We prove that the saying “lightning never strikes twice in the same place” is a myth. Although we’re not in the same place.
The exotically mis-named L’Ocean Bleu camp is where we’re currently pitched up. The route in, a mysterious passageway through a huge on-going development of six storey apartments. A mad mix of pristine, half-finshed or empty. Inter-connected by an angry grid of pot-holed ridden streets. Beastie enters through the wrong door. It’s in his nature. Interrupts an animated game of boules in progress. A critical point has been reached. Two mark their positions, golfing style, and remove their ball. Then Beastie is slowly and deliberately guided over. Over his shoulder the end-game continues.
Unable to buy a green card for Scoot in the UK and unable to buy one here, means we must rely on public transport, trains, buses, taxis or feet. Scoot won’t see the light of day again until next month.
Following morning our journey into the capitol commences on foot. We have an 8K journey to get to the train station in Mohammedia. No pavement as such. Not much road in places either. We hope to flag down a passing taxi. None pass. 3K on we’re in luck. A “Grand Taxi” waits. A Grand Taxi takes five customers. The cost split between the five. He leaves when he’s full, or if like us you have a train to catch you agree to cover the cost for five. Ten seconds before setting off a couple join us. Then on route a young lad is picked up. We get charged for only our two seats. 50p each. Perfect.
Our train is a little late – seems he knew it would be . . .
Once in town we leg it for Chellah. It’s on the outskirts. Like Malcolm Mclaren’s Buffalo Gals we go the long way, round the outside. From the outside it’s impressive. An ancient Muslim necropolis.
Once inside it’s a curious mix. Families and couples having fun and chilling out. Kids stone and paper painting. Picnickers. A dozen nesting storks almost steal the show. But the show is nestling in the woods . . .
Our walk back takes us into our first Medina. Narrow ways. We don’t have enough eyes to take it all in. Crowds casually mingle with the sellers’ colourful displays of wares. All compete to grab our attention. Friendly “Bonjours” exchanged. No real hassle.
At the end of our day in Rabat. We catch the train back to Mohameddia. It’s a “double-decker”. We sit upstairs – a first for us. We’re worried that we’ll miss our stop. Non of the stations have named platforms. There’s a big electronic sign inside which is updated with the “Prochaine Gare”, so we relax. When it shows our station is “next” we get off. It feels a much quicker journey back, but that’s not unusual, is it? It’s dark by now and everything looks different. Very different. The platform is incomplete. We don’t remember that. Assume it’s not the same one we got on at. To get away from the train we have to walk across rubble and over the train lines, like refugees in a film 😢. We certainly don’t remember doing that. Looking confused and bewildered it’s then someone tells us we’re at Skhirat. We’ve only gone half the journey. We’re still 26K from camp. We turn to run back to the train. Aah. Doors close. It’s gone! We ask the man in the office. “This is the last train for today to stop at Skhirat.” We have to go back to Rabat and catch the last “direct” train of the day. Oh no. Deja Vue – we did this last year at Sorrento in Italy! What to do? Just then a very kind Moroccan takes us under his wings and diligently finds us a taxi man who is prepared to drive us all the way back to Mohameddia for a really good price. Phew!! We live on to tell the story.
Back in Beastie we reconsider tomorrow’s plan. We’re keen not to repeat today’s travel turmoil. Decide to leave this site and use Beastie as our surest way to and into Casablanca. As the biggest city, our Rough Guide tells us it’s usually gridlocked. We shall see.