1730, Sunset on the Marrakech Express.
I've waited thirty years for this!  I'm sitting in a first class compartment on a train that might have been built in the 1930's, passing the dry, sandy, Moroccan scrub at about 40 mph.  So much for the description 'express'.  The train hadn't moved before the first guy tried to hit on me and I blessed my luck in getting a private compartment.  Outside of the open window, the countryside is reminiscent of Crete, although the earth here is red sandstone rather than volcanic granite.  White plastered mud brick houses with brightly painted doors dot the landscape, some sporting pretty tiles around their entrance.  Moorish arches abound.  Garbage is strewn everywhere amongst corrugated shacks. People move around on donkeys, poverty stricken children play in the dirt, watched by baleful looking dogs.
Cactus plantations grow everywhere; it seems to be a crop here.  We stop at minute stations devoid of any adornment, (including signs showing the name of the station).  If the train didn't stop, you wouldn't know why the places were there.  They look like abandoned old gas stations, no petrol pumps, just platforms fuelling the carriages with people.

2300 Hotel Imilchil, Marrakech
Well what an arrival!  As I left the train, I was swamped by the most aggressive taxi drivers I've ever seen.  Tagging along with an American couple who brought me first to this hotel, then out to eat at a local restaurant. There are men everywhere, and I mean LOTS.  Not a female to be seen, traffic blaring like a mad road race - its crazy.  It's also raining a little.  Rain?  In Morocco?

November 4, 1400 Marrakech Medina (old quarter)
I guess this is the real thing. I sit in a black-and-white tiled courtyard, under a fruiting orange tree, awaiting a mint tea from a genuine Marrakesh medina mother. This morning I walked into the big square of Djemaa El Fna for freshly squeezed OJ from one of the many juice stalls, touring the other stalls of dates and spices. The square is populated by souvenir sellers and snake charmers.  Everywhere I hear traditional Berber music. Morocco has two principle races - Berber and Arab.  Berber traditions are steeped in desert life with its code of hospitality and honour.
I was then'guided' to a carpet shop for tea and intense pressure to buy; I  try to explain my financial position, but they make a real job of pitching to you.  After almost an hour, I got away, annoyed to have my planned wandering disturbed.
Once more walking around the square, I was then accosted by a young guy who refused to go away.  He claimed to want to talk English with me, and after an hour of trying, persuaded me to come and stay in his house, rather than pay for a hotel room. This was a great opportunity to see what life is really like behind closed doors. So here I am.  Mohammed (my host) is one of a household of seven, three girls, four brothers. I think one of the girls is a wife. Only Mo speaks English; I try to get by in French -  never my strong language.  I am guest of honour.

My room has a fabulously carved Berber ceiling, could be about 500 years old, hard to tell. The medina, the old quarter, has been here for 2,000 years they say. Once the main souk (market) for Saharan traders, it is now a warren of  dark little houses and narrow shop lined streets - mere dark holes in the wall more than shhops, some of them.  There's someone trying to sell you something every step of the way.
I wanted to visit the Hammam (bathhouse) for a massage, but when his sullen younger sister took me there, it wasn't what I expected.  I found a dilapidated, dirty old building; hot water was plentiful but the cobwebs were like curtains.  I'd been to a great bathhouse in Istanbul, but this was another story.  I had a hot wash and vowed that would be my last. All the women stared at me.  Foreigner.  Made me feel uncomfortable.
I visit the house's bathroom, across the yard, with its hole-in-the-floor toilet and bucket flush system. No hot water in these ancient houses.  They only recently got electricity.  Fortunately I have seen similar plumbing in Greece and Sicily; I'm an old hand at the bum hanger model.
Mo took me out to walk the Medina. What an experience.  Narrow alleys, shops full of all kinds of wares; smells of spices, mint tea, donkeys, urine and petrol.  Cobbled streets, just wide enough to take the donkey and cart that come skidding around the corner at an impossible angle, sliding past with just enough space for us to stand aside.

