A MOROCCAN PLUMBING PRIMER
Apr 16 '02 (Updated May 09 '05)
The Bottom Line When you gotta go you gotta go!
It was first day in Morocco. We had arrived by ferry from Spain to the Spanish military enclave at Cuesta on the North African coast. There were seven of us, myself, my fellow five tourists and our Spanish guide.
From Cuesta we took a mini bus to the frontier and then on to the Moroccan city of Tetouan. Here we linked up with our Moroccan guide, the bus and driver and his assistant. We also discovered that our tour group would be combined with a second one of six other tourists.
The six were all Spaniards and were half way through a week long trip about Morocco. They'd started in Marrakech and would be with us for the next couple of days. When we reached Marrakech, we'd say our goodbyes and they'd fly home
There were two young couples and two solitary males, one of whom was travelling with the couples. He looked and acted a bit like a swarthy Antonio Banderas and was a hit amongst the rest of us. The other single man was a rather quiet middle aged man who kept to himself, but seemed pleasant the few times we chatted.
The two couples however were a disaster. Where all our group appeared to be experienced travellers this quartet acted like they'd never left the security of their home towns in their short but wasted lives. To be honest they shouldn't have been allowed to either.
All that came from them was a litany of complaints, usually about the food, the accommodations, and/or the country in general. This of course was directed at the staff, who suffered in silence as did their friend who was obviously embarrassed by them. The other Spanish tourist was totally ignored by them, as he wasn't part of their crowd. His lack of English skills unfortunately left him out of our circle too.
The quartet obviously had forgotten to pack an alarm clock amongst their numerous pieces of luggage. Either that or they hadn't figured out the complexities of asking the front desk for a wake up call. Every morning guess who was the last down for breakfast and then out the door with their luggage.
We all loaded up and were soon driving south through the Riff mountains towards Fez. The view was spectacular and the fact that everyone had a window seat to fully enjoy it was appreciated. Franco our trusty guide pasted up a map of the country at the front of the bus over the TV set and began a short lecture on our week's itinerary. I don't know if anyone was really paying attention to him. I know I wasn't .My face was glued to the window, trying to take in as much as I could before the light failed.
Just before dusk we made our first pit stop. Our bus was more than roomy enough for the sixteen of us, and had many modern conveniences including reading lights, air conditioning and a small TV up front. However they'd neglected to install one minor item. There was no toilet.
We stopped at some small village high up in the mountains beside a general store/café to "stretch our legs." It was obvious that tour buses used this place on a regular basis. There were a couple of old guys sitting out front of the café when we pulled up. They barely interrupted their game of backgammon to glance at us. Probably thought something along the lines of is it six o'clock already, must be the dumb tourist bus just showed up.
Everyone trooped inside and most of us made a beeline for the toilets at the rear of the place. The six woman all went into the ladies in a single group. The ten men having better bladder control divided into two groups, one heading to the back, the second to wait their turn at the bar.
I was in the first group and made my way into the small and not too clean facilities and in turn into one of the two stalls. Here I had my first experience with Moroccan plumbing. In front of me rather than a porcelain throne was a small hole in the ground with two moulded foot prints either side of it. My rather sensitive nose told me it had been used frequently and recently.
Fortunately this was a stand up job and I was soon making my way back to the bar. Here I ordered a tea, and contemplated the sanitary arrangements for the next eight or so days. Sooner or later I knew I was going to be confronted with a sit down job. Suppose all the bathrooms were like this one, or worse. Obviously not going was not an option. I'd been constipated for a week before on a military operation and it only delayed the inevitable.
Oh well I thought sipping my glass of mint tea, I'd gone in worse places before. I'd just have to suffer through. Something told me though that I wouldn't be doing to much reading on the john this trip.
Just then a horrible high piercing shriek rang through the place. Ah I thought one of the female Spanish tourists had just discovered the facilities. Seconds later both of them came storming into the main room, shaking and ashen faced. The verbal abuse they threw at their spouses, their travelling companions, and poor Franco was, while amusing, not very lady like so I shall not repeat it here.
Soon after we all boarded the bus and drove off into the sunset. We reached Fez a couple of hours later.
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