Magic Bus

The sun is hot against my exposed skin and I shift uncomfortably, trying to peel my sweating legs from the burning leather beneath them. By this point I've forgotten the need for shoes and drive barefoot through the barren country roads, dust trailing behind me like a waving tail. The steady chugging of the car's engine thrums a pleasant beat through my chest and I tap the steering wheel insync with each gurgle. To counter the rays of sun that pour in through the windows, I've opened the sun roof, the sudden burst of air tossing my hair up in a tussled mess while following the steady current of the wind. I close my eyes for an instant, breathing in a labyrinth of smells; the thick weight of a dirt road, the pinch of sweet grass, cattle grazing in the field, and the pine needles from rows and rows of shelter belts. Each scent rolls over the next, swirling together, bringing me home...

Reminiscing about the casual roadtrips I took in the summer after graduation is what saved my sanity, and everyone else for that matter the night I rode the Magic Bus through the rainy desolate backroads of Morocco. We all know how wonderfully disappointing public transport can be. It wasn't until I became a passenger on the 4 o'clock Moroccan bus ride from hell that I truly appreciated my rusting, multi colored '92 Mazda Protege, flat tires and all, that patiently awaited my return home.

After waiting inside an over crowded bus station for nearly 2 hours, the Magic Bus appeared. Its passengers flocked to its doors, men and women stuffing its undercarriage with box after box of cherished goods, leaving not so much as a single centimetre of unclaimed space. Mark, Gary, and I watched the spectacle unfold before us as we took our places at the back of the bus. It wasn't 20 minutes into our 13 hour journey that we rumbled to a stop and were notified of "engine" troubles. From that point on we continued to stop every hour on the hour to temporarily fix the overheated engine (with materials I can only imagine being roll after roll of duct tape) that wanted nothing more than to simply roll over and die.

On hour 6, still with plently of miles to go, our already timid nerves had been jostled further. By planning this bus route we had failed to take into account unforgiving weather conditions as well as any unforseen mechanical problems. If the bus by some miracle followed its original schedule, we had an hour to catch our plane back to London. We were running a little late. One thing I did learn on that sleepless night through the Atlas Mountains is that Moroccan men don't mess around. Sure, they'll make frequent pit stops for tagine, omlettes, and soup. Sure, they'll even refuel with a cup or two of mint tea. But they will never leave you disappointed. With some stroke of luck (and a well thought out plan), we managed to cut several hours off of our original time.

Just as gold and orange ribbons began to stretch across the length of the horizon, a beaten sign post reassured me. We were 5km from Fez with plenty of time left to catch our plane. Just as I took in a breath, calming my nerves, they were literally shaken alive when the bus began to rock side to side, bellowing a cloud of dust and smoke from its side. Once again we are companions of the roadside, this time for a flat tire. But, like I mentioned before, Moroccan men don't disappoint. Before I knew it I was squeezed like a lemon into a taxi with Gary, Mark, and half of the passengers from the bus. The driver took one glance at the 3 foreigners in the back as he scratched his enormous pot belly and popped a newly lit cigarette into his mouth before pulling onto the highway. From afar a stranger in passing would only see our cattle car as a jungle of entangled limbs, baggage, and the occasional chicken. But to the 3 sleep deprived, agitated, and just overall pissed off foreigners wedged between a calydascope of color, well we were just hell bent on not dying of laughter.