The leather works with its' disgusting smell.  Here men scrape camel and goat skins, washing the hides, drying them in the sun.  
I am glad to be led into a souvenir shop to drink tea and smoke with the shop's owner on the roof, watching the sun set.  More walking through crowded streets, 6 p.m. Rush hour, even in this ancient place.  Back in the inner sanctum of the house, a huge couscous is prepared.  At 8 p.m., everyone sits around a low circular table to eat fresh, warm bread.  Needless to say, sleep was not long in coming; I was out cold by 10 p.m.

Wednesday 5th November
I woke at 5 am, when the first call of the day from the muezzin resounded throughout the city.  We returned to the shop for more hospitality on the roof, followed by lots of buying - gifts for all seasons.  I wore my new jelabah for the first time; it sure helps to keep the men from constantly calling after you.  Its such a pain, all that.  At the house, the women are making me a vegetable couscous.  A visitor arrives, a young girl with her five-year-old daughter. Berber girls with henna-dyed hands and feet, painted in delicate, intricate patterns.  The women sit and chatter while the men sleep off lunch.  At 17.25 the sunset call echoed, ethereal, smooth, soothing and cajoling.  Almost hypnotic.  I sit with the family to watch TV for a second night. Its football, showing on millions of TV's throughout Europe on a Wednesday night.  Funny how interesting football can be when you're starved for entertainment.

Thursday 6th November
It rained with a vengeance all night, howling winds.  I never booked this kind of weather with my plane ticket!  I help to clean up the mess in the courtyards.  I have decided to go south, Agadir looks favourite, the tourist city on the coast.
Now I sit in the courtyard after lunch of rice and over-spiced vegetables, anxious to be gone.  This situation is suffocating. Mohammed keeps trying to kiss me, and wants to come with me to my next port of call.  I had to really throw a wobbler to get him to help me buy a ticket to Agadir at 1500 hrs.  I wanted out of there, I'm feeling trapped by him and his family.

1730 on the Agadir bus
What a job getting going.  I now find that creep stole my trainers from out of the suitcase.  Drat.  They were good shoes.  Whatever, I feel good to be in charge of my own trip again, I'm off to the sun and sand of Agadir, on the next stage of my journey.  I watch a red landscape speed past the window.  The bus stops at a village in the mountains, what a strange place, just a pit stop with two butchers, fruit stalls, a café, and a couple of grocery stores.  Some men brought struggling sheep on their shoulders, ready for butchering, uurgh!  Everyone stared at me, despite the jelabah.  Their coffee was great, just the thing against the cold air up in the mountains.  We reach Agadir by 2130.  I shuffle across a spacious square to the Hotel Bahia to take up residence.  Later, I chatted to another English speaking hotel guest, learning about the local area. The  square, built around the town's cinema, contains hotels, restaurants and shops; behind the shops is a small fresh produce market.  I buy precious bottled water and fruit.  Even at 11 p.m., the market remains open.

Friday 7 November
This is a purpose built city, erected on the ruins of an old fishing village, destroyed by earthquake in the 1960's.  A huge mountain blocks the road to the north, and scrawled into the hillside are the words, 'God', 'King' and 'Country', in Arabic script.  On top is an old kasbah, populated by the ghosts of the past.  Agadir has a superb beach, a long, a flat shelf of soft white sand stretching around a widely curving bay.  Beachfront hotels abound, as do expensive looking apartment blocks, rented by well-heeled Scandinavians and Germans, regular visitors here for years. Everyone appears to speak German as well as the French they learn in school, and some of the local waiters also know the Nordic languages.  I drank coffee on the beachfront, watching Atlantic rollers pound the beach, and fishing boats bringing in their catch.  I built a sand castle, but the onshore wind was so strong, the walls blew down before I could finish it.  There's a huge port at the northern end of the beach where is reputedly the best fish restaurant in town.  I took a cab, passed through customs to enter the gates, and settled down to a plate of mixed fish (has to be fresh here!) with local white wine.  I balk at the prices, I mean, Lobster Thermidor for two, at 80 guilders?   The staff think I'm a travel writer and I'm given preferential treatment, although they have a way to go to meet accepted standards of service.

