It all started with Casablanca. We were newly weds living in New York, eager for adventure so planning a ten day vacation. Moorish-nurtured Andalusia would be the first stop, then simply drive from Seville to the Mediterranean coast and hop on the ferry to Morocco. A couple of days in North Africa and ferry back. The websites promised a plethora of sightseeing:  palm trees, desert palaces, and narrow medinas, Roman ruins, splashing fountains.  And there was Casablanca, rendered unforgettable by Ingrid Bergman; images of a hotel lobby, soft strains of a piano and cigar smoke. The cuisine sounded promising, doner kebabs, couscous and honey-filled pastries.  Not yet American citizens, we needed visas for all countries. This was entirely possible in the olden days when the Twin Towers stood; visa officers were obliging, travelling was relaxing.  Like the Schengan visa, the Moroccan entry permit was no problem. “How will you get to Casablanca?” asked the officer. The answer left him in surprise.  His words would prove prophetic indeed. "Wee-lll good luck.”  Seville passed in a pleasant blur - with orange trees, medieval towers, tiled pools of water.  A fourteenth century marauding couple, Ferdinand and Isabella had built palaces and altars at every nook.

Previous articles on Morocco: Moroccan Adventure Morocco lies in the center of diversity. It is an African nation that incorporates it’s heritage with Islamic religion and Arabic culture, yet is European influenced and multi-lingual. It is one of the easiest destinations to get to from Europe. How to Buy and Restore Real Estate in Fez - Morocco Fez is one of the few places in the Islamic world where foreigners can live comfortably and safely in the old quarter of the city. I've lived in the medina for over seven years, and it has been a wonderful experience. At no point have I felt threatened, and find the people here friendly and hospitable. Moroccans are gifted with the ability to distinguish between the individual and his or her government's acts or policies. Charmed, I’m Sure! Very good article on passing through Morocco and seeing the towns, the people and the desert. Like the pictures I see from Morocco, and the history of the place and the people it has attracted over the years makes it a place to see. Would like to go and soon. Retirement Planning for Offshore Living The advantages of outsourcing your retirement have never been better!

So we took pictures from afar and hopped on the ferry a little earlier.  There were tourist groups from all over. Japanese sightseers could be recognized by cameras around their necks.  There were some American seniors up on the deck soaking the sun.   Travel documents were checked on the ferry.  “ What is your tour group?” asked the chatty, bilingual officer. “No group.  We are going to Casablanca. " He arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Oh you are flying there? You have tickets. No?  How will you go back to Spain?"  The same words again. And again. Was there something that we did not know? 

Things changed in a jiffy docking at Tangiers, Morocco.  The tourists disappeared into three buses, leaving us in a haze of dust.  We stood bags in hand, strangely isolated, our backs to the sparkling Mediterranean.  The quay ended in a stretch of  gravel and  railway tracks.  The tracks were enclosed by walls, clearly a preferred watching post for the town urchins.  Their eyes raked over our bags, our olive complexions, our western clothing. “American, American, " they chanted and threw pebbles. 

The websites were right about the medieval ambience: there were no welcome centres, bathrooms, car rentals, or luggage carts.  The street signs were only in Arabic.  A ramshackle building “Customs and Immigration” stood on the side.  We followed the tracks.

Arms aching, we reached a tiny train station that doubled as a waiting area for the local bus.  Women veiled in black chadors looked at us and chattered.  Children, chickens and goats ran about.  Some unmarked sedans stood on the road.

The railway clerk was knowledgeable.  Private not state taxis - with somewhat variable rates - took people to the airport that was located outside Tangiers.  People weren't trusting of taxi drivers these days.  They believed all the stories they heard . Such a pity.  Taxi drivers took off and stopped half way demanding money or worse.  Now trains were different….. you had to hold up an entire train.   His wife’s cousin drove a taxi but had to move away.   There was no train to Casablanca.  The train to Marrakech left at ten in the night.  “ Is it safe?” my husband asked with foreboding.  It was safe up to Fez. “You will reach Fez at midnight. After Fez it is Allah’s will.” said the clerk cheerfully, as he pushed aside a potential doner kebab pecking at his feet. 

