On taxis and the fine line between strangers and friends

In Morocco, you can take a taxi anywhere.

Tangier to Chefchaouen, for example, is a three hour ride for less than 40€… split six ways.

Because the only catch to the “grand taxis” that drive between cities is that they don’t move with less than six passengers… in a less-than-grand sized car.

(Okay, some other catches: the narrow, winding roads traversed by way too many trucks; the sometimes reckless passing maneuvers into oncoming traffic; and the one taxi we took that didn’t have a working speedometer.)

And so, as we squeezed in six backpackers, five huge backpacks, three small backpacks, and a guitar, I was thankful that I wasn’t waiting on strangers to fill up the car.

One of four shoved in the backseat, the guitar on my lap, I said, “Well, at least we’re not doing this with strangers.”

I had known these people—from Bosnia, Canada, Holland, England, and New Zealand—for less than twelve hours.

I guess my definition of “strangers” has shrunk in scope.

(But, for the record, I was right. We traveled together—by local bus, minibus, train, rowboat, tram, and one more daytrip by grand taxi, through markets, kasbahs, mountains, waterfalls, gorges, and desert—for the rest of my trip through Morocco.)



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