Friday 2 October 2015

The difference between a bus in Marrakech and a bus in London

I leave my friends in Marrakech a little late and see the airport bus at the stop ahead of me, 100 metres down the road. Aaaargh, I have the time wrong again. I start running, dragging suitcase behind, and yelling 'Bilati, bilati!' (Wait!)

As I draw near, the bus is still there, but then it pulls out into the road - the driver hasn't noticed me. But plenty of other people have ... a taxi, of all things, starts honking loudly at the bus, a man shouts at the driver, and then people on the pavement alert the attention of a bus official. 'Aeroport madame?' he says, and 'Yes!' I pant and he ... blows his whistle and runs at the bus and bangs on the back of it.

And the bus, which by now has entered into a lane of manic traffic, screeches to a halt and unbelievably starts to turn back into the stop, while all the while preventing any other traffic behind it from moving forward. He comes back to the side of the road, and opens the door, and I hurl myself inside with a 'chukran bisef' (thank you very much) and 'smahali smahali' (sorry). The driver says nothing and just stares at me. 'I'm sorry', I repeat. 'Are you angry?'

He looks again and then ... bursts out laughing, as do the other passengers, all Moroccans. They grin at me as the bus shoots away and I stumble along with my unwieldy suitcase. It's all sooo friendly.
................................................................................................................................................................

I arrive back at Gatwick airport at 11.40pm and there is the usual ridiculous queue for customs, which takes 40 minutes to get through and means I miss any chance of taking a train all the way home. I have to get out at East Croydon and look for the dreaded night bus. There are two stops for the same number bus, one with the destination South Croydon and one West Croydon. I want to go to West Norwood which lies roughly north of both of those places, so I am none the wiser.

I am waiting by one when I see the bus draw up at the other. I RUN back to it and ask the driver - a snippy-faced woman - if she is going to West Norwood? 'Yes obviously', she says. 'Can't you see it says West Croydon up there?'

I explain that I don't have a clear geographical idea of how West and South Croydon relate to West Norwood and she snaps that there is a list and a timetable on the post. I say I saw West Norwood on that at the other stop and she looks witheringly at me and says you have to look at the direction.

'Well it's very late and I'm tired', I say, 'but can you wait while I run and get my luggage from the other stop?' There is a deep impatient sigh. 'I have to keep to the timetable', she says.

So I run like mad for the case and run back ... and enter a bus full of cold stony-faced people: never mind about helping me home at 1.20 in the morning, they have been held up ...

I tell you, give me Marrakech any day.

No comments:

Post a Comment