Saturday 8th November
I write this in the house of Khalid, a maths teacher who I met while at the bank.  He's making lunch for me (there's that hospitality thing again) although I ask for just tea.  We talk a little and then he makes the fatal mistake of stroking, then trying to kiss my hand.  When will they ever learn?  I point to my wedding ring and mention my husband at home, this seems to work, but the mood has changed and I want out in the sunshine.  I cab to the hotel, relieved to be alone once more.  The beach is more crowded, this being the weekend.  Every hustler selling everything comes to offer his wares; you eventually manage to ignore them.  Eye contact is fatal.  Wild dogs roam about, sleep in the middle of the road, and hassle around tourist restaurants for scraps of food. .

Sunday November 9th
Lovely café au lait and pain chocolate, this morning, memories of Paris.  Today is the best for the souk (market) so I set off at 12 to wander around.  Its walled, packed with stalls, and appears to be sectioned, all the clothes shops are together, likewise the fruit and veg and the butchery shops.  I watch folk buy a live chicken or rabbit, then watch its' slaughter.  The smell is vile, blood and fear.  Gangs of wild cats sit around,  hoping for a free meal.  Spice stalls with beautiful, brightly coloured, wares; also the furniture upholsters, and the kaftans , brilliant colours shine all around.  Water sellers in distinctive red costumes, wander around ringing bells to attract their customers, leather skins full of water slung over their backs.  I eat lunch in the restaurant area, sporting many small stall-like cafes, cooking on smoking charcoal fires.  I eat shrimp and calamares with bread, feeding the leftovers to a begging child who fixed me with his baleful eyes until I gave in.

One thing Morocco has no shortage of is beggars.  Outside the souk walls is a second hand section, bridging the main road.  Bigger than many a flea market I've seen, this was second hand madness.  If you throw away today's paper, somebody will try to sell it in a month's time; and some fool will buy it too.
Later, on the beach, I saw what I've come to see: camels.  I decline to ride, just petting the majestic creatures.  There were Arabian horses too, beautiful creatures, all for hire.  I decide to eat at the restaurant Kamal, and am awarded with a bunch of roses by the head waiter.  Every woman in the place gets one flower, they gave me the rest, perhaps the waiter is trying to tell me something.  Meal delicious, sole meuniere eaten with the accompaniment of a Karaoke organist, singing Dire Straits in a high falsetto not unlike Demis Roussos.  When he began on 'Candle in the Wind', I almost fell off my chair.

Monday 10th November
Decided to take a trip to Tiznit, further south, but missed the bus.  Instead, I travel for 2 hours to Tarroudant, a nearby walled city.  I walk around the town in jelabah but still get hassled, likely because I am alone.  Open season to a Moroccan, a woman alone, especially a foreigner.  The town is dirty, garbage abounds, flies are everywhere, and the streets stink of human waste.  I see a donkey being whipped unmercifully, bringing tears to my eyes.  Keep your mouth shut silly girl, you might be lynched here!  I meet a stone sculptor who brings me to his workshop where his brother is carving a chunk of marble.  We discuss English football in broken French, and drink mint tea (what else?). expecting the bus to arrive, I make my excuses to leave.  The bus in fact is an hour late, quite normal for this part of the world.  I am not sorry to be leaving this unpleasant place.
Back in AgadirI take a walk across the square to the Sindibad Hotel.  Here I clinch a deal for 150 DH a night, only 10 less than the Bahia but for a better standard room.

