The little red Taxi (Rabat, Morocco)

That last day of our travels in Morocco James and I just wanted to run back to the Hotel where we had forgotten the camera charger.

We emphatically waved to stop a rattly looking taxi and checked the time again. The big round clock in the entrance of the train station showed 11.47- we had about an hour.

We got into the vehicle whose red exterior was full of scratches and dents. I told the Taxi driver where we wanted to go.

“Oui oui mademoiselle” he answered and floored the gas. I reached hastily for the handle to grab brace myself. Wistfully I thought of the buckle-up-law in Germany which obviously here, given the missing seat belts, didn’t exist.

Abdullah was the name of our Taxi driver, whose haggard shoulders and spare hair gave him a hounded expression. With a rigid look in his eyes he clung to the steering wheel as if it were a life buoy. After a little bit we realized that he wasn’t driving in the direction of our hotel.

“Monsieur” I complained in French, “we are going the wrong way”

“Oui, oui mademoiselle” he replied smiling and kept driving unperturbed.

Wildly gesticulating we managed to make him stop to ask for help. An older man in a muslim robe translated for us from French into Arabic. Abdullah turned around with a proud glow on his face and repeated his “oui oui” with a little bit more conviction than before.

James and I looked at each other doubtfully but this time, as the gentleman who helped us had confirmed, Abdullah really seemed to understand. And we actually, in spite of squealing tires, arrived at the hotel without any other incidents.

When I came back from the reception found an animated conversation in progress.Well if you could designate the scene as a conversation. Abdullah talked non stop in Arabic to James. Apparently he was hoping that if he kept doing this long enough James would end up understanding him.

Then, after a couple of stammering, failed attempts the motor finally started up. This was celebrated by Abdullah with an exclamation of joy and an acceleration reminiscent of Formula 1. I exchanged a knowing look with James,-we were definitely in the car of a maniac.

What’s more, I found it disturbing to discover that the car didn’t have side view mirrors and that Abdullah irregardless speeded through narrow streets and around blind turns.

In the middle of the ride, again going in the wrong direction, he started talking about his “Madame” and rummaged out of the inside of his shabby jacket a picture of the lady. Meanwhile he steered with one hand and changed gleefully back and forth in between the lanes of the avenue. In vain we tried to explain him that we wanted to get back to the train station.

“Le gare, Le gare, estación, station, Baaaaahhhnhof!!!”

“oui,oui” he answered, holding up one crooked finger, indicating that we should hold on a minute. Then he pulled out from behind the stained visor another fotograph. Pointing at the baby in the picture and then at himself his face filled with paternal pride.

“ You have a nice son” we agreed with a pained smile before returning to our explanation attempts.

We started feeling like we were in a cheap comedy; our Odyssey would not end until James imitated a locomotive “chugga chugga choo choo” and until I, desperate yet amused, drew a train in the air. When we arrived at the station the big red clock showed 12.35. We had five minutes left.

~ von Annemarie am Mai 8, 2008.