The riad porter’s veins in his neck just about popped as he heaved our two suitcases onto the roof rack of a beaten up Ford Laser. It was painted up in Meknes pale blue to remotely resemble a Petite Taxi. The seats were torn, the engine rattled and the windows were missing winders, so we breathed the monoxide and settled back to await our fate.
We were catching the train to Rabat and I’d woken early to plan for our trip to the railway station, so I knew the general direction we should be heading. The scourge of taxi drivers is offline Google maps and after five minutes I began to suspiciously follow his route on the phone.
“Gare de Meknes? Pour Rabat?” I said in my best French that Salma, the receptionist, had taught me.
“Oui! Oui! Gare de Meknes!” he said karate chopping his hand repeatedly at the broken windscreen. He yanked the wheel and turned off the main road that led to Google’s station and drove up a busy street and caught us in a jam.
He sat on the horn and zigzagged and ran into roadworks and more choked traffic. The blue dot on Google indicated he was leading us to the wrong station.
“Gare de Meknes! Rabat!” I repeated more insistently as my fellow passenger patted my knee to soothe my growing agitation. The driver’s face in the mirror looked sheepish as I jabbed the phone and he quickly beeped at a car, turned the corner and deposited us at Gare Al Amir Abdul Kader, the wrong station! I was happy to be anywhere than in this blue bomb so we took our unsecured luggage from the roof.
He pointed at the meter, 26 dirham. Salma told us it would be 8-10 dirham!
I tossed a 20, the smallest I had, but he asked for more pointing at the meter.
In the best French I could muster in a fluster, with my finger waving around the streets, I said,
“Non! Non! Vous dodgiement taxi driver!” and flicked my fingers to wave him away.
It worked. He grinned sheepishly, shrugged and accepted my 20 but didn’t leave. Perhaps he was waiting for a fare to Gare de Meknes which lay another 4 dirhams away.
Please don’t call me a stingy miser. I’ve already classified myself as one.
She was right to pat my knee!
Haha! Don’t worry Dad, I do the same. You feel bad later when you realise you’re arguing over a few cents but it’s the principal of the matter!
That Laser sound familiar, Nelly was always a bit fumey.
Enjoy the last few days in Morocco!