Tuesday 11th November
Oh now, this is the life.  I have a sunny balcony, TV, rooftop solarium with swimming pool, and a bar/restaurant, plus room service.  Wow, this is a step in the right direction!
I spend the first part of the day half-naked, tanning in private. (I can't do this on the beach)  Omer, the old hall porter sneaks up for a look, I cover myself instantly, spoiling his fun.  With his pinched features, he looks like Ben Turpin, the silent movie star, without the squint.  The pool is cold, due to the near Jacuzzi strength of the bubbling filter.  It's great for keeping your mineral water cool!  I look out over the city from a high point, seeing the ocean over the rooftops. It's perfect for spotting sunsets.

                       writer at work                                                private paradise on the roof

Wednesday 12th November
Sunned the morning away again, then I walked around the better parts of Agadir, finding an embassy or two behind high white walls, brilliantly coloured Bougainvillaea spilling over them.  I take some shots and wander on after being accosted by a man, of course….  The days are boring now, I crave some excitement.  All this asleep by 10.30 every night is a bit much.

Thursday 13th November
I had a very bad night with the old tummy.  Maybe better to drop the couscous in favour of more fish.  I hope this is not food poisoning.  I stayed in my room all day watching TV between visits to the bathroom….

Friday 14th November
Everything has changed.   After discovering the change bank had ripped me for 100 DH, I approached the counter for the second time, and the bank teller paid up without arguement (proving the case for me). I returned to the hotel to pay for the next 2 weeks stay and found I had lost my passport on the way back from the bank. I searched the road twice more in both directions, finding nothing.  The police were no help at all, they advise me to wait until someone hands it in.  I spent a stressful morning with the hotel manager translating for me, trying to get some sense from the local cop shop, but apparently must return in the morning to make a report.  I was so frustrated.  I went to the beach to kick hell out of the sand, and met two nice young boys, Bus and Mohammed, who spoke reasonable English.  It was such a relief to just have a conversation.  They took me to their home for Saharan tea, much dryer than the mint variety.  Walking me back to my hotel, they offer a trip to Guelmime, in the south.  If I had the passport I would love to go, to see the camel market.

Saturday 15 November
I began to write a story this morning.  I washed my clothes and dried them in the sun on the patio by the pool, spending the day browning the bod.  The police station is closed today, well that’s what I am told, and the door's shut.

Sunday 16 November
What a day for info.  One of the English tourists talked about Zagora, in the Sahara, in particular a hotel which has a Bedouin tent in the grounds which you can rent if you like, rather than a room.  Sounds the business.  Pity I'm stateless at the moment, I'd be gone.  Also still running to the bathroom every half-hour, best not be travelling for a few days….  I walked to the far end of the beach this afternoon and met Ali, a nice Moroccan with good English who works in one of the hotel complexes.  He told me some funny stories, very political, very dangerous for him to tell.  I of course am no threat, so these things can be related to a tourist woman where they may not be to any passing stranger.  That stranger could be Hassan II's secret police.  I met Paul, a backpacking Englishman staying in a nearby hotel.  He lent me the definitive guide to Morocco, the Lonely Planet.

Monday 17 November
Using the Lonely Planet guide, I set off to search for the British Consulate agent, situated apparently in the hotel Sud Bahia, a 10-minute walk away.  They informed me that the consulate is at the Agadir Beach Club, some 3 miles away at the other end of the beach.  Thank you out of date Lonely Planet.  I decide to check first with the tourist office, I'm passing the door anyway.  Tourist Office closed, possibly for the winter, possibly the day, its hard to tell when the sign on the door's in Arabic script.  Just the thing for a tourist office, Arabic instructions.  I use my initiative and drop into the neighbouring Sheraton Hotel.  (Every traveller knows the Sheraton has everything, information in any tongue, plus decent toilets).  Two very pretty but gormless Moroccan women tell me to go to the tourist office; they have no idea where the consulates are.  Helpful, that.  It is now 1230 hrs and getting very hot, I think it best to go back to my room to cool down both me and my temper.  God bless the hotel manager again, who happens to know the consular agent, and gives me the phone number of her office at Top Voyage travel agency.  Hooray!  I get on the telephone.  A politely adamant woman explains that the consul agent is away in London until Friday and that anyway she's certain my passport is in the central police station.  No explanation is forthcoming as to how she knows this, but I believe her, and go to ask at the big cop shop where I went last Thursday.  I find a short-tempered immigration policeman who insists that the phone number I called is the wrong one, and produces what he believes to be the number of Miss Sanchez' office.  I gather they have not found my passport, as this information is not forthcoming.  Instead, they convince me to go to Top Voyages myself because my passport is there.  I do exactly that but as they have closed for the day (17.45), I must return tomorrow.  Why am I not surprised?

