Epic travel fail: 300 kilometres away, I realised I’d forgotten my luggage

Barely 24 hours since arriving in Morocco’s Casablanca from Perth, I am off to Fes. But getting there is not without setbacks – perhaps an omen for what is to come.

“Sorry, the train is booked. Can I put you on the 6.30pm train in first class?” the ticketing assistant asks at Casablanca’s central train station, Casa Voyageurs. I now have an hour to kill and a further five hours of commuting, arriving around midnight.

Casa-Voyageurs train station in Casablanca.Credit: iStock

I am okay with some forced respite, relaxing my overused limbs and getting much-needed coffee. Perhaps inspired by Casablanca’s Medina walls, I create a fortress with my bags at a station cafe. Before I know it, it’s time to go.

Now, should I cram in a toilet visit? If I don’t, I will most likely sit cross-legged, resisting the urge. Tiny train toilets with questionable hygiene? No, thanks. I go to the restroom, leaving my suitcase outside the cubicle. (Good luck to whoever attempts to steal that heavy thing.) With minutes to spare, I head to the platform, feeling double relief. Phew.

Credit: Jamie Brown

The long train slowly enters the station and a frenzy follows, doors are swarmed. It’s a hop-on, ask-later scenario. I find my seat and attempt some shut-eye, chucking on my headphones, desperate to zone out. I start to daydream, sluggishly observing Morocco’s parched countryside. I eventually tap out, but not for long. My sleep is rudely interrupted by rolling suitcases and, worse, my thoughts.

My eyes widen, and I shoot up from my chair. My eyes dart around the room, scanning stowaways. I can feel everyone’s curious glares on me.

“What’s happened?” a passenger asks.

My mouth is open, but words are not coming out. It’s like my brain has gone into loading mode, reminiscent of Apple’s “wheel of death”, struggling to process it all. Where are my bags?

Three hours into my journey, I realise my faux pas. I utter “my luggage”. Concerned passengers offer assistance, but I remain a human statue. Thank goodness for a sudden bolt of quick thinking – my air tag! My hands shake as I open the app. My bag is right where I left it – Casablanca – almost 300 kilometres away.

I shake off my sudden speech impairment and explain the situation to a young male passenger. He then translates it to a train officer. I feel embarrassed, but I set aside my self-bashing to try to resolve Bag-gate. I’m just grateful I have my passport, laptop and wallet on me. Things could be worse.

I constantly check the app to see if my bag has moved an inch. It hasn’t.

After some time, the train officer reappears. My personal translator smiles as he shares good news: my bag has been found. It is right where I left it – outside the toilet cubicle. The joke is on me.

“Train officials can put my bag on the train and I can pick it up from Fes station, right?” I ask.

Dreams are dashed. I am told I must return to provide identification and payment to retrieve my bag. This already feels like the longest train ride, and the thought of doing it again sends my emotions into overdrive.

The following day, I catch the train back to Casablanca and am reunited with my belongings.

Two weeks later, after flying home, I stand at the conveyor belt in Perth, waiting for my “emotional baggage”. Bags upon bags pass by my overtired eyes. I eventually open my app again to see where mine is: still in Marrakesh. At least this time it’s not my fault.

The writer was a guest of Intrepid Travel in Morocco and travelled to Casablanca at her own expense.