I am on a bus, to where I hear you cry? Well if I have done everything right on this beautiful sunny Friday morning then I am on my to way to a Berber village at the foot of the Atlas Mountains, if I haven’t, well I guess some other adventure awaits.
In the haze of the morning, the dust and the sand from the almost forgotten deserts are only just allowing me to see the mountains in the distance as we leave the city, they are peaking their peaks through the haze while they are being slowly warmed by the early morning sun. they are welcome a sight as I never get to see them as much as I would like in the city.
Along the route is a Marrakech I have not seen, many building sites building better housing for the poor under the great leadership of the kings authority and other buildings which will house tourists while they are here hiding from the city, sipping cocktails by the pool and soaking up the Moroccan sun.
The smell on this bus is the same as any other bus I have been on, nostrils just as overcrowded as the bus and the city. I am sure I am now on the right bus and as we leave the city and start seeing villages and open mountains roads everything begins to start making sense.