No rentals, shifty taxis.  The only option was the ramshackle, smelly, local bus overcrowded with goats and locals. We had never imagined getting out of the port area could be this difficult.  It all began to sink in.....that’s why all the tourists left in a bus.  Come to think of it, there were no couples, no individual travellers, and no bag-packing students on the ferry.  The nosy clerk had been right; "How would we go to Casablanca?"  We decided to leg it - in rather in a hurry - the ferry would leave in half an hour.  Casablanca would have to wait.

Sobered from adventure, we headed back to the immigration office. At Immigration things went nuclear.
“Passports please, “said a middle-aged man with an unforgettable attribute - his magnificent observation. “Oh, you are in the U.S on a work visa? You are not American citizen.” 
His fingers edged the visa stamp.  He peered closer at the sticker.  This guy knew his stuff.  Or had he been waiting for us?   Suddenly he gestured us to exit the line.  In a corner he relaxed, “ Two hundred dollars or I keep your passport. I generally ask more... ” And he bend the passports, nearly ripping them apart. 

We watched speechless with horror; we could not re-enter Spain or US with damaged documents.  We could be stranded in Morocco for weeks.  My husband would lose his job, his car, his medical training.  I could not even breathe. And turning to me with a well meaning glance, “ Mademoiselle take a chair. This might take long.”

It was surreal.  The guy didn’t even look like a villain; uniformed in midnight blue, insignia on the shoulders, tall and with a slight paunch, he had a kindly face.  He looked like a librarian or someone’s uncle.  Surely it was a joke?

Heart hammering, I looked around the room hoping to find an ally.  The clerks were chattering amongst themselves.  I walked to a desk.  The female officer avoided my eyes.  Oh please; let her speak English.  I began rambling, “Help us. He won’t let us go. He has our passports… ” She looked up and glared, clearly annoyed.  She was young and pretty and had been joking with a co-worker.  But now… her face looked crafty, almost witchlike. 

She let off a stream of Arabic at him.  The officer strode out of the building, passports in hand.  e slunk behind.  The children watched us from the walls.  They slid down and scampered towards us.  Palms out, faces cheery, they ringed around  the immigration officer; “Baksheesh American, baksheesh” they cried pointing at us and gesturing at the officer.  A thousand incoherent thoughts flew my mind.  So they had warned him.  He knew, we would be coming.  And now they were asking for their share.  They were in it together.  All of them: the children, the witch and the villain.  he vacation was evaporating into a Stephen King novel.  That’s why people travelled with tours.  The stories were true… people were stopped and extorted for money.  What if he did rip the passports?  What of our rental car parked in Spain? 

Overhead were some indistinguishable announcements in French and Arabic.  The ferry was about to leave!  Sailors were untying the gangplank. 
The officer argued heatedly.  My husband grabbed at the passports; at, our entire life in the States. " NO, here take this,” he yanked out the hundred dirhams  we had exchanged on the ferry.  Was it only one hour ago?   He waved the notes at the excited children, the officer distracted, loosened his grip… on the precious little documents.

My last memory of the Moroccan officer -  fingering the notes, silhouetted against the building, the children jumping, chanting “Baksheesh, baksheesh” while we sprinted back to the immigration kiosk, clutching the passports.  The witch looked up and smiled.  Two quick stamps and we were out.  Running, running towards the ferry for dear life.  The ferry’s engines were at full throttle, the foghorn blared.  The gangplank was aloft.  They were going to leave us here.  In between stood a stern guard. “TICKETS, “ he barked.  He stretched out his arms, baton in hand, gesture unmistakably belligerent.  The sun shone on his gun holster.  Was this never going to end? 

Wordlessly, we circled around him towards the gangplank.  He chased us, valiantly for an overweight man, yelling ”STOP.”   The baton  swinging in the air, his feet nearly touching mine.  The ferry froze; sailors stared as we finally clambered on board. 

Lesson learned: for Casablanca take the plane or wear good running shoes.

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