THE SUN IS STILL hiding behind weathered stone ramparts high above the old Moroccan port of Essaouira, but already day-to-day business is well underway at the small city’s bustling Place des Grands Taxis. Drivers are demisting cracked windscreens with filthy wads of old newspaper, oil-covered mechanics are coaxing weary engines back to life through clouds of thick blue smoke. Long-distance travellers are huddled together, waiting in small groups for a ride, their faces concealed from the cold by hooded woollen Djellabas.
Everyone is eager to get on the road early and beat the unrelenting heat of the day, which makes sitting in a cramped vehicle – with up to six passengers, their luggage, and driver – unbearable. So, most eyes track the chief broker who busily manages operations by the entrance to the whitewashed compound, where a fleet of 30-odd sky-blue cars is parked. At regular intervals he barks orders at drivers and passengers, orchestrating proceedings using a rectangular piece of card on which he scores a long list of numbers, controlling every vehicle coming in and out of this organised chaos.
Just before 8am, one particular taxi appears in
