I am in bed with a stinking cold and have messed up the little bit of teaching I have. The Morning Star has picked up on the fact that my wealthy boss is shelving all us Brits but in world where Trump only succeeds in outdoing himself in awfulness not surprisingly no one else, either in the family or in the media have picked up on. Only one person, someone who might be about to inherit half a million, asked if I would look for another job! But of course none of knows how much money we will need to survive. But it makes me feel furtive about spending money in case anyone thinks I shouldn't be treating myself, but treating myself I have. In truth, I booked my £52 flights away before I knew I was about to be sacked, but then I decided that if I was going back to Morocco, I should finally experience life in a riad and explore the joys of rail travel in the country,
 |
| thyme bread and fresh orange |
I can't remember how old N was when we went to Morocco, we stayed near the beach in a tiny village near Tangiers. He loved the swimming pool so much he lived in it. On the last day we even went to the airport in our swimming costumes we were so determined to make the most of the holiday. But we also had the chance to visit an hillside market, face Tangiers hecticness and even take a bus just around. N, by then was already experiencing the racism of Britain, so to suddenly be in a country where people called him brother was rather overwhelming. However, in the small town with fewer tourists, he was almost plucked away from me by a man who thought this little street boy was pestering the white woman.
 |
| Jemaa el Fnaa |
Going back this time, my aim was mostly shallow, I had explored doing a proper trip via Spain and across or even staying with a Workaway family, but both ideas came to nought, so I just decided to grab some winter sun in Marrakech and in the process drop in on Casablanca, for what I hope will be obvious reasons.
 |
| Casablanca cafe |
Because I was arriving late at night the riad recommended getting a taxi, but what is the point of a £26 plane ticket if the riad quotes a 25 euro price for the pick up. Yet, I knew that the riad was in the midst of the inpenetrable medina. And that sort of set the tone for much of my time there. I was relaxed, in fact I enjoyed being there, but there was always an underlying concern that I would not quite get where I was going to In the end to my surprise Booking.com, who as we know are not my favourite people, offered a cheaper taxi booking service. In my naivite I assumed someone would just wait for me with my name showing, but no having failed to read the instructions I was beginning to panic, my phone was not working and no one was picking up. I went around and around again ,and then suddenly saw a faint note with my name. Having paid to get to the hotel I was nevertheless surprised to be told that the taxi couldn't take me to the riad, as no cars are allowed that deep into the space. So they ring the riad ahead and someone meets one to guide one into the space. Once in that is your existence, wondering the maze wondering the maze again and sometimes stopping, trying to make sense of the route and get mesmerized by the maze again. The first day, I walked a lot, got my bearings, almost got knocked down a couple of times, and had a sense of my part of the place. the breakfast was sumptous, and I had a lovely hamam and massage but had messed up the money element of the trip and there after could not work out whether to change more or just see what happened. In the end buying a few things in the market in Euros I eeked out my dirham just to the end, but I probably should have been much more organised about things. Morocco is a place where you cannot change money before going, except you can get money at the airport, I knew at the riad I could use Euros so did not get that many dirham, but then after that dirham seemed to be what most people required and it cost more to change money at the ATM, at the least the one I tried, than at the airport.
 |
| Memorising the route |
Luckily I had my train ticket to Casablanca ahead, was able to walk much of the way to the train station and only used a taxi for the last bit so I would have energy for when I arrived in Casablanca. However I was not quite sure what the time was. Sunday morning, my phone was telling me it was the same time in Morocco as in the UK, but I could have sworn that on Saturday there was an hour's difference between the two, so I got to the station early to cover all basis. I rested on the busy train, enjoying an occasional glance at the lovely moulded hills, or the red dessert or the sudden patches of green where grass and trees took over. Then to my delight discovered a tram line which took me to the harbour area where I sort of stumbled on my hotel. The inside of it looked like a cheap version of Leighton House, yet, outside it was a concrete block like any other, except the windows had been exoticized
I wondered up into the market area, down to the old port and onto the modern development next to the sea. A shopping mall was heaving with people trying every fast food known to humankind. Yet the concrete buildings next door lay empty. Casablanca, is rushing up, but lots of people and spaces seemed to be getting left behind in the process. The energy is very different to that of Marrakech. I was tempted to eat there but realised I had left my limited dirham behind and by the time I had wondered back to the hotel and out again so much was inexplicitely closed. I was relieved therefore to find a tagine cafe where other women were sitting. I had paid 130 dirham for the vegetable tagine the night before on a rooftop restaurant near the riad, now I was in a greasy spoon, having an equally delicious chicken tagine for a a fifth of the price. In the hotel I allowed the politics of the German elections creep in, and almost got burned out of my skin by the shower. I was happy to get out and head up towards the Royal Palace area of Cassablanca, where I found a wonderful cafe where I had a second breakfast proper Morroccan style.
Small souk Casablanca
Then it was back to Marrakech. Where really I di d not do much more. I finished a book I had found at the riad, I pottered and discovered a greater variety of places in the medina, and even bought a couple of small items, I also braved the freezing cold tiny pool in the hostel, where I also sunned myself the last day. It is such an interesting place, I should have delved more. But I suppose just enjoying it, experiencing it, is the real key. For example I saw the famous square in the quiet of the day, I saw it when the men were setting up for the night, (very good value) and I caught it at night when it really comes alive but then wondered back to the hostel and bought food from the woman who had set up a stall next to the hostel. There I found another book, buried my head and was whisked from a sunny, low 20s Africa, to a very cold Hertfordshire. No wonder I am feeling so rough now.
When I travel I almost always question why, especially spending so much time in my head when travelling alone. But the first night at the hostel to my surprise I landed up having a chat to two 30+ young men, one of whom had lived in Lisbon for 5 years and the other, who I initially thought was an oick, turned out to be in finance and a much greater traveller than me. ( They explained they too had been confused by the time on Sunday morning, but it was in readiness for Ramadan, the clock goes back by an hour!) My challenges are much smaller than that, but they seem to spur me on. I was impressed by Morocco in many ways, such a diverse group of people, very clean under the circumstances, good service on the whole, but a few rude, cheeky boys, so not unlike the UK there and was happy to float along there for a few days. It was so easy it might not but could easily be my last visit to that great continent.
Whilst away I heard M/B Down had died. He had taught me my A level sociology. We had almost dated then, but in the end did not date till a few years later, then lost touch. However, working at the college he re-found me and after that we kept in touch. He always made me feel a bit queesy, his comments and that he voted Brexit and Tory of course did not impress, so I had mixed feelings about him, but we had done some lovely outings together and I had just got in touch with him for some advice. When he did not reply, I was worried but not alarmed and then the message came through to the hostel, that he had died at the end of January. The funeral is to be in March. R.I. P thank you for being on my journey with me.
