The first picture would have been shot in JFK. The airport was interesting. People everywhere were walking around with masks on (some were wearing them on their head or neck…I’m not sure they understood that they need to cover your mouth to protect you). I sat next to an AeroMexico flight headed for Mexico city…that was mask central. I hope not to be the first Swine Flu case in Mali.
My camera was tucked away in my carry-on luggage as I boarded the plane in New York. But picture number two would have been taken as I made my way to my seat on the Royal Air Maroc airliner. I was near the back, and this was a big plane. I had just set my stuff down, when I heard loud crying. I looked up, and in the other aisle, three FBI agents were leading a young African (American?) man down the aisle, video camera shoved in his face. Crying and stripped down to his boxers, the young man was obviously distressed. He kept saying, “why me?” “This isn’t fair!” “Why did you come for me here?”
Soon, my seat mate arrived, a Guinean woman whose father is a diplomat in the States. We began comparing notes. We concluded that he was either smuggling drugs (but smuggling drugs from New York to Casablanca, didn’t seem like a likely route), or that he was wanted for some other felony, and the feds picked up on it when his passport was scanned by the airline. The word terrorist was bouncing around, but I preferred not to think about that. Either way, it left the passengers on the plane feeling very uneasy for the first couple hours of our flight.
Not that I would have actually taken a picture of her, but we’ll call her picture number three. The Guinean lady and I had several good conversations. We spoke mostly English. She finally asked me, halfway through our flight, if I spoke French. I ashamedly admitted that I did, but that it wasn’t very good. So from then on, we had Franglais conversations. And I had other French practice listening to the flight attendants. Everything was announced in Arabic, French, and choppy English.
The plane took off at around 11pm. They served us dinner at around 1 am. The food was good, but I was tired and wanted to sleep. I slept fitfully for the next four hours (I was on the aisle and kept getting bumped), and then they woke us up for breakfast. The sun was coming up over Morocco, and it was beautiful—the grain fields below and the early morning light.
Picture four—the passengers right around me. I had been watching the several Moroccan families around me. They didn’t seem to know each other, but they all helped one another. One of the passengers in front of me was an old lady who apparently could not read. When she made it to our part of the plane, she handed her ticket to the Moroccan man next to me. He helped her find her seat, and put her luggage up in the rack. When it came time to fill out our customs form, she handed her form and passport back to the man sitting next to me. He in turn gave it to a young man sitting at the end of the aisle to fill out. (The man sitting across from me had a family of 5 for which to fill-out forms.)
The young man at the end of the aisle was definitely not related, because when he sat down next to the man and his baby, he had asked, “Does her mom want to sit here?” But the mom was in aisle behind with two other kids. During the flight, the young man would often hold the other man’s baby, help him get the baby settled into its seat, and hold the bottle for the baby if the man was otherwise occupied. I’m not sure whether he was just a really nice guy, or was trying to make the most of being next to a baby on a trans-Atlantic flight. But for the most part it seemed to be a Moroccan trait to be mutually helpful.
I had 15 or 16 hour lay-over in Casablanca, and I was toying with the idea of getting a hotel or exploring the downtown area. So when we began our descent, I leaned over and asked the two guys across from me about what I should go see. The young guy was again the one called on to help. He told me that I should go to the coast line to see the mosque and the light house. He told me to take the train and then catch a taxi.
When I stood up to deplane, the couple behind me, told me that there was a hospitality desk that I could go talk to, and they would give me advice on hotels and help me get there. (more on this hospitality desk in the next post) So after making it through customs and waiting for my one carry-on bag, which had been checked jet-side and had to be claimed with all the normal bags, I ran into the young Moroccan man again. We small-talked for a little bit, and my bag came out. I grabbed it and went to find the hospitality desk. I had planned on grabbing a room, taking a shower, grabbing a nap and then going out to see the town. However, I couldn’t find this hospitality desk, and no one seemed to know what I was talking about. So I changed over some dollars to the local currency, Dirhams.
Picture five would have been me catching a glimpse of the young Moroccan man heading toward the train and me stalking him. I followed him to the train station, which left from the outside of the airport. I figured I would head into town on the train and find a hotel somewhere there. I ended up, “conveniently,” right behind the guy in the train line. When he turned around he smiled a half smile. I smiled back, and tried to pretend like I was neither some freaky stalker, nor the completely lost tourist that I really was. He helped me get my train ticket to the right part of town.
When we boarded the train, I intentionally chose another car, just to prove that I was neither stalker nor clueless. I managed to get off at the right stop, though they were not announced. I walked into the station and was approached by a taxi driver. He would have been picture number six.
He was friendly, and spoke a little English. So between my French and his English, we talked about the coast line, what to see, and the city of Casablanca. He told me that it would cost me 100 dirhams ($12) to go to the mosque. I agreed. I felt a little silly carrying my back-pack and carry on all around town, but I was feeling pretty awake and was wondering if I needed to get a hotel room. And besides, the last time I had a long layover in another country, I didn’t make it out of the airport, and I have always regretted that (Paris).
