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Writer's pictureJoanna

Welcome to Marrakech

Updated: Nov 9

Now here’s a story…


Imagine getting off a plane, at night, in a foreign country… expecting a hotel shuttle to greet you as you come through the arrivals terminal doors. You envision being greeted by an enormous smile, worn by someone waving a sign with YOUR name on it. You feel such a sense of relief, knowing the guesthouse staff were really there for you


They cared.


Of course they did. You’d made this booking months ago… and they’d been the ones who had reached out to enquire as to whether or not you’d like an airport shuttle.


“A shuttle would be lovely. Thank you.”



Now take that entire scenario above… and change a few things…


  1. Yes… you’ve landed in a foreign country ~ Marrakech, Morocco.

  2. You speak neither Arabic nor French (as shameful as that is to admit, being Canadian).

  3. It is night. Very dark.

  4. There is no shuttle.

  5. The guesthouse you booked doesn’t exist anymore.

  6. You’ve already paid… over $200…


That was my reality as I stepped out of the arrivals terminal and into the warm, dry embrace of Marrakech.  I had just spent an hour & a half ~ or more ~ in the 'snake' style queue for Moroccan customs. Every passport control booth was manned, but the lineups were at least 8 or 9 deep, making it very slow moving. It was during this snail’s pace lolligag that I finally decided that I am through with a carry-on backpack. It’s roll-on all the way from now on. I realize I’ve mentioned this before, but the decision was cemented on the painfully slow journey towards a much needed passport stamp. I shouldn’t complain. I’ve heard Marrakech customs can be much, much worse.



After successfully making it through immigration, I made my way through arrivals and stepped out into Marrakech’s exotic evening air.  There were probably 50 shuttle drivers mulling around, each of them holding up their own sign, with some random name written on it, ever hopeful the next person through the door would be their client. The interesting part was that not one single one of them was holding a sign with MY name.


It was late. It was dark. I was exhausted. Anyone who’s read previous blogs of mine knows very well how I react to airplane rides, so I wasn’t feeling 100%. I just wanted to go to bed.


Where was my shuttle?


Nothing

Rien

لا شئ


I did look around quite a few times before I began to feel quite silly. When I hit that point, I reluctantly made my way over to the taxi stand, not without turning back a few more times to ensure no one was desperately waving me down.


“Miss McBride!!! I drive you”


Pipe dream.

I was delusional.

There was no one to pick me up. 


Ok… I could deal with this.

Calm.

Composed.



I’m a seasoned traveler, who, oddly enough, is remarkably good at figuring shit out. Right? Little did I know that this considerable inconvenience was merely the beginning of a thoroughly dreadful evening.


I made my way to the taxi stand, and like most airport taxis I’ve encountered around the world, I had to pre-pay for whichever zone I’d be traveling to, before they assigned me a driver.


Easy peasy.


Although I had no idea what zone I was heading into, I knew my hotel name and address. I was set… and most definitely ready to give the staff a piece of my mind when I arrived. How dare they ghost my messages and leave me high & dry at the airport after offering to pick me up?? What kind of 2-bit shit show were they running?


I diligently stood in the taxi lineup, patiently waiting my turn. Eventually I made my way to the front, only to discover it was cash only.


Seriously.

No one could have made a sign?

How hard would it be to make a sign???



Without a dirham to my name, the young guy at the counter pointed me towards a machine that accepted credit cards. I glanced over to see two very irate people standing there, experiencing much difficulty in getting the machine to work properly.


This night just kept getting better.

Is now a good time to remind everyone of the heavy pack still on my back?


Life was hard.


Finally the attendant left his position at the taxi kiosk, much to everyone behind me’s dismay, and pressed all the proper buttons to get our taxi vouchers. He had to do mine four times… two times because the machine wouldn’t accept my card… (slightly frightening) and another two times because the hotel couldn’t be found in the system (ever so slightly more frightening).


I was sent to taxi # 25.

Kinda cool… as it had been 25 years since I’d last been in Morocco. I liked that number.

