It wasn’t till we reached the beach that I realised that the taxi driver didn’t speak any French. Goes to show how effective my last minute language cramming had been. He’d nodded at my repetition of “vingt-cinq dirhams”, holding out five coins in his palm which I thought at the time were 5 dirham pieces but now, I realise, were worth 10 dirhams each. We were essentially in the middle of nowhere and the trip had been longer than expected, so we could do little more than to sigh and hand over what the old man demanded.

We’d been told we should pay half what we did. But then, we’d also been told that buses went to the beach - and then informed by a bus driver that they didn’t.
But sod it. Part of the attraction of Morocco for both of us was to be near the sea, and so we tried our best to enjoy it - despite feeling vaguely robbed and worried about how on earth we’d get home. We lay on the deserted, windy beach, hypnotised by the rushing sea, dipped our feet briefly in the cold, Atlantic waves, and breathed in the salt-heavy air.

We didn’t hang around too long though, because we had no idea how we were going to get back to Larache, the quiet coastal town a 15 minute drive away where we were staying.

We were the only people on the beach, and the area where we’d been dropped off was deserted. A couple of cars sat in the dusty parking area and a row of shacks, all but one boarded up, ached under the weight of the sun.
Do any taxis come past here? Fernando asks the small group of men lounging in the shade of the little drinks stall.
Not really, but there’s a bus, they tell us. It’ll come past in about forty minutes. Do you want a drink while you wait? There’s nowhere else to go, so we shrug okay, and order some mint tea.
One of the men, tall, straggly and unshaven speaks some Spanish. Come through to the deck, he tell us, there’s seats and a nice view. Unsure of what to expect, and whether we really want to sit admiring a view when we’re fairly anxious to make sure we get home, we follow him through a narrow passage to an empty forecourt.
We sit awkwardly at a dusty table under the awning. The man wanders off, and we take the opportunity to discuss our plans. How long will we wait for this bus, and what do we do if it doesn’t arrive?

The scuff of sandals on sandy concrete indicates the man’s return, empty handed.
Mohammed, he offers his hand to Fernando, who nods and shakes his hand. Mohammed, the man says again, expectantly. I, Mohammed, you…?
I’m Fernando. They shake again.
And you?
Katie. We shake, and Mohammed takes his opportunity to pull up a seat at the table.
Are you Spanish? Where are you from?
Peru, replies Fernando, but Mohammed doesn’t know where this is. In South America, he explains.
America! Los Angeles? asks Mohammed.
No, South America. Near Brazil, sighs Fernando in the same way that I do when I have to explain New Zealand’s location as next to Australia.
There’s a long period of silence. The sound of an engine purring and wheels crunching in the dirt causes us both to whirl our heads and squint through the narrow passageway to see a ute turning in the gravel. We sit back at the table.
You like hash? asks Mohammed.
No, thanks, we don’t smoke.
Cocaine?
No, thank you.
Now we’re really keen to get out of here and we decide to wait out the front. Five minutes pass, then ten, and we’re still standing anxiously in front of the shack with no sign of any vehicles - or any mint tea. We’ve both had enough of the waiting, and of the men so blatantly staring at me, so we pay twice what we should for our non-existent tea, telling the group that we’re just going to wander over to the beach and return shortly.

We head away from the shack, not really knowing where we’re going when we notice a small boat in the harbour separating the beach from the town. It’s being rowed towards the pier where a small group of men stand awaiting its arrival. Guidebook bells ringing, we wander to the waterfront eagerly - and at the same time feigning as much nonchalance as we can muster, hoping like hell that we won’t have to return to the shack with our tails between our legs.
Amongst the group of Moroccan men waiting for the boat is a straggly Spaniard we’d seen that morning breakfasting in the one place in town that serves food during the daily Ramadan fasting. The presence of another foreigner makes us feel slightly less lost.

“Larache?” we ask the boat’s skipper, a thin man with ropey arms sticking out from the cutoff sleeves of his grubby white t-shirt. He grunts and holds out a hand to help me into the boat. I shuffle cautiously down the slippery rocks of the pier and clamber into the dinghy, trying not to let the wind open my long wrap around skirt as I take my seat amongst the Muslim men on board.
Once everybody is safely seated the man with the ropey arms pushes off and begins rowing. I relax as we glide slowly away from the unknown of the beach and towards the town which is home for the moment on the other side of the bay, lulled by the quiet slurp of the oars hitting the water.

If only we’d known when we came over that this was the way to travel. Fast, relaxed… and a tenth of the price of the taxi.

Other posts by Katie Llanos-Small