coach 11 at the front of the train took forever; Moroccan trains seem to be very long. My comfy seat was a window in a compartment of six, and while my allocated seat was seat 86, I took up residence in seat 85 in a moment of madness as it was a window seat in the direction of travel. I also had the part of the air conditioning, which was putting up a sterling effort given the train had been sitting in the pounding sun for all the time I'd been at the station.

For the first few stops I shared it with a friendly woman who explained over a date and a walnut that the main reason for all the chaos and building work in Fès is that it is one of six cities hosting the Africa Cup of Nations at the end of the year. We talked a little about my journey so far and, like Guide, and she seemed perplexed that I should want to spend any time in Casablanca at all as there were better places to visit. I've quite fancied seeing the massive mosque[tm] out of curiosity, and there's also a cathedral which seems to be begging my attention.

But anyway. We were joined in our conversation by a young man who spent some parts of the journey praying which under normal circumstances might have been slightly alarming, but he was later to be found solving the air conditioning problem in his own way by standing next to an open door as we charged through countryside at around 120kph. The guard was not happy, so I wondered whether he'd just been asking for the courage for that.

As our journey progressed we were joined by three other people, the most tedious of whom was a manspreader who seemed to think the compartment his own private telephone box. I took great pleasure in pushing back against the manspreading, but as nobody else looked inclined to raise the question of the phone calls, I enjoyed the scenery changing outside. His tenure as compartment bore didn't last long, mercifully, and we were soon returned to tranquillity until Rabat where a girl entered the compartment and pointed at her seat in horror, only to be convinced to sit in seat 86 by the nice lady who had earlier been bearing dates.

Moroccans driving machines seem to like using the horn. I noticed this as part of my taxi experience; so delighted they are to have one, they test it every now and then to make sure it's still working. This allows them to tootle jaunty encouragement at the other traffic and signal to pedestrians crossing the road that the horn works. The main tenets of the Green Cross/Crescent Code appear to be Pause, Look, Ignore, and Take your time. The driver of the train also had a horn and was eager to use it to demonstrate that he had a horn, and at a couple of stations along the route there was a lot of angry horn blowing and whistle blowing as people were encouraged to either get out of the way or get on the train while it wasn't moving.

The rest of the journey passed peacefully and the scenery, once again, did not fail to put on a show. As we headed west towards Casablanca the weather seemed to soften a little, and soon we were travelling through lush green countryside ever-dominated by mountains in the distance. I hastily booked a room for two nights at the Hotel Astrid as my couch-surfing Student had apparently been out partying all weekend and was a little broken, then sat back in my seat and enjoyed the view.

Casa Voyageurs is a hive of activity. Originally built in 1923, the old station was expanded in 2018 with a new pointy mega-structure to welcome the Al Boraq, for which is it currently the southern terminus. It is a bustling station, and the station concourse in the new part is full of shops and stalls screaming for the busy traveller's attention by pumping out thumpy music to the masses. It feels quite European, with a McDonald's and a Starbucks, but once you get outside there's the immediate reminder that you need a taxi and Kansas this is not.

I contemplated a taxi or an InDrive to my hotel but felt brave enough to take a tram one from the Place Sidi Mohamed opposite the old station to the Place des Nations Unies, then walk a little further to my hotel on the rue 6 novembre. The tram ride was fun and I could have been in any Mediterranean city or town where Alstom trams progress with the distinctive noise and fake bell that can be heard everywhere. The announcements are in Arabic and French, and the trams themselves are clean. A contactless ticket from the machine cost me 8 dirhams. I have yet to determine if I can recharge it.

Once I'd checked in an had a power nap, there was a little time to walk around the area looking for something to eat. This felt like the first place that neither my languages nor my non-meaty preference were catered for, but I eventually found a little snack bar where I grabbed a cheese taco with chips and an apple juice for about a fiver with a broken mix of Arabic and French.

We’ll find a way to make it work.