Morocco, and the closest I've ever cut it to missing a flight
“Passport check!”
This is one of the final things Kate and I shout to each other when leaving an Airbnb. You want to make sure you have your chargers, phones, whatever. But that passport…you can remember everything else and that one little booklet will certainly cause you the most pain if forgotten. Seven flights, four countries and 5 Airbnbs in 18 days didn’t leave any margin for error. Right now we’re in Morocco, leaving our Airbnb and catching a flight very early on Christmas Eve.
“Yep,” I call back to Kate, both of us flashing our passports to each other. “I actually think I’m ready to go. Got everything?” Kate finishes up her final check of the apartment, grabs her grey luggage, and we’re on our way. We cram our six bags in the small elevator and wait in the lobby of the apartment building. It’s 6:50am, our cab scheduled for 7:00. We wait in the lobby for 10 minutes.
And then another 10 minutes.
And then another 10 minutes.
By this point we’re understandably concerned. The cab is 20 minutes late. I message our Airbnb host, who set up the ride, “Our driver has not arrived.”
No response.
We chose Morocco for our first stop. Neither of us had been to Africa; from there, choosing what countries to visit was a mix of “what do we want to see” and “where do we believe we’ll be reasonably safe.” I don’t want to make sweeping generalizations about what countries are safe - I lived on the West Side of Chicago for many years, which is not exactly safe for a skinny white guy like myself. However, choosing countries where you can speak English, or are noted as tourist destinations, will get you pretty far on this front. This was also why we chose Casablanca rather than Marrakesh, the latter being a more popular destination for tourists. This also makes it a popular destination for scammers, pickpockets, and loud, busy streets full of cheap souvenirs. We were hoping for something a little more quiet and cultural for our first stop.
We also chose Casablanca because of its thriving Pokemon GO! community. No, I’m not kidding. Kate and I both play Pokemon GO, to varying degrees. There are parts of the game that reward you for traveling around the world. In particular, there are Pokemon you can only catch in Africa. This makes for a unique digital souvenir, but what we didn’t anticipate was that we would meet some really cool people while traveling.
My favorite day in Morocco was spent visiting some local Pokemon GO players in downtown Casablanca. We met up with Omar, who goes by B21Sheep, and some others in a local cafe. These guys were clearly very close, and we were immediately welcomed as long time friends. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes indoors, we traded Pokemon and talked about our travels and the city of Casablanca. After a couple hours, Omar and his friends took us out to see Casablanca and catch some local Pokemon.
Kate walks with our Pokemon GO friends in downtown Casablanca.
“Okay, I’m going to run down the street to the ATM and get more cash and try to flag down a cab. Watch the bags and I’ll be back in 5 minutes.” I’m in problem solving mode now, as the cab is 30 minutes late and the Airbnb host has not responded to multiple texts and calls. We had already paid 40USD for a cab ride to the airport (don’t risk it, right? Just pay for a sure thing ahead of time…) and as a result, didn’t have any Moroccan Dirham left.
The sun hasn’t quite risen over the tops of the tall, dense, Casablanca cityscape. The city is still sleeping: cars and people are few and far between. Cabs large enough to store our bags are an even rarer site - the red cabs in Casablanca are 30 years old, no seat belts, and very small trunks. Simply not going to cut it.
I’m blowing up the Airbnb host’s phone while jogging down the street in hopes she’ll have an out for us. Our international flight is in just over 2 hours (Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this, thank you for the “always leave 3+ hours before your flight” advice) and we currently have no way to make the 45 minute drive to the airport.
I see a man, in what is clearly a hotel taxi van, bored on his phone. I motion for him to roll down the window and lead with my best French: “Excusez-moi, parlez-vous anglais?”
“No, French only, sorry.”
So I frantically pull up google translate (the closest thing I have ever seen to true sorcery) and convey that I need to get 2 people and six bags to the airport. He understands, but cannot take me. However, seeing the urgency, jumps out of his car, and runs with me to the coffee shop on the corner to act as interpreter. This African hospitality is something I cannot imagine in a large American city, and I am grateful.
He very quickly speaks with a man opening up a cafe. This man has clearly not had his morning coffee. He looks at me for some explanation, and I again have google translate riddle off my situation. He asks for my phone and types into google…with the most excruciatingly slow typing I’ve ever seen. I’m starting to get antsy. Eventually becoming frustrated with google, he squeaks out his best English possible:
“You… taxi here not airport. You go ….” he speaks to the taxi driver for a moment “You get taxi at tramway,” and makes the “big” motion with his hands. I think I’m picking up what he’s putting down.
“Thank you, merci, merci…” I say as I walk away, and start jogging towards the ATM, mad at myself for burning 5 precious minutes like flash paper. I text Kate and tell her “I stopped someone I thought could give us a ride but no…we might have to go to the train station for a bigger cab…2 min I’ll be back”
If you visit Casablanca, there is one thing you must visit. Hands down. Seeing it in person is so much better than what can be conveyed with words or pictures:
Rick’s Cafe.
Of course I’m kidding! According to Omar, “Rick’s Cafe was built after the movie, it’s a scam. Don’t go.” before politely backpedaling “unless you wanted to go! Then yes, you should go.” We laughed and explained that we honestly hadn’t even seen the movie Casablanca.
However, my above statements are true for the Hassan II Mosque in northern, coastal Casablanca. This mosque is…incredible. It’s a new mosque, construction having finished in 1993. It can hold 25,000 people inside the mosque hall and an additional 80,000 on the outside hall. It is the largest mosque in Africa, and the 10th largest in the world. The minaret is the second largest in the world, only behind Djamaa el Djazaïr in Alergia. Like I said, it’s incredible.