Tuesday 18 November
After an early start at the travel agency, I am in possession of the facts.  Last week, a man came to their office with an English passport.  He wouldn't hand it over without money changing hands, and went away.  They didn't get a name or address from the man, but trusted him to bring the passport to the police station.  I asked them how much they thought it would fetch down at the docks, and the penny dropped.  Moroccan women just don't know about initiative, it’s a word that won't translate.  After much persuasion, they call the police station.  Today's a public holiday and there is only a skeleton staff at all govt buildings, so that old phrase :"come back tomorrow" is passed around.  I departed to stroll the beach, passing a football pitch on the way where two very well dressed teams are playing a game, with speakers set up to one side of the goalmouth, playing Moroccan music full blast as they take their penalty kicks.  I've seen it all now.  A sandstorm at the beach sent me away to find the gardens, donated by the Portuguese twin town of Olahu.  The outer wall shows an unusual design of thinly sliced stones layered onto each othe in a herringbone pattern.  Walk a little way across a bridge to a collection of buildings designed in the same stonework, housing the Agadir Chess Club, looking like some fantasy castle surrounded by a moat without water. Palms and bougainvillaea are everywhere, and the seats placed so that they always have shade in the heat of the day.  It's quite lovely.

Wednesday 19 November
Ok, where's the camera? This has to be a Candid Camera story.  There's a suggestion now that the passport might be at the post office.  Some people are a bit slow, they might put it in the post.  I hope not, as the only address in it is my next of kin, my sister in America.   With little else to amuse me, I go to the post office to ask at the parcel depot.  A dreary looking man barks some French at me after a long wait, then somebody mentions passport, and he shakes his head.  I take this to be a negative response and leave.  I called KLM to discuss the changing of my flight; nothing can be done without a police report.  One of the waiters from the Coq d'Or restaurant, Ali, kindly comes to the local police station with me to translate.  They instruct me to go to a shop for a special stamp.  I go.  I return.  I sit for half an hour.  I show the stamp.  I'm told the chief is not there, it appears he must sign the declaration.  I go.  I have a coffee and relax for 40 minutes.  I return to the station.  Still no chief, and the phrase we've all come to know and love:  "come back tomorrow" ("demain" is their way of saying it).  I was expecting this and leave quietly, no protesting.  It's easier.  I drank a bottle of wine with another single English girl, Carol, who is on her way to Gibraltar.  We swop stories then she says she could get her boyfriend to ask around for my passport, it would probably return if I offer enough reward.  So that's the game…

Thursday 20 November
I was at the police station at 08.30.  No chief.  Mustafa, the CID officer, goes out for breakfast. I do the same.  Returning at 9.45, I sit to wait.  I'm about three chapters along in my novel when a piece of paper is waved under my nose with a ballpoint pen.  I sign, not knowing what I'm agreeing to. In perfect English, the smiling police officer says, "There you are, I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.  Take better care of your things.  Goodbye."  I am flabbergasted.  Even more so when the policeman on the door wishes me good luck.  Suddenly they can speak my language!  For six days, I've been messed around and ignored but for now I am just glad to be able to wave a properly signed police report over my head.

Friday 21 November
I relax with my new book, Ann Rice's 'The Vampire Lestat', at the hotel.  I noticea number of single men and gay couples strolling about the place.  Hussein, the desk clerk, tells me it’s the 'bum boys' who fill the hotel at this time of year.  They come for the young Moroccan street boys. Apparently this is number two in the list of sex tourist destinations, after Thailand.  I watch dubious looking German men chatting nonchalantly to teenaged boys, stroking hands and exchanging knowing glances.  The poor boys have little choice, there's no social security here, these kids live in poverty. A rich homosexual tourist can make life very comfortable.
Later I visit Ahmed, who has a souvenir shop near the market.  He was the only one of twenty traders who didn't pull me protesting into his shop.  We drink tea and chat for a couple of hours, then I head for the Top Voyages office to see this consul agent who is not yet there, try again in the morning.  I'm beginning to get very annoyed now.