While driving, he answered a call on his cell phone, and promised someone that he would be there in less than 10 minutes. I knew that the coastline was quite a distance from our stop, but I figured he was driving fast enough that maybe that was accurate. He was weaving in and out of traffic, as was everyone else. It was organized chaos, and almost fun. Horns would start blaring the moment a light turned green.
We finally stopped at a corner. He jumped out and greeted the people that I can only assume were the ones he had taken the call from. He then showed me on a map that I was just a block or two from the coast, and explained that because it was labor day (which it was) there was a parade on the main street, so he wouldn’t be able to get me all the way there. And like an idiot, I smiled, paid him, and started walking.
After going six blocks, I knew the jerk had lied to me. But I was more mad at myself for being a stupid tourist. So dragging my carry-on over the brick sidewalks, I tried to make the best of it. I did manage to snap a few pictures of the downtown, most of which didn’t turn out. I followed my nose to the salty coast—a full 10 blocks from where he dropped me off. Then I had to hike another 3 blocks down to the mosque. When I finally finished my day, I caught another cab back to the train station. This cab took me twice the distance and since he turned on his counter, it only cost me 20 dirhams, a fifth of what the other guy charged me. I told the new cabby about what the other guy did. He offered to take me to the police station to turn the guy in…but I didn’t remember the guys license number, and I didn’t have my camera!
The coast line was fun. I didn’t go into the mosque, just walked around the outside. The minaret is 250 meters high. The central prayer room is big enough to fit St. Peter’s Basillica inside. The dome of the mosque is fully retractable and motorized. It was an impressive sight. The light house was also very cool. I have included pictures, for your enjoyment and to save us another 2000 words. Shortly after I shot the long distance shot of the light house, my camera died. So that’s all your getting picture wise.
But after all that walking, I was just plain worn out. So for much of the afternoon, I sat on the break wall, and just enjoyed the afternoon sunlight and warmth. Soon, a guy came and sat down next to me. He talked to me for about an hour and a half. I decided early on in the conversation that this guy was a little off, and possibly a little sketch. So I was pretty reserved. He claimed he was a Christian and quoted a bunch of pieces of scripture to me. But like I said, he was off, a couple dirhams short of a cab ride to the mosque, if you will, and much of what he said simply didn’t make sense. When he didn’t leave after the hour and a half, I decided it was time for me to leave. I decided to make my way back to the airport. I was tired, but didn’t want to pay for a hotel for only like three hours of sleep. (Later that night, I decided it would have been worth any price.) I said goodbye to the guy. He asked for money, I gave him some, but not enough for his liking. When I explained that I had a very limited number of dirhams and needed to save it for the ride back to the airport, he offered to take me somewhere to change over more money. I declined. A back alley would definitely have been a place to change money—my hands to his. Like I said…a couple cabbies short of a crazy Moroccan city.
I made my way, uneventfully back to the airport. I still had 7 hours till my flight took off. Royal Air Maroc wasn’t even listing the gate of my flight, so I couldn’t figure which security point to go through. (And the worker from Royal Air Maroc said I would have to wait until it was posted.) I grabbed lunch and then milled around the airport for a while. Picture ten would have been of me curled up on a luggage push-cart, with the caption, “Do not be lured by the siren song! You will only end up with a numb butt and an incredible headache.”’ After 2 hours of milling, and still no gate assignment, I was exhausted, and I got one of those crazy, exhausted thoughts. I grabbed a luggage push-cart and wheeled it into a corner. I pretty much figured this was the most genius idea I had ever had. I set up my bags in a seemingly comfortable way, and promptly fell asleep. 45 minutes later, I woke up, barely able to move, unable to feel my legs, and with a throbbing headache. Like I said…one gate short of an airport. (Err…wait, that was the other guy)
I finally decided to go through a security point with the largest number of gates. I figured being able to have an actual chair was worth going through the wrong security point. (It turned out that picked well.) On the other side, I found a seat and, of course, couldn’t sleep. I milled around more. Finally, a guy sitting several seats down from me, came and sat right next to me. (Leave it to Africans to infringe on your personal space.)
We struck up a conversation, which was very fun. He would have definitely been picture 11 (or whatever number we’ve made it to). He basically told me his life story and showed me pictures on his laptop. He is an engineer from Tunisia, who goes down into Guinea and Mauritania to build phone towers for cell phone companies. Some of his pictures were very cool. He treks out into really remote places to build these towers. He got more reflective as the conversation went on. He started to tell me that he wasn’t happy because he wasn’t married, but that he couldn’t get married yet because he didn’t have money for it. He told me that life was pretty much about making money.
He then asked me what I thought life was all about. And I told him. And we spent another 2 hours talking about Christianity, Islam, and what God wants for us in this life. It was really awesome. We talked all the way up to my boarding time. I said good-bye, told him I would be praying for him, and boarded my plane.
A very exhausting day, but full of adventure, and well worth it. Even the 100 dirhams for a cab ride.
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