Forgive the graininess of this photo. Had I anticipated this building’s enormity, I would have brought a wider lens. This was taken with a 50mm lens from about a mile away. Even from this distance, the building consumes your entire field of view.
The architecture of Casablanca is a mix of modern, colonial French, and traditional African. The city does not feel overcrowded. The main streets and sidewalks are very wide, there are parks, and you have room to pass people on the sidewalk. However, this has created an immense sprawl for this city. If you have many destinations in Casablanca, you will undoubtedly have to take a cab. The taxis are very cheap, a 10 minute ride will cost you 1 or 2 USD.
I will let the pictures speak for themselves, as this is a truly unique fabric to construct a city.
The clock tower at the southern point of Old Medina.
“Hey.” I’ve just gotten back to Kate at the apartment. It’s after 8:00am now: less than two hours until our flight leaves. “No luck so far, but I have another thing I want to try.”
“Hi you’ve reach Chase Sapphire concierge services, how can I help you today Mr. Misra?”
I try to calmly explain how urgent the situation is - cabs don’t exist, we have to catch an international flight, Uber doesn’t exist in Morocco, can they get us a car ASAP? Chase seems very confident they’ll be able to help, when I receive a phone call from a Moroccan number. Myriam, the Airbnb host, has is calling me back. I put Chase on hold while he searches for a solution. Myriam then explains that the driver thought we were to leave at 8, not 7. “But then wouldn’t they be here now? It’s after 8am”
“Yes, they should be. We are calling them now. They should be there now. I will call you soon.” Very comforting.
Fifteen minutes of hold music later, the Chase concierge agent informs us that we can use a local uber-like taxi app on our phone. He is unable to contact any ride services in Casablanca. While he does sound truly apologetic, I very quickly hang up on him to answer Myriam, who sounds much more frantic now. She says her husband is driving to pick us up now.
Less than 10 minutes later, Myriam’s husband comes screeching down our street to an abrupt stop. He swings open the door before the car is finished moving, loads our bags in, and ushers us into the small car. This man is high on adrenaline and determined to get us to the airport on time. The first 20 minutes of this crazy ride involve weaving in and out of the, now very busy, traffic of Casablanca. Every traffic circle is 9 inches of clearance between 5 rows of cars, and our driving is pushing that space even harder. Frequently laying on his horn, he drives us out of the city in, what I assume is, record time.
Then we get on the highway. There is a lot of traffic - but we’re moving. Again, we are weaving in and out of cars so aggressively it would make a native Boston driver queasy. I’m frequently trying to peek at his speedometer. The very old car makes our 70 miles an hour feel like we’re entering orbit. Every time I check google maps, we have shaven a minute off the expected arrival time. I constantly do the math backwards from when boarding ends to where we are now. It’s never impossible, but certainly improbable. “You hire someone to do a simple job…and…” His voice trails off, and we can tell he is truly disappointed, and afraid that we will miss our flight.
“Good luck” he tells us as we unload our bags at Terminal 1, Casablanca Mohammed V International Airport. He does not sound hopeful. At this point, our ability to catch this flight is entirely a function of how long the lines are. As we walk into the airport, we have 10 minutes until boarding starts. Everything I’ve learned about how to travel tells me we are doomed. We round the first security checkpoint at the door, and make our way to the check in counter.
“At this point, our ability to catch this flight is entirely a function of how long the lines are. As we walk into the airport, we have 10 minutes until boarding starts.”
The check in counters have no lines. Big win for us. We load our luggage onto the weighing station and shove our passports across the counter, careful to hold on to one handle of the luggage. I’m not missing my flight for the bag being overweight (which it is), so I surreptitiously trim 5kg off my scuba gear bag with my free hand. We check both bags in 2 minutes flat. Next up is customs, and we run as fast as our sense of direction will allow, given that all the airport signs are in French. We round the corner to the border patrol stations, and find them empty! We have 1 person in front of us, and 5 border patrol agents in the booth. They are cracking jokes and laughing with the travelers. This looks good, they won’t give us a hard time. Then they crack another joke.
They’re not talking about border control. They’re shootin’ the shit. I look down at my watch. Boarding ends in less than 30 minutes and we haven’t even seen where the metal detectors are.
We finally talk to border control. They only ask if we have done our Egyptian visa paperwork (a requirement to do ahead of time in order to enter the country). Yes we have. STAMP. STAMP. We’re on our way to the security checkpoint.
I’ll take a moment to point out that SCUBA Divers frequently get stopped in the airport. The two reasons are “Eh you guys always have knives. Did you forget one this time?” or “What is this thing? What does it do? What, it’s for swimming?” Despite carrying a good amount of dive gear and camera gear in my carry on backpack (regulators are expensive, okay?) we only got stopped once on the entire trip for additional searching. I’ll give you one guess as to when.
This elderly man unpacked my entire backpack, piece by piece, with the most confused look on his face. His superior standing behind him with a curious, furrowed brow. I tried to explain what the hoses and mouthpieces were for. The man seemed to not understand English. His boss only asks me one question: “American?” I reply that I am, and he smiles and says “have a good flight.” He proceeds to pack my weird looking garden hose contraption back into my backpack. I still wonder what he was solving for, but his gracious acceptance of America was to my extreme benefit today and I wasn’t about to question it.
We made that flight by the skin of our teeth. A single additional hiccup, anywhere in the chain between Maarif and CMN Airport would have stranded us there. We’ve probably exchanged the phrase “I still can’t believe we made that flight” 100 times since then.
I dearly hope I never cut that close again. Arrive at the airport three and a half hours before flight time, or bust.