Wednesday 11 October 2017

We arrive in Casablanca at 1pm, after an 8 hour flight from Dubai.  Emirates offered wonderful service and an extremely comfortable flight.  We are full of praise this time.  Our luggage had been checked through all the way from Amman (we had an 11 hour stopover in Dubai and had booked a hotel room in the terminal so we got some sleep) but when it didn’t come through after an hour at the carousel we were convinced it was in Romania. Or somewhere it shouldn’t be.  However, it had been removed from the carousel 50 minutes earlier by an efficient baggage handler because it said “urgent international transfer” and so he kindly hid it to a corner in the terminal for us.  Eventually we found it and exited to the public area where we had been told we would find our guide.  No guide. After another 15 minutes we went outside, and indeed there he was.  We were met by Obi-Wan Kenobi (aka Mohammed)

 

 

And our driver Jillali,who was dressed in a black suit with collar and tie. It is 36 degrees.  He looks like an undertaker.  We enter the hearse and are spirited away to tour the huge Hassan II Mosque, which was opened in 1993.  It can house up to 25,000 worshippers.  Obi waits outside and the undertaker in the hearse.  We then re-enter the vehicle and commence our one hour drive north  to Morocco’s capital, Rabat, on the Atlantic.  It quickly becomes obvious to us both that Obi is not the guide we want to spend the next three weeks with.  He is extremely traditional, is strongly accented so that neither of us can easily understand him and has not a hint of levity.  However, we know that we need to give him the benefit of the doubt and that he may, after all, work out well.  Finally he goes to sleep in the front seat, giving us some respite.  Until the undertaker wakes him up.  Three times.  He awakens with a start and just starts talking again, as if the narcolepsy had never kicked in.  To hear him we have to lean forward in our seats and strain our ears.  To make matters worse, Obi doesn’t like air conditioning and so the car windows are open to all the ambient noise.  And the heat.

When we arrive at our lovely accommodation in Rabat, in an old private villa, we email our travel agent with a heads up that perhaps Obi is not the man for us, but we  offer tomorrow as the test day.

We go downstairs for dinner and find James Morrison in the bar.  Shouldn’t he have been in Jericho?

Thursday 12 October

Obi and Jillali (still in black suit) take us on a tour of Rabat, the greenest city in Morocco. It is very pretty.  We visit the old Roman city of Chella and the Andalucian  gardens, all at Obi’s pace.  Heaven forfend if we want to take another route.

 

 

We visit the Medina, where Obi walks us through the bustling markets, with strict instructions not to take photos. It’s a shame because there is so much to shoot.  The only things Obi points out are the women’s underwear (which we have mistaken for pyjamas), and the bakery which he says is for lazy women – why buy bread when you should be making it?  We, as is to be expected, defy orders and Cherrie takes a few clandestine shots, of black olive oil soap and some cute tortises, which are apparently for pets not consumption.

After the Medina we visit the Kasbah,  En route see lots of hawkers, who Obi says are refugees from Africa and who are ruining the country, for the ‘real people’.  This man must be related to Tony surely?  The Kasbah must have one of the best views in Rabat.  It’s right on the Atlantic and we see why it was the first place settled.

Originally we were to visit the botanic gardens but Cherrie has researched them and is not overly keen.  We ask to visit the Museum Mohamed VI of Modern and Contempory Art instead but Obi resists and eventually seeks permission from his local office for this outrageous deviation in the itinerary.

But first to lunch.  At a restaurant of Obi’s choice, whether we like it or not.  Mercifully he does not join us. We are noting the major language barrier in Morocco. The two main languages are Arabic and French, which is understandable, but no English written anywhere.  Di McDonald, we are missing your language skills.  We recognise none of the dishes on the menu (we can always find our way around a menu in France) and as a result we consume some rather unpalatable fish, albeit with wonderful ocean views.

The Museum is wonderful.  This time Obi accompanies us, and takes more photos  on his mobile than Cherrie does on her camera.  He clearly is surprised at how pleasant the gallery is.

There was even an abstract of us rolling around in the Dead Sea

We return to our lovely accommodation in time for a swim in their delightful pool surrounded by the beautiful gardens

An email to our travel agent confirming our concern that we don’t want to spend any more time with Obi is responded to with admirable sensitivity and speed.  Obi is called to administer his special skills on a delicate job in Casablanca and tomorrow we proceed to the magnificent blue city of Chefchaouen with just our driver, to pick a local day guide in situ.