Saturday 22 November
At 10 a.m.  I was in the Top Voyages office to meet Leslie Sanchez, a bustling English blonde of around 40 years who gave me the forms for a new passport and assured me the problems would now be over.  I must leave for Casablanca next Tuesday to organise my flight.  I'm told I can get another passport in Holland easily enough.  She apologised for the stupidity of the women in her office, but what can you do with such idiots?  I left happier than I've been for days.  At the bank I am allowed to cash another cheque so I go mad and buy souvenirs from Ahmed's shop, before going to the beach for a walk, its all there is to do these days, kill time by walking.  I eat early dinner and settle in front of NBC for the night.

Sunday 23 November
Spent a morning sunning myself and an afternoon packing my stuff.  I seem to have a suitcase full of laundry.  I'm almost finished the book, shows how much I'm reading, a book a weekend!

Monday 24 November
And so I find, the end is near, Its time to pack and leave for Casa…
Thought a quick check at the central police station would be a good idea, maybe the passport has appeared, and I can continue my holiday without problems.  This time I am escorted to the right department at least.  The two cops stare at me but assure me that Moroccans don't steal, my passport will return.  I stop myself from laughing aloud and call it a day.  No more visits to the police for me!  The day is cold, overcast, and not at all what I've come to expect from Agadir.  Its definitely time to leave if the weather is against me!  I take a last stroll on the beach, buy spices, choose a new book to read, then buy my ticket to Casablanca.  Only 95 DH, these buses are just so cheap.  It leaves at 0630 so I hope I get up all right.  The sun appears at 1 p.m. and I bathe for the last time on the little patio by the pool, I'm going to miss this quiet little place.

Tuesday 25 November
After an extremely early start, the bus is on the road to Casa heading north up the coast.  It stops in some really dirty villages, nothing to indicate a bus stop except the crowds of beggars that jump on to tell their sad stories and ask for alms from the passengers.  Then some bloke gets on to sell some perfume; he shoves it in your face and insists you buy it.  Smells like camel piss to me.  I ignore him, despite his trying three times to get my attention.  We are parked outside of the café where the bus drivers eat lunch.  More folk get on as the coach nears Essouira and again Safi.  I have a man sitting next to me who wants to explain anything about the countryside, pointing through the window and explaining in French.  I can't understand half of it and I just nod sagely and smile.  Thankfully he leaves at El Jadida and I have the last two hours alone to stare out at the rain.  Periodically the police stop all vehicles to check papers.  The bus is no exception, we stop but are waved on without incident.  Others are not so lucky; I see trucks and cars being searched and wonder what the police charge for this service, for sure as camels walk the desert there is a charge somewhere.  Someone has to pay.  Further north, the countryside is greener, crops grow and everywhere are cattle, some pulling ploughs. I even notice a tractor or two, quite a contrast to the poorer south.  Donkeys abound, everyone seems to have one, poor creatures.  I'd like to whip some of their owners they way I see them doing to their animals.  A boy of about 8 years passes by driving a donkey cart with expert precision; I doubt he can read but he sure can drive a cart.
We pull into Casablanca at 1530, I'm exhausted.  I call the consulate who advises me to get to their office before 17.00 as they close for the day.  When I arrive there they are very helpful and take me to a hotel further along the street.  The clerk won't entertain me without a passport, despite the pleas of the consul.  We have to go to the prefecture of police to obtain a copy of the tourist number given to me when I arrived in Morocco, (the identity number by which the police can trace you while you're in the country).  The consulate doorman comes along too, and I'm glad he did, as Mrs Bandara (the vice consul) says its better to have a man around in these matters.  She's right, the policeman we're ushered in to see, talks only to the man in the group (don't you love chauvinism?).  It’s a long wait, so the doorman invites us to his home nearby for a snack which becomes dinner.  When we return to the police station, the information is there.  Now back to the hotel we drive, and I am at last awarded a room: old, circa 1950, with an ancient bath which I immediately fill with hot soothing water.  I look out onto a rainy downtown Casablanca, horns blaring constantly from non-stop traffic.  I'm too tired to care and fall asleep instantly.

