Bussing around morocco

The Allure of the bus & Hostel

My plan for Morocco was to stay in Marrakech and maybe do some day trips. Stay in a nice Riad. Have a bit of luxury. Lie in the afternoon sun, read my books, get massages and rest. Pamper myself and live like a queen.

I stayed one day in Marrakech and got itchy feet. I began writing this on a bus taking me to Essaouria to stay in a hostel. I had to wait one and half hours for the bus. Sitting in the local bus station cafe with bad WiFi. The bus took four hours. So pretty much a whole day spent on the move instead of resting in the nice Riad I had planned. 

I’ve realised this is the part I love. Looking back on my travel around Asia, it’s the days spent on buses and boats that I remember the most. They’re my fondest memories even though they were tough days, uncomfortable and when I had to be on high alert. 

I don’t remember the days I decided to live it up in Asia so well. Lying on the beach or sitting by a pool. They were probably much needed rest days and lovely but they’re unremarkable in my memory. And don’t really feature in my journal. Which says a lot. 

I’m now on the second bus of my very short trip in Morocco. This time to Tamraght. Realising it’s the spontaneous part of travel that I crave. The freedom to decide to go to Tamraght while eating pancakes on the hostel rooftop this morning. Instead of going to Tagazhout and instead of staying in Essaouira.

On this type of day I feel like a traveller again. When I can move from place to place without a plan. Decide on the day whether to move on or stay. It’s when I feel totally independent and free. For me, there is no better feeling. 

I love that bus travel is pretty much the same routine in any country. The halfway stop in the middle of nowhere. To a bad restaurant on the side of the road where you have to eat lousy food and pay to use the toilet. It’s always the same drill. Everyone gets off the bus and the driver shouts “twenty minutes”. You all sit at separate tables, or sometimes you share a table and get chatting to other travellers. 

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The people on the bus are the best part. There’s a man with long grey hair to his waist sitting in the row beside me. He looks kind of like Osho and like he’s been travelling for the last fifty years. His face looks extremely weathered but at the same time he looks strangely young. He’s with a younger woman. I’m fascinated by them and wishing I understood Spanish so I could listen to their chat. Which actually isn’t that regular. The long haired man looks like he’s in meditation for most of the journey. He didn’t look at a phone, read or listen to music for the entire four hours. Just sat, blinked, breathed I presume, and said the occasional few quiet words to his girlfriend. 

I’m only four days into my travel and already I can feel it taking its sweet affect. I look a bit of a mess and haven’t brushed my hair in a couple of days. My clothes and bags are wet from walking to the bus in the rain. I’ve lost a couple of things from my bag and I don’t care. The sweet carefree balm of travel is working its magic. 

I thought about a bit of a luxurious stay in Tagazhout but I’ve realised another thing. At age 35 I’m still a sucker for hostels. I met great people in Essaouira, had ‘family’ dinners, went to a bar with some of the locals and listened  to live music each night in the hostel. I’ll most likely seek out a hostel again. And on the recommendation that Tamraght is a little less known and smaller than Tagazhout, that is where I am headed. 

Then back up to mad Marrakech for the last day. I might get a fancy Riad. Let’s see.