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Took the Train from Marrakesh to Rabat, Morocco. Got Hopelessly Lost But Found Six Remarkable People
“A strong woman can carry a lot of water.” — South African Proverb
Cyn and I walked out of the Rabat train station as clueless as two lambs about to become mutton chops. We had just taken the train from Marrakesh, where we had spent several days exploring with the help of a local guide, but here we were alone. My paltry Arabic consisted of phrases like Salaam, Inshallah, and Yella, and we had no more idea where we would be laying our heads this night than a blind man plopped in a Moroccan Medina. Our cell service was non-existent, but I had preloaded a map of our route to our riad on my iPhone, and it told us we were about 12 minutes away. All we had to do was get a taxi to the right hotel. Outside the station, a cluster of cab drivers clambered around us, ready to take us anywhere we wanted to go.
A small boned driver with a dark mustache elbowed his way to us. “Yella, yella!” He said. Let’s go. “How much?” I asked, rubbing my thumb and forefinger in the universal signal of personal finance. He spoke in rapid Arabic, but I thought I caught the word for eight, and I had also roughly calculated that the trip would cost about 80 dirham. So I figured this was our man. That was my first mistake.