Although I couldn’t communicate with him at all, Mr. Twenty Five was a lovely man… and, as it turned out, very instrumental in helping me figure out how to navigate what was going on.


So… what was going on?



I had chosen a road, when determining my ‘zone,’ that my supposed guesthouse was supposedly on.


Mr. Twenty Five was having a fair amount of difficulty pinpointing the exact location of my destination on Google Maps. This was a concern for him, because this mystery guesthouse was located within the walls of Marrakech’s Medina… a historical part of the city where traffic could not venture. If we couldn’t lock down a location, I would be strolling the alleyways in the dark, seeking out something that I’d never find.


He kept looking… but all searches came up fruitless. Odd. But… perhaps not so odd, considering there was no such place!


Nope.

There was no such hotel… anymore.

Apparently there once was… but they weren’t ‘doing that’ anymore. Obviously they were still ok taking the money off suckers such as myself, though. That was a no-brainer.


Mr. Twenty Five called the number that was on the Booking.com site and I can’t really vouch for exactly how their conversation went, but it seemed to me that it was a wrong number. To my understanding, he got another number and tried calling that one.


This time struck gold and we had the owner on the phone. He handed the phone over to me.


“Where is your hotel?”

“No more hotel.”


“Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

“I don’t know.”


That put me over the edge.  I had pre-paid over $200CND to these people. My irritability was evident and the stress and frustration caused my voice to rise in pitch. It was right then that she began to scream into the phone that this wasn’t her fault.


Wtf.

Was it my fault?

Where was the empathy?



I was in a living, breathing nightmare. For years, traveling all over the world, I have always relied on the convenience, professionalism and steadfastness of booking.com. They had never let me down like this. I trusted them.


“What about my money?” I shrieked.


Then… she hung up.


Fabulous.

Absolutely fabulous.


I had to think fast. But… sometimes when I think fast, I don’t necessarily act in the most ‘attention to detail’ manner. This was one of those times.


I immediately got back onto the booking site and quickly made myself another reservation. I tried to make it as close to my current location as possible, to eliminate any long walks by myself in the dark.


Thank goodness I had previously set up an eSim, which I miraculously managed to get to work. Had I not had data, this all would have gone sideways & downhill much faster.


Ok- brilliant!

I booked another place.

Everything was going to be ok… I could deal with this crisis in the morning.



I waved goodbye to my new friend, Mr. Twenty Five… and made my way into the Medina.


With a new booking made, and the knowledge that soon I would be collapsing into a comfortable bed, I began to allow myself to feel Marrakech’s allure of enchantment & adventure.


I was really here!

Twenty five years later… I was back.


I got a bit disorientated, trying to manoeuvre my way through the labyrinth that is the Marrakech Medina, but with the help of a few kind locals, I made my way right to the door of my new temporary abode. The thing with guesthouses here, is they aren’t really advertised until you’re standing directly in front of the door. Then there might be a small sign… maybe.


Not easy.

Not easy when you’re exhausted.

Not easy when it’s dark.


Anyway… I found it. I was here. Now… I just needed sleep. There was only one problem… The man at the guesthouse kept telling me they were full.


Full?

They couldn’t be full.

I’d made a reservation.

How could they possibly be full?



I tried to explain that I had just made the reservation… so that’s probably why they were full now. He seemed equally as confused and asked to see my online booking. No problem. I handed over my booking, confident that in a moment we would both be laughing at this silly mixup.


He took one look at my phone.

“You make reservation for 8 of November.”


No. I. Did. NOT!!!

Today was the 4th. Shiiiiiiit.

Why am I sooo stupid?


I have the WORST attention to detail.


Again… fabulous.

Absolutely fabulous.



I was horrified at my mistake… and utterly humiliated. When he got up to greet some guests that came through the door, I snuck out as quickly as I could, with my tail between my legs.


Off I went, back into the night, desperate to find a place to stay.


Third time was a charm.


Welcome to Marrakech, Joanna.

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