8. Morocco: Rabat, Casablanca to Marrakesh

 Rabat, Monday, October 25, 1982

(HELENA) We started the day by taking the bus out to the Senegalese embassy.   It's a long way, so it was quite a luxury to know what bus to take and then catch it; just shows how long we've been here. We walked in, waited a bit, and they handed us our visas, no problem, no charge. Nice!!

Figuring we had all of our possible business concluded, we sauntered over to the U. S. embassy--to let them know we didn't need their help any more--so Dan said.  I have a feeling it has more to do with the fact that there were some V-E-R-Y N-I-C-E secretaries there. Talk about coincidences. I'd say that just two minutes before we were admitted into the "inner sanctum," a couple of women went in. When we entered the older woman was telling the people there that she had finally found the embassy for Mauritania.  Dan and I laughed because that was precisely the one we'd searched for, never found, and had decided no longer existed. That friendly laugh led from one thing to another and we found ourselves talking to a couple of rather interesting women from the US, Shirley (not her real name) and Maureen. Shirley had found out that it is possible to get a visa to Mauritania, but the route she'd found was through Las Palmas, Canary Islands.  We decided to go ahead and try (oh, we also found out that we were all staying at the same hotel -- recommended by Africa on the Cheap, which we also both have), so we had one of the secretaries type up the letter that Shirley had said was needed.  It was a letter (in fancy French) introducing us as US citizens.

Our new friends had told us more or less how to get to this hidden embassy, so we walked (more than an hour) and found it after a bit of circling around.  Several men were leaving when we arrived. At first they said it was closed, but when we said we wanted visas, one of them said that section was still open, BUT (a kind of superior look came over his face) "you need a letter of application from your embassy".  His face visibly fell when we triumphantly held up our letter.  We went in the gate and were met by another man who was going out.  He must have been the consul, because he had us follow him upstairs, asked for our passports and while we filled out our forms, simply stamped the passports. We had not expected anything so easy (and we'd left the hotel with no idea that we'd have anything to do with Mauritania), so... there we were without pictures and not enough money in local currency[1]. The visas were over $US 6 apiece (40 Dirhams). Someday we'll learn to always be prepared. (Ha, ha.)

We came back to the room to have one of our new inventions: yogurt dogs. Since cheese is more expensive here, we've taken to buying yogurt (either Yoplait or Dannon).  At first we alternated with the one spoon we had handy, but then we started dipping the delicious brown bread into it et voila!. Quite tasty. For breakfast we had our other new dish. We slice a hard-boiled egg (they sell them – with shells -- at bread stalls) and a tomato and put it into a half of the big round bread. They sell the eggs along with some kind of seasoned salt.

We needed very urgently to change money and go to the post office, so we did that and went directly to meet Ahmed, Dan's public shower acquaintance. Did we ever have a lesson in hospitality!   He is a mechanic in the military and is now studying intensive English in order to go to Texas for six months of study. He is one of eleven children, but only four or so live there with their mother (his father is dead). We went through a back door where he introduced us to 3 sisters and a woman cousin, before going to the front. I guess you'd call it the parlor because he said all Moroccan homes have one room kept especially for receiving guests.

We talked a bit (in English because he wants to practice every chance he gets) while Dan and I tried to avoid looking at the sweet pastries on the table.  His sister, Fatiha (the most outgoing one who even teasingly suggested that Ahmed and I would make a good match) brought in a tray with small glasses and a small teapot. Finally we were to taste the mint tea we see all over the place.  He poured some into a glass, poured it back in (to mix), then poured a little into his glass and tasted it. Later he explained that they always do that.

So we talked while sipping good, sweet mint tea and eating really good sweets. He at least told us that it is an offense if guests finish what is put before them, so Dan and I really made a valiant effort to comply. He explained that the different types of dress are due to regions and choice rather than social class. The robe that so many women and men wear is called DJELLABA. Fatiha came in at one point (naturally they stayed in the other room) and insisted on giving me a Moroccan nightgown. No way to refuse, so I'll be leaving with a souvenir after all. I agree with Dan that the military here seem much more dignified and friendly than our dear "jackboots" in Bolivia[2].

We were there an hour, then returned to the hotel to talk to Shirley and Maureen. Shirley is about 45, has done a lot of traveling, and describes herself as an unpublished travel writer.  We decided to take her advice and try tomorrow for a Nigerian visa. Maureen (who is a lawyer from Houston probably in her late 20s) was refused one in London, so they're going to try at every possible stop. We all went out to eat at our nearby pension (had tagine, as there was no couscous) and then we took them to our favorite cafe con leche place. Since they both speak French (and Shirley is studying “Classic” Arabic) and they are going "our way", we tentatively decided to try to travel together to Mauritania. It should be interesting because Shirley is a CHARACTER.  They hitchhiked across from London through Spain with a sign saying “DAKAR”.

Rabat, Oct. 26

(DAN) This morning we trucked out to the Nigerian embassy with Shirley and Maureen to inquire about visas. I did not sleep very well worrying about it because Nigeria is our principal stop and reputedly the hardest visa to get, period. I went armed to the teeth with semi-official documents from Kansas State University, but apparently, we are not going to need any documents, only our passport (still at the Ambassade de Mauretanie) and three pictures each (I only had two). So Helena walked all the way back to get the picture, and I walked to another part of town to get the passports. They are to be picked up tomorrow at noon. This stop in Rabat was really worth it, the three visas would have cost us $US 90 all told through the visa service in Washington DC, and our entire stay in Rabat has cost less than half that!

We took it easy this afternoon as the next few days are going to be hard. Shirley and Maureen are in more of a hurry than we, but it will be worth using their French and Arabic to get across the trouble spot of Spanish Sahara. They are both lawyers, but Shirley "spends more time as an unpublished author" (travel books) and has been all over at least twice. Oh yes, she lives in London, but grew up in Tennessee.  Maureen is from Houston but travels on an Irish passport.

