It’s mid-November and my son is on the phone, “You and I are going to Morocco next month Papa,” he announces.
“We are?” I reply and he says, “Yep.”
Apparently he has had to cancel some trip or other and needs to use his replacement ticket by Christmas.
“Morocco is the coolest place that airline flies to. Trust me,” he assures me. “You’ll love it. I’ve got it all planned out. I’m going to sign us up for a camel drive into the Sahara and we’ll sleep in mud huts.” Such prospects are both intriguing and concerning for a 64-year-old man with a glass back, but I am no killjoy. “When do we leave?”
I sigh with a healthy amount of trepidation. I don’t know if you know what it’s like to walk into a virtually empty airport at midday, but to be in Munich International right now is positively ominous. On the plus side, no standing in line, security seems positively giddy to have someone walk though, and both my flights are at most a quarter filled.
Off the plane in Marrakech, Paul is waiting at the airport with a look of terror. They have announced the Moroccan boarder is to be closed the next day at midnight and we will have to leave. My gift to him… “Let’s have fun with what little time we have.”
Our driver can only take us to the edge of Jemaa el-fna, the famous square of the city. I had heard of the famous storytelling in the square, but never expected at night that it came alive. Groups of joyous people are gathered around musicians, dancing in abandon. The young man in the flat next to ours meets us and escorts us to a winding and shabby street, then up to our apartment. Of course, we immediately drop our stuff under the obligatory picture of the Moroccan king and a dash up a ladder to the terrace. 360 degrees of other rooftop terraces, towers, twinkling lights, Moroccan voices shouting to one another and even the jackhammer of a street crew somewhere below strangely adds to the chaotic excitement. Street work at midnight?
Sleep somehow comes, but the 5:00am call to worship shocks me awake (damn, I forgot that was coming), however, heavenly sleep returns. It’s 7:00am and we are quick out of the flat and down to our chaotic lane. The shops are open with grills cooking succulent breads and meats right on the street. My travel buddy Paul seems to have completely shed his anxiety as we are now booked at 3:30pm on a flight to Montpellier, France. This means we have until 12:30 to soak up Marrakech. I love strolling along the vast square, multicolored spices out on display, metal work, garments, fruits and vegetables, plates and jewelry…my eyes are filled to the brim with imaginary. Yes, expected “hello’s” follow our steps and for a few paces, men move toward us hoping to sell their wares or receive a handout, but these huskers seem to have little heart in it. Perhaps the lack of tourists has taken the moxie out of them. To avoid eye contact and keep moving is the best defense for little do they know I have no Moroccan currency to share. I can’t help myself and snap a picture of the outrageously dressed water sellers in the distance. I don’t know if you can make it out, but they wear fantastic hats and flowing red robes. I also can’t resist to take a peek at the snake charmers with flutes blaring and yes, King Cobras rising up from their baskets. (I thought that was something you only see in the movies). I never expected the lush green of the parks surrounding the great mosque. Palms and olive trees hanging over carpets of grass and bushes. The fountains beguiled the notion we are in a desert country and only some miles away lies the great expanses of the Sahara. The ancient mosque we circle was first built in 1100, with soaring adobe walls and a great tower as though the hour and minute hand of a clock were frozen together forever at noon.
I happen to be in a cemetery and typical of an insensitive tourist, I take a quick picture before my son’s admonishment and shouts from the caretaker let me know I should have first took note of the sign with a slash through a hastily drawn camera. Paul and I have just enough time to grab breakfast at an open-air cafe on the square. He orders the tea and I a juice thick with orange slices and flavor. The eggs arrive with strips of salted meats, Khobz (flat bread) and a sweet bread (Msemmen) which we bathe in honey. Like everything else this honey is thick and sweet. I love to be on the square with all the music, conversations and bustle. A quick dash to the apartment, we throw our stuff in our suitcases and taxi to the airport. Christ, what a scene it is. We line up at Air Iberia gate and I can feel the tension around me. Panic on all the faces not knowing if they will get out by midnight. All the flights in or out the next day have been canceled.
“Excuse me,” I hear a voice to my left. “They said we can’t get on the plane without FFP2 masks but they don’t sell them anywhere.”
I can see that he and his friend are wearing surgical masks. “I’ve got a couple of extra,” I tell him and dig them out.
“Do you think we’ll get out?” he asks.
I look over to his friend who standing looking white as a sheet. I think it comes from both of us being tour guides, but Paul looks at their reservation and rattles off what he learned on the internet that morning. I give him all the assurances I can with oodles of confidence (which I don’t really have, but I make a good show of it). A woman then approaches us with a look of abject terror on her face. Though she has a man helping her, she wants to confirm all her details with us. “Will the flight really take off, do they accept our proof of vaccination etc.” I dish her out the appropriate mask as she too does not have one and we calmly answer all her questions as best we can. She even offers that we can stay on her floor in Montpellier if we can’t find a place when we arrive and we offer to keep an eye on her when we land to insure she gets home safely.
Now I hear shouts and screams from another part of the airport. There is a massive crowd at the Turkish Airways counter and hands are being thrown in the air, suitcases shaken and held above heads and protests begin to be chanted. There looks to be well over 300 people there and there is but one young man behind the desk taking all of the abuse. Obviously, the poor man has just announced that all the Turkish Airways flights are now filled. The crowd begins to march about the airport accompanied by screams and angry chants. A few minutes of this, with the mass moving like a mad serpent around the hall and the mob makes for the doors and they boisterously march out to the parking lot for more protest. Finally coming up to our person behind the counter, I give her a smile, make a dumb joke or two and our seats are secure and all is well.
So I say, “Mae alsalama Marrakech, it’s been a crazy 15 hours…French Riviera, bonjour, nous arrivons.”
Creative Credits
- Written by
- Curt Milburn
- Image courtesy
- Curt Milburn
