The aircraft cabin of a flight to a “developing” country always have that worn-down look to it.
The seat covers are stained and faded. The armrests are rickety. The displays of the personal entertainment devices are abraded. The storage doors rattle as you close them. Beneath all that cheerfulness and exuberance, even the stewards looked just a wee bit tired, even exasperated.
That is how the Iberia flight we boarded at the Madrid-Barajas airport to Morocco looked. I got to board before first class, a side advantage of travelling with kids. The flight was full and the passengers poured in quickly. The camera toting European tourist – mostly French and German – in their designer casuals and expensive luggage were the easiest to distinguish. The locals, both Arabs and Berbers, could be identified by the sheer body language of somebody going home if not for the coarse clothing and bulky tattered hand luggage. It wouldn’t be until later that I could make out the trimmer, shorter, light skinned Arab with bushy eyebrows from the gangly, long faced Berber dressed in colorful long grabs.
We had a stop over at Casablanca, the word that invokes in me the sizzling chemistry between Bergman and Bogart. The airport did its utter best to destroy any romantic notions one may harbor about the city. We were herded into a twisting corridor, swept down a couple of staircases and flushed into a large waiting room.
A tall good looking Arab women, more handsome than beautiful, firmly told us they did not know where the flight to Marrakech was or when it would arrive or leave. “We will call you you when we are ready.” she firmly intoned.
We happily settled down.
Shindes and Askis at the Mohammed V International Airport, Casablanca
The kids found other kids around. Language barriers broke as new games were invented and the waiting room was converted instantaneously into a playground. We bought lukewarm coffee with soggy sandwiches and got our change in Dirham.
A couple of hours later, we boarded the last leg to Marrakech.
“Expect chaos!” The tourist book had grandiosely warned us about Morocco. That tip is as useless as the one which goes “beware of pickpockets”.
After all you come to Morocco demanding chaos!