(HELENA) I must add with great sadness that we had our last cafe au lait grande. I hope we find them in other places, but this place was dear to our hearts. Even the waiters were "dear old chaps". Sniff.

Rabat-Casablanca, Wednesday, Oct. 27

(HELENA)  We packed up everything again, , stopped at the post office, and then I settled in for a long wait at the Gare (train station) with our packs. Dan walked (1 hour to and 1 hour back) to the Nigerian embassy, just to be told that the man we needed had gone out of town and would be back at 13:30. Rather discouraging, especially since it made us miss our 12:59 train.    Poor Dan then had to go all the way back. I naturally worried, especially when Maureen and Shirley showed up for their train to Marrakech (shared with us to Casablanca), but Dan finally showed up with the visas in hand. It was a strange case because, whereas the Nigerian consulate had refused to give Maureen a visa in London, here they handed her one, no questions asked.

The ride to Casablanca was a short one.  Much of the trip Shirley kept insisting that Casablanca is not worth a stop, "nothing to see". We stopped anyway, even if for only one night.  We had previously agreed to meet them tomorrow at 18:00 at the Marrakech Gare.  We already knew that “Rick’s Café” does not exist and never did.  In any case we were forewarned that Casablanca would be a modern industrial blight compared to other parts of the country.

We saw a good bit of modern Casablanca, as we had to walk for an hour to get to the Youth Hostel.  Of course we couldn't really appreciate it because of our packs and because it was rather difficult to follow our tourist pamphlet map.  One thing we learned:  most of the streets converge at small, nondescript plazuelas.

We were quite pleased with the hostel (our first one) and even chatted in Spanish with the guy at the desk.  The hostel is on the edge of the medina (old town), so we walked through a corner of it to a place on Mohammed V Place. (Every town we've been to has its biggest avenue named after him, the father of Hassan II, the present king.  And naturally there is also always a Hassan II Charia or Avenue.) After our so-so couscous we decided to take a little trip into the medina.  As Dan later said: "It was a zoo in there!" It was night, and for some reason (perhaps a holiday) hundreds of kids were out playing little drums and harmonicas, the narrow streets were full and NOISY!  Naturally, Dan was offered "chocolate cigarettes" some six times. The medina here (slums) was much more menacing than in Rabat.

We sort of got lost, but eventually got back before the hostel's 10:30 curfew.  Dan talked mainly with a Canadian who is on his way to Dakar for a year.  I in turn had a few words with a French woman who has been "a believer" for nine years. She even wrote a translation of a bit of the Koran for me.

Casablanca--Marrakech, Thursday, 28 October, 1982

(DAN) My first night in a youth hostel was, I hope, not representative of the organization. There were ten of us on five bunk beds (mine was a combination bunk bed/cradle, and I was on top) in a small airless room. The bunk beds were long enough, save that there was no room to put our packs, so I had to share space with my huge pack at the bottom of the bed. 

Lights out.  First I found that I could not shift from side to side without making my Swedish friend below sea-sick. The remaining oxygen was soon processed and it got hotter. I found that experienced hostellers took water bottles to bed with them. As I narrowed my goals in life to a single drink of water, my neighbors would wake up and quench their thirst. I could hear every flap of their epiglottises. Then bottom right began to snore, but when my mate started discoursing in Swedish, I stumbled down, dragged my sleeping bag and pack out into the hall and finished the night on cool, refreshing tiles…Until people started stepping over me at 5:30. You seldom hear me complain, but when I do...

We had to admit that Shirley was right about its being an industrial port of 1 million people, mostly built since 1900. It did not have the exquisite planning of Rabat, and we got lost three times, but it was still worth a visit. We overheard an Australian chap draw a blank when he asked about Humphrey Bogart's place, so we did not waste any time looking for any 'Rick's Cafe'. It did get foggy at night, but we weren't at the airport….

There was some mix-up about our train, and we had to change tracks, but our "4th class" ride was enjoyable and comfortable. We rode another couple of hours on the wide plain with eucalyptus trees and not much else. Then we passed through very barren and eroded landscape with small irrigated areas in some parts of the valleys.

Landscape between Casablanca and Marrakesh

The first thing one notices here is the presence of the military. We had passed two military trains on the way, and the train station has about 6 tracks all full of closely guarded green shipping containers. Then I realized that this is the southernmost point of the rail system, so much of the war material must go through here.

Once you get out onto the street, all of the houses are one shade or another of red-brown.  That may sound neither beautiful nor useful, but combined with shaded streets and flowering hedges, it has its own air.  Helena and I both really like it. No two houses appear to have the same combination. 

Near the king’s palace, Marrakesh.

After touring the town for a few hours and setting up our tent at the handy campsite, we went to meet Shirley and Maureen at the train station. They appeared in an old Citroen which belongs to a new (British) friend they had made. Shirley was looking for a childhood friend reported to live here, and she ran into this man instead. He teaches Shakespeare in the university, and recently converted to Islam so as to marry a woman here. He drove us to the campground and we had mint tea together.

As I finish writing, it is getting dark and the muezzins are calling to prayer.

Marrakesh campground.  Hanging laundry out of reach at watchman’s insistence.

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[1] We had travelers checks for the whole trip, passports, plus our return tickets from Johannesburg on our bodies at all times.  This was of course a couple of decades before ATMs, internet and eTickets.

[2] We both grew up under military governments.  Even as we traveled, Bolivia was experimenting with democracy again after many years under a stream of military dictators. 30 years later, after a few high points and many low points we still are in a democracy.  This includes a peaceful transition to a government with the first Indigenous President in the Western Hemisphere.