On the road to nowhere (Morocco Part III)

Who needs Bogart anyway?

The man at the ticket office suggested a place called Benguerir instead of Casablanca. Little disappointing for our silver screen dreams, but only fifty minutes away instead of a trek longer than our flight home. 

'Is there much to do there?' MD asked hopefully.

The Ticket Man laughed. 'No! You stay for one hour. Then you come back.'

We looked at each other. It was 60 Dirhams for the two of us - about five quid - so we decided to give it a go.

Our train was divided into carriages that had been tacked together from what appeared to be the wrecks of six or seven different trains. We found a six-seater compartment that seemed to be women only. It was hugely genteel. Second Class, where we sat, boasted air conditioning. Outside, a couple of little boys played football up and down the corridor. MD helped a lady to put her bag into the rack, unhappily cutting her finger in the process. (I only found this out later. MD - not wanting to turn her kindly gesture into a possible litigation issue - discreetly mopped the blood away.)

The landscape as we travelled was oddly similar to Courcheval, albeit red-brown, rather than snow-covered. Scraggy trees were dotted about and the occasional donkey, but hardly any other signs of life. MD fretted about us riding blindly into the middle of nowhere and some 'one-horse town', a phrase not heard since the days of the Wild West. 

An hour later, we were there. Leaving the station we found: nothing. The train station was in fact a short journey from the air base, so there weren't even shiny guns to look at. The place was deserted apart from a cart-driver and his one horse. MD, chuffed about her earlier use of Wild West terminology, bought our tickets for the return journey and then went outside to hire the cart. It had gone. 

Majorelle or Oundelle?

On arrival back in Marrakech, we headed to Yves Saint Laurent's garden, the Majorelle, for a bit of shade, some cheery pottery and an ice cream. Inspired by the sunshine and (I suspect) heatstroke, MD began making suggestions for a reinterpretation of the garden back in Oundle. In particular the colourful pots. It's true, they're charming, but I fear they wouldn't stand up to English countryside climate.

Making the compulsory scoot round Yves' gift shop, it felt as though we'd wandered into the Armani store in Milan in boardshorts. The shop assistants tittered dismissively when we asked how much something cost and, when I dared to pick an artefact up with my hand, one came up to stand so close behind me that I could hear him breathing. I smiled at him, flung the little wallet casually back amongst its fellows - completely destroying the clean lines of the display - and accidentally trod on his foot as I withdrew to reorganise their soap presentation. MD, for her part, snuck up behind him to stand in his way as he retreated, causing another completely accidental collision.

Having satisfied our anarchic urges, we left - not even shutting the door behind us.

Racisme and French Lessons (MD in Morocco II)

Yesterday we went on a ramble round Marrakech to hunt out the train station. We'd been told it was 90 minutes by rail to Casablanca, so thought this would be an entertaining trip. 

Extent of my French skills

What we found instead was the bus station, though it was many minutes before we realised our mistake. As is their wont, when we entered the mysterious station, a number of burly-ish, drunk-ish Moroccan men started hassling us. My GCSE French gets rustier by the hour and MD (though a dab hand with cockroaches) is similarly limited on the Gallic front. You'll be amazed to learn she can't even speak Arabic. 

'TRAIN?' we bellowed to them, in a French accent, hoping to achieve some understanding. 

Nothing.

So we ignored the madding crowd and decided to explore the station - trying to make sense of it ourselves. We found something that went to Casablanca, though this confusingly appeared to be a bus.

A small quite sweet chap came over and addressed us in English:

'You want bus to Casablanca? Number 5. Here.'

At this, we understood where we'd gone wrong. But by now the burly crowd was upon us. One in particular was waving and aggressing with fists and face: 'You want ticket from him now? Not me? [Thrusting ticket book at us] I have ticket!'

MD looks fairly put out. Enough to make most sensible beings scuttle away in fright, but not Bolshy Bus Man, Oh no.

'See! [Again with the ticket thrusting in face thing] Ticket! You! You RACISTE!'

'Excuse me?' [From MD. Kate cowers. A passing bug flees in opposite direction.]

'Raciste! Raciste! Raciste!'

At this point it looked a little as though MD was considering whether to punch BBM in the face or depart. I stood back aghast, mumbling mildly rude things at the man under my breath ('No fat man - YOU raciste' etc).

But, taking the higher moral ground, MD turned her back and walked away, me at her side. BBM proved a surprisingly persistent persecutor of 'racisme' in tourist form, but he wasn't great at keeping up with us in the sunshine. We headed for the nearest taxi, and finally made it to the Train Station.

Turns out Casablanca is actually a six hour round trip. We ended up on an hour long jaunt to an air base instead. Of which more later.