Wednesday 26 November
I spoke to KLM earlier and also to Amsterdam and am booked on the fight at 1345 today.  Hooray! I pack carefully.  I breakfast and joyfully make my way to the airport by train, a half-hour journey.  I feel something is wrong but proceed to the check-in desk where I am given a boarding card and sent to the flight.  Then the trouble starts.  I'm not allowed to go through emigration, and sit instead in front of another policeman.  I'm near to tears as he calls to remove my bag from the flight.  "Come back with a passport", he says.  I flash the police report, not enough apparently, no travel doc, no fight.  I bite my frustration and get back on the train for Casablanca to go to the consulate again, depositing my suitcase at left luggage; at least I don't have that heavy old thing to lug around.  A temporary passport is issued for Dfl 35, but now there's no flight until Friday, say KLM.  I return to the hotel to discover it is fully booked.  Oh dear.  I bus out to the beach, hoping to find a small pension, finding only 4 and 5 star hotels, way out of my price range.  A friendly taxi driver picks me up and takes me to a couple of hotels in the city. I settle in at the Dade, a bargain at 120 DH a night (Dfl 24) but shabby compared to last night's accomodation.  I befriend the friendly desk clerk for information.  As I left the hotel, the taxi driver (who was busy touching my leg whilst we drove along) is waiting for me.  I don't want this, I tell him to leave me alone, I don't want to go anywhere.  It took some doing but eventually he drove off, muttering to himself.  I walk around a littl, finding the Hyatt Regency where I obtain a map.  Across the busy main road is the Medina, too old to date, full of narrow alleyways and overstuffed shops smelling of a variety of scents; its as varied as any market, much bigger than that of Marakesh. I returned to the hotel in near darkness, and, walking out in search of supper, am faced with, surprise surprise - Macdonald's!  I never thought I would be glad to see a MacFish burger!  What a lovely dinner - fries, thick shake - the lot!  It goes a long way to easse the anger and frustration I have suffered today.

Thursday 27th November
I began the day with a visit to KLM to confirm the ticket.  Then I meet another Mohammed, this one the hotel desk clerk, who invites me to go with him to Mohammedia, a smaller town on the coast to the north of Casa.  I agree and we are soon in a share taxi with four others, squeezed into the back seat.  We visit a hospital where his friend is waiting an operation, then we walk to the beach.  This is a small tourist strip, nice beach, not as developed as Agadir.  We chat over coffee at a café, solving all  the world's problems.  When back in Casablanca, he goes to work and I wander off to view the fabulous mosque of Hassan II near the Corniche (the rich part of the beach).  It's a fantastic, huge, beautiful, expensive white elephant; just a tourist attraction, not used for services at all.  Mohammed said the people here need houses, not mosques.  I glean information from a nosy and very obvious secret policeman, who is keen to know more about me than I do about him.  I lie, what else do you do when dealing with the secret police?  He watches me walk along the shore in the shadow of the massive mosque, peering in rock pools.   I see some men catching an octopus, taking a photo of the prize.  The angler knows Amsterdam; we laugh together and chat in Dutch.  Time to leave as the muezzin call worshippers to worship in an empty mosque.

Friday 28th November
I was bitten by an unwanted occupant of my room.  What a time to leave the bug blaster in the other suitcase!  My eye puffed up as if I've been punched.  Oh well, at least this time I am fully equipped to leave; this time there is almost no delay.  Not until I get past the barriers where I learn that the plane has yet to leave Amsterdam, and you can only spend French Francs at the duty free shops, not dirhums.  We take off two hours late, at 1730.  Homeward bound, I stared thankfully at Morocco, rapidly receding below. I am thankful for the experience but more thankful also, to be leaving at last.