And then two hours behind schedule at 2:30 a.m., the bus arrives, already full. We are divided up, Arjun in front (to later regale a Berber woman all night with his stories and share tapioca chips with) and Anna and I scrunched unhappy and apprehensive at the back, in between two men.
As the ride begins, jasmine water is splashed from a bottle onto the aisle. The passengers get a little less restless.Black plastic bags are handed out to contain puke.For someone severely bus sick, my position is unfavourable at the moment. I'm on the last seat, the drive is a winding one into the valley, I have barely enough space for me and my sleeping bag and am disastrously far from the window.
At four a.m. the man next to me begins to fidget. At four fifteen he wakes the people in front of him up and extracts a pile of plastic bags from them. By four thirty all I hear from him are heaving, rustling plastic and wretching sounds.
This is the journey from hell. But atleast it got us somewhere really special, where I had one of the best dinner experiences of my life... and the walks and the silences and the abandoned kasbahs were bonus...
