After our night out in Madrid, we returned home where Kaberi attended to travel preparations while Vik stayed up until 4 a.m. pow-wowing with Debashish. The next morning, Debabish dropped the two of us, one of whom was particularly groggy and bleary-eyed, off at the airport.After a two-hour flight south over the Mediterranean, we deplaned in Casablanca at exactly the same time as we took off, representing the amusing calculus of Spain’s and Morocco’s differing time zones and daylight savings practices. Upon setting foot in the airport, it quickly became clear that we had been arrived in a different world. A sea of Arabic signs glared at us as we shuffled along hallways crowded with billowing robes and concealing, head-to-toe jalabas.
After clearing a typical third-world immigration checkpoint marked with musty, stagnant air, stifling heat and long queues of shifting, impatient bodies, we attempted to get our bearings. Standing comfortably outside of the airport baggage claim carousels (we regaled in the carry-on-friendly decision to limit our luggage for the week to one rolling backpack), we located an ATM machine. A few minutes later, with a modest roll of Moroccan dirhams in each of our pockets, we found our way to the airport railway station. At this point, Kaberi nervously wondered how we would manage to overcome the language barrier, only to turn around to find Vik chatting amiably in pigeon French with a nearby security guard. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Kaberi followed closely behind as Vik led us to the appropriate outbound train.
Having heard from friends (and subsequently reading Rick Steves’ corroboration of the sentiment) that Casablanca, despite its cinematic reputation, was unremarkable, we ventured out of Morocco’s largest city as quickly as possible. After our airport express train culminated in the city center, we jumped on the next northbound train to Rabat, Morocco’s capital city. One hour later, we pulled into the Rabat Ville central train station. Unlike Casablanca, Rabat held a reasonable amount of tourist appeal and, with its cosmopolitan vibe, boasted a reputation as a friendly and manageable Moroccan starting point for tourists.
From the train station, we hailed one of Rabat’s distinctive blue jalopy cabs to take us to our hotel, located 25 minutes away in the eastern outskirts of the city. After arriving at our hotel, a renovated villa tucked away in the corner of an upscale neighborhood littered with consulates, we quickly settled into our comfortable, but otherwise forgettable, room whose furnishings did little to evoke its exotic location. Exhausted to the point of distraction, we forced ourselves to stay awake by watching awful made-for-TV-movies (including 2002’s woeful The Vector File) before motivating ourselves to go out for an early dinner.
After making our way to Rabat’s foreign expat district, we enjoyed a cheap, delicious shawarma and falafel dinner at an unpretentious local joint. Afterwards, as dusk turned into nightfall, we walked around the area, stopping briefly at a streetside pastry shop to pick up French tarts for dessert. We then made our way to a nearby train station to purchase the requisite tickets for the four-hour journey to Fes, our next Moroccan destination. Along the way, we stopped a number of people for help with directions, and to a person, found them to be welcoming and helpful. Toto, we’re not in Egypt anymore.
The following morning, after an uninspiring traditional French breakfast, we made our way toward Rabat’s Old City. After stopping briefly at a Moroccan travel agency to purchase Fes-to-Marrakech Royal Air Maroq plane tickets for three days hence, we made a beeline for the Casbah des Oudaias. We found the distinctive area to be full of blue and whitewashed homes arranged along cramped alleyways. Progressing further, we eventually came upon the azure shorefront at the northwest tip of the city. It was marked by a weathered beach entirely dominated by male sunworshippers (making it, in Vik’s humble opinion, one of the least appealing beaches in the world).
Retracing our steps, we stopped to admire the ornate sandstone arches of the entrance gates before advancing into the nearby Andalusian Gardens for some much-needed shade from the afternoon sun. We then walked across the street into a modestly-sized medina chock full of souks and food stalls. With the lunchtime hour upon us, we took the opportunity to forage for a hot meal from the friendly local vendors. After exiting the medina walls, we rested our weary feet at one of the corner coffeehouses in the Ville Nouvelle, only to realize that we had stepped into a conspicuous all-male province. Kaberi finished her mint tea quickly despite no overtures on the part of the other patrons to make us feel unwelcome.
Afterwards, we took a short walk to the unfinished Hassan Tower and the ornate modern mausoleum for King Mohammed V (grandfather of the current king) and his two sons, Hassan II and Prince Abdullah (father and uncle of the current king, respectively). The site’s elevated position offered a comfortable and sweeping vantage point of Rabat’s oceanside setting. We proceeded to end the afternoon by exploring the ruins of the Challah where today storks nest on the minarets of the Muslim necropolis (which itself was built on the site of Roman ruins). After a brief return to our hotel, we capped off our day with a terrific Moroccan meal at the Rough Guide-recommended Tagine wa Tanjia. We feasted on a regional tanjia and an assortment of traditional spreads, raising a glass to a fabulous start to our Moroccan adventures.
