Morocco!

Intro. 

Inspired by a friend who had recently left her well established London life and went to Africa to write and to re-assess everything, I have decided to keep a diary of my trip to Morocco. My trip was booked before I found out about my friend going to Africa, so I didn’t copy her and anyway 10 days holiday hardly gives me the scope for the journey of self-discovery, but she inspired me to write while I am on my break. It might lead to something bigger later. It might not. 

I am writing this to myself and for myself, writing for the sake of writing, a gentle stretching exercise after a period of inactivity. To see if I still can, if it flows, if it still makes sense. To me.  

I am flying to Agadir today, then it’s off to a village of Taghazout, where my son is spending his winter months. He is cool like that. 

Day 1 

The holiday is going well. 

Except, Weatherspoons at Gatwick North stopped serving Eggs Benedict and Eggs Royale at 11am. Who knew. So it is possible even for me to arrive too late to the airport. Actually. On the day of travel, I live for the moment I get to choose between the Eggs Benedict and Eggs Royale. Oh, well. I have 3 hours before boarding, so I search the whole airport for the eggs, I find a place called The Breakfast Club and have my Royale. 

I’ve had better. My eye catches the price on the recept. £23.50, including the smallest cappuccino in the South East. Oh, well.

Next, my very slick very stylish also very  not 45 cm x 30cm x 20cm Sanquist backpack failed the Cinderella glass slipper test and didn’t fit into the metal cage for small backpacks. It was painful to watch as it got stuck half way down, Boris-on-the-zip-wire style. 

Oh, well. Win some lose some. I knew I was taking chances. Travelling light was never my thing.  

Onwards and upwards. No children on the flight. Not one. Yay! 

Spoke too soon. There was one. ‘I am hungry’, the mini-person announced as she waddled past me, stuffing her face from an open bag of Cadbury’s originals  Sugar Rush.

I am in 20F, window. I am next to two well-nourished ladies. I battle for the arm rest with the 20E. I lose. The two of them sip white wine and Sprite like the pros. 

We are cruising over Spain, we are told, as I write this. The white cotton wool fluff above Spain hides the rest of Spain. 

The 20E and 20D are on their third small bottle each. 

I can’t decide how I feel about this solo travelling business. 

Window seat next to strangers is all well and good, but what if need the bathroom. The air between me and the 20E is still thick with the recent armrest hostilities. Their tables are littered with wine bottles, cans of Sprite, chocolate wrappers and plastic cups. Folding them to let me pass would mean a fuss. I amuse myself by playing out a scenario whereby I nimbly hop from armrest to armrest to get out. 

They have bought crisps now so the smell of white wine mixes with the whiff of ready salted. They reach into their crisp packets with slow synchronicity. If only I could see Spain. 

The dulcet tones of Joan Baez in my headphones make it all soothingly unreal. 

I sleep. 

I wake up with a panicked thought that I must wake up the foster kids for school and college. 

The 20E is sinking her teeth into a Snickers bar. 

I have given up on Spain, if indeed we are still over it. 

I need this holiday so badly. 

Half an hour to landing. I read five pages of Flowers for Algernon, had a lukewarm Easyjet tea, and am now on my peach tea bottle. It’s such a bliss being stuck in my cramped 20F, with nothing to do, no emails, no calls, no Tesco, no hungry cats, no arrogant teenagers, no wind, no rain, nothing.

Coastline.

The flight flew by. Three and a half hours. 

Passport control. The queue is something else. There is an option for Rapid queue for 300 dirhams. Not many takers. We crawl forward. 

A blue rinse lady from the plane strikes up a conversation. Turns out my glass slipper backpack attracted some  attention, and now a small group of my fellow Easyjetters want to know if I was the woman who was pulled over.

Did they let you go? Well, clearly. 

Did you have to pay extra? Yes. 

How much?They roll their eyes in horror and disbelief. 

My rebellious side takes over. ‘I don’t mind, I don’t care’.

Free airport WiFi is a tease. I am yet to find an airport where WiFi works for longer than five seconds. 

None of this matters any more. I am outside. 

A crowd of taxi drivers with signs awaits. Looking for my name. Nope. No Ania Heasley anywhere. Did three rounds, no joy. Found somebody with Sundesk sign. That’s where my son lives, so looking promising. Yes! He is my man. Muhammad is a taxi driver of few words. It’s now dark outside, getting darker by the minute. Obligatory silhouettes palm trees and the last blood orange vestiges of daylight. Sewage smell as we drive. Exciting stuff. 

I kept asking Muhammad questions until finally he gave in and told me everything that his limited English allowed him to say. 

One hour later, I met Matty and we went for chicken tagine, followed by whirlwind tour of Taghazaout. Proper first impression will need to wait till tomorrow, but for now I can say it’s a pretty laid back place, chilled, chaotic, warm, did I mention chilled, cats are everywhere, trendy looking tourists stroll around, the sea is 5 minutes walk away, can’t wait to see it all properly in the daylight. 

My room at Onda Surf hostel has three beds, towels, blankets and a private bathroom with toilet and shower room. No kettle. I didn’t think there would be one. Coffee at communal breakfast on the rooftop at 9am.