Caged: A photo essay of Yogyakarta's Pasar Ngasem

I don’t normally get into strangers’ cars, but this time, I was desperate. I was on the side of a road on a mountain in Morocco, a good distance from the nearest town. I had walked for an hour from Chefchaouen in the blazing sun lugging my 15 kilo pack, seemingly not getting any closer to my destination: the station where I would take the bus to Fes.

When l left the inn that morning, I was too stubborn to get a taxi to the buses knowing it was only 3 km away. I thought I could find the station on my own, yet as I walked along the deserted roads, the option of taxis quickly disappeared.

In a way, I was glad to be in silence. As a lone female foreigner in Morocco, I was constantly hassled by outspoken locals, a common experience for travellers.

“Japanese? Konichiwa”, they would shout as I walked by.

We met when he pulled over on the side of the road for a smoke. He was a middle-aged balding man with light skin, dressed in a traditional djellaba.

“Ou est le gare d’autobus.?” I asked.

Where is the bus station?

He didn’t understand. I would later learn a bus station in Morocco is a ‘gare routiere’ and ‘gare d’autobus’ is only used in Canada.

I explained I wanted to go to Fes. He told me to get into his van and I thought he would drive me to the station. He had kind eyes and I was tired of being lost; my feet were weary and my backpack straps dug into my shoulders.

I sat in his van, alert and cautious, looking at the sloping twists of the mountain roads ahead. I was ready to jump out of the van at any time if I felt uncomfortable.

He asked what I was doing in Morocco.

“Voyager.”

I asked if he travelled. He hadn’t ever been outside of Africa. His name was Mohammed and he lived in Tetouan.

We approached a fork in the road and he asked if he should go to Tetouan or Ouezzane. Tetuouan was where he was going, but Ouezzane would bring me closer to Fes. He didn’t know directions to Chefchaouen’s bus station. I didn’t want to inconvenience my new acquaintance, so I said Tetuouan.

We passed towns filled with smooth white stone houses and lush green trees.

He asked if I was married. I said no and asked if he had a wife. He didn’t.

As we got closer to his town, he offered me a place to sleep in his house and said I could take a bus to Fes in the morning. I didn’t want to push my luck so I politely declined.

When we reached Tetuouan, he dropped me off near the taxis and I thanked him for the ride.

I took a taxi to the bus station.