We were the last ones to get into the bus. The old man was waiting and stomping his foot impatiently. His bald head was shining in the sun, and he was smoking a cigarette. All the other passengers looked at us from behind the windows with a mix of contempt, indifference and amusement. That didn’t bother us in the slightest. We paid the same price as everybody, and the tour had to wait. It was just a few minutes anyway. We were not late on purpuse, no, we simply didn’t want to hurry. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I think the bald man saw things differently. They were running on a tight schedule: one tour in the morning, one tour in the afternoon. Moroccans are all chill until they aren’t, then it’s all yalla yalla. But euros and dollars work miracles.
The first stop was a “botanical garden,” which was acutally a small argan oil farm some 20 kilemeters away from Agadir, just at the base of the mountains. You’ve guessed it – it wasn’t to educate. Although the garden itself was interesting, the rest wasn’t. We went to wait outside, along with few others, while the rest of the group tried so many different lotions and whatnot. When the guides finally realised that nobody was going to buy anything, they gave up, and packed us back into the bus.
The second stop was an old shack at the side of the road, deeper into the mountains. The old man took us to the rooftop, so we could have a better look at the surroundings. He was warmed up now, going full speed.
“This is a mountain. A big mountain.”
Everybody was looking where he pointed, only Z stood with her back to the big mountain, and threw a piercing look right at him, with a bittersweet smile.
“This is a cementery,” he said, not skipping a beat, as he pointed to a cementery on the side of the hill.
I wish I had Z’s audacity in such situations. I’m too polite. She said something along the lines of: “This is bullshit.”, and kept looking at the bald old man. Although he was way too sure of himself, and this was his playground, this somehow made a dent in his confidence. Most people didn’t question what he did. Not on the tours anyway. And he knew it was, indeed, bullshit.
After he showed us the big mountain, and the cemenetery, he took us downstairs, where it was business. As usual. This time, they were selling pottery. The craftsman apparently thought that most people can fit huge tagine dishes and vases into their carry on baggage.
The third stop was the so called Paradise valley, finally. We were alsmost excited, as the old man proudly showed us the way. One of the first things we saw was a big board with pictures of the place. Beautiful blue lagoon with crystal clear water, lushy vegetation, and vibrant colors. The old man stood next to it, straightened, proud of his natural heritage, and said something along the lines of:
“Take a good look at the picutre! This is the Paradise valley, our final destination. We will reach it soon. This is how it looked like few years ago. But there was a lack of rainfall last few years, and it looks different. Actually, nothing like that. And it is nowhere near as beautiful now.”
With these words, the whole trip became just the comercial stops. We exchanged disgusted looks with Z and we followed the rest of the group on the narrow dusty trail. I mean, the nature was nice, just like nature tends to be. But it definitely wasn’t worth the hassle in the minibus, the bald old man, the commercial stops. When we reached the core of the valley, we found two sad pools with muddy water, and the old man encouraged us to jump. Two or three stupid ones did. Head first. We were this close to something fairly interesting happening on the trip, until they emerged from the water safe. Luckily. I can’t imagine what would the old man do. He’d probably make two more commercial stops on the way to the hospital. He would probably freeze from the panic though.
We were allowed about an hour of free time to wander around the place, which we promply used to get as far away from the group as possible. We talked about what had happened so far. Our conclusion was that organised group trips are not our thing. That next time we’d rather stay at the beach than do this. That the old man was funny.
Last thing on the schedule was lunch. Since we didn’t eat meat at the time, we ordered a separate tagine from the rest of the group. They all ate their overcharged group chicked tagine, while we were waiting for the vegetable one, sitting separated. They brought us the food just as the others were leaving for the bus. The old man was quite angry, as it meant more waiting, and for us again, but what could he do?. He was on the edge of throwing a tantrum. Steam was almost blowing from his ears, but something reminded him that we were indeed paying customers, and that he wouldn’t have to see us ever again after this whole ordeal ended. We thought the same. He told us to hurry up and lead the rest of the group away, back to the bus. We took our time with the lunch, and laughed about this whole grotesque.
We were the last ones to get into the bus. The old man was waiting and stomping his foot impatiently. His bald head was shining in the sun, and he was smoking a cigarette. All the other passengers looked at us from behind the windows with a mix of contempt and indifference. The amusement was missing this time. That was none of our problem though. We paid the same price as everybody, and the tour had to wait. We were not late on purpuse, no, we simply didn’t want to hurry. Moroccans are all chill until they aren’t, then it’s all yalla yalla. But euros and dollars work miracles.