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By Elizabeth Johnstone

In February 2014 we celebrated my husband’s 60^th birthday with a week in Morocco.  I chose a week’s all-inclusive package at the Riu Tikida Dunas Hotel, Agadir, booked through Thomson. 

The flight left Gatwick rather early in the morning, so we spent the night at the Sofitel at the airport.  The hotel could not have been closer.  A few minutes along a covered walkway brought us out at the North Terminal check-in desks.  Sofitel likes to market itself as luxurious and certainly it was cosy and opulent.  Unfortunately, the monorail shuttles from North to South Terminals whooshed past our room all night.

The flight took three and three quarter hours, not too bad.  An efficient Thomson transfer took us to our hotel in about forty five minutes.  We were immediately impressed by the spacious lounges and restaurants inside and the wonderful landscaping and pools outside.  I had paid extra for a sea view room which did not disappoint.

Several firsts on this trip – an Islamic country, the continent of Africa, winter sun, all-inclusive programme.

For some, “all-inclusive” conjures up images of mediocre food and worse wine. I reckoned that, as a former French protectorate, Morocco would attract a large number of French tourists who would demand first-rate food and drink.  I was right.  The French pride themselves on being “exigeant”, which keeps the standard up for the rest of us.  The food was not only plentiful but excellent.  Bread and pâtisserie was as good as French (my highest praise). Moroccan and international fare was on offer and the Moroccan wines were more than acceptable.  Dining was mainly in the huge buffet-style restaurant, but on alternate nights we dined in their cosier themed restaurant.

Agadir is a major Atlantic port.  Destroyed by a huge earthquake in 1960, it was completely rebuilt.  Consequently, there is almost nothing of the “old town” to be seen.  A broad promenade stretches the length of the huge sweeping bay lined with many huge new hotels, like ours.  On the hillside overlooking the town, the words “God, the country, the king”, in Arabic, are picked out in lights.

Our main entertainment, outside the hotel, was strolling along the promenade, admiring the long Atlantic rollers which periodically broke hard enough to attract surfers.  Sunset was spectacular, as the glowing disc majestically dipped down behind the horizon.  There was little in the town itself to attract tourists.  The “Valley of the Birds” was broadly acceptable – and popular with locals – but not really up to North European standards.  The birds were generally fine, if cramped, but I felt sorry for a solitary monkey in a narrow, bare enclosure.  The Marché Central was compact but did not lack in the enthusiasm of its vendors, none of whom had embraced the concept of “window shopping”.

We booked for just one of the heavily-marketed trips, a modest coach tour round the city, super value at £12 each.  First was the town museum, with its small but perfectly formed exhibition on Berber art and tradition.  “Berber” is cognate with “barbarian” and the Berbers prefer to be called the “Amazigh” or “free people”.  Next, we were taken to the ruins of the Kasbah, or fortress, high above the town for stunning views of the bay and the port.  Less engaging were the camel handlers, who were prepared to supply camel trips or photo opportunities for the appropriate fee.  We were driven round the busy working port – the biggest in Morocco, possibly why we had sardines at every meal – and ended up at the El-Had Souk.  I thought I was an aficionado of markets, but nothing prepared me for the souk with its 6,000 stalls and barely a price in site.  A vast central hall was devoted to fresh produce and the usual hardware, household goods, fashions and souvenirs. Live poultry was crammed into tiny cages, rows of tailors sat ready for action at their machines, butchers’ stalls were draped with glistening internal organs. There was a post office and a mosque.  We were advised that photography would not be welcome.

This was my first trip to a country whose culture was so different from our own.  The dirham is a closed currency i.e. you are not supposed to take it into or out of the country.  Because of our all-inclusive package, we struggled to spend the £20 we changed on the first day. After £5 or so for postcards and stamps – a must for this Postcrosser! – we had to spend up at Uniprix on the last afternoon.  I am not one of Nature’s hagglers, so Uniprix offered a glimpse of retail “normality”. Elsewhere, vendors constantly tried to sell us things.  I spent a lot of time saying “non, merci, monsieur” on the promenade, in the market and in town.   We were not harassed, indeed most were friendly and backed off when asked to, but they were omnipresent.  There was a definite culture of tipping, for any small service and especially for photo opportunities.  Again, it is not oppressive, but it is just how things are, and you need to have a good supply of coins and small denomination banknotes (my tip: acquire one-dirham coins as a matter of priority, as that is the standard payment to the attendant at the noisome public toilets)

I was intrigued by what the local ladies wore.  Morocco is a Muslim country, but it is a question of individual choice how modestly you dress.  Most adult females wore some variant of Muslim dress. Most adhered to the principle of only showing face and hands. The younger age group favoured fashionable western styles, including form-fitting jeans and trendy tops, with the face-framing hijab or veil. Older ladies might prefer more flowing robes with their hijab.  In a week, I only saw three or four black niqabs (full body, head and face covered except for an eye-slit) A handful of younger women wore no Muslim dress at all.  The long promenade was ideal for joggers and power walkers.  Many local ladies wore a modest style of tracksuit with all the usual logos, but featuring looser trousers, baggy tops reaching to mid-thigh and a sporty baseball cap perched on top of the hijab.

Arabic, French and English are spoken in this tourist destination with some signage in the local Berber language. You can read more about this in my article in Linguasig.  As for the winter sun, temperatures ranged from about 20̊ to 24̊, with a brilliant blue sky.  A breeze came up in the afternoon.  One day, it was somewhat stronger, and blew sand into our eyes and mouth.  Like a latter-day Paul Muad'Dib, my husband started muttering about his stillsuit…

All in all, it was an excellent holiday and an intriguing glimpse into a different culture. The staff at the hotel could not have been more friendly and helpful. I will certainly look out for the Riu brand in future.

Did you recognise the allusion in the title?  Devotees of the “Road” films starring Bob Hope and Bing Crosby will remember that, like Webster’s Dictionary, they were “Morocco bound”.  My husband had to settle for me rather than Dorothy Lamour! All in all, we enjoyed our trip and felt we had done something different.

 

Now where’s that Thomson Winter Sun 2015 brochure?

First published in VISA 115 (June 2014)