21st March 2013

We woke this morning to find the ship already snug in port. The sky was blue, the air was hot, and it wasn’t even 8 am. After breakfast, we stretched our legs with a stroll around the deck to admire the skyline. Casablanca, it turns out, is not all Humphrey Bogart and smoky piano bars but instead a hive of cranes, containers, and ships that never seem to stop loading or unloading. The port stretched so far into the distance, I suspect it might still be going now.

By 9:15 am, we’d disembarked and joined a crocodile line of fellow passengers trudging along the quay into the city. It was a decent trek, punctuated by the endless soundtrack of car horns. In Arab cities, it seems the horn is as vital a tool as the steering wheel. Every driver uses it every second of the day. Why one toot is more important than another remains one of life’s great mysteries.

After about 20 minutes of dodging traffic and eardrum-shattering honks, we reached the Medina. There, we meandered through alleys and streets with no plan other than to see what turned up. Inevitably, that meant bartering. Having honed our skills over the years, Sue and I quickly secured a few “bargains.” The golden rule is simple: when the shopkeeper looks disgusted at the final price, you’ve done well. As seasoned negotiators (or hedge fund managers in another life), we knew the game; no Arab trader would risk losing face, or worse, a sale to the stall next door.

Eventually, ears ringing and patience tested, we retreated to the ship for lunch.

The afternoon saw us on an excursion bus to Rabat. Predictably, we were among the first aboard, front-row seats for the ride, though Sue took advantage of the hour-and-a-half journey to have a snooze. Our guide, a young Arab woman, was excellent and, fortunately, so, as she soon had to manage more than just cultural commentary.

On the outskirts of Rabat, our bus was rear-ended by a taxi at a roundabout. Much gesturing, arm-waving, and rapid-fire Arabic followed, but remarkably, no one seemed particularly cross. Eventually, honour was satisfied, and off we went again.

The King’s palace was our first stop. After a lightning dash to the loos (located, sacrilegiously, right in front of the mosque), we had a quick tour. To be frank, the palace itself was underwhelming, small, uninspired, and ranked only just above the lavatories on our “places of interest” list.

The Mausoleum of Mohammed V was next, far prettier and more dignified. Unfortunately, our visit was interrupted when an Islamic zealot accused our guide of disrespect for speaking too loudly to us, the “infidels.” She had to be restrained twice by a burly relative before calm was restored. It was a sobering reminder of how thin the line can be between tolerance and intolerance. If the world is ever to find peace, it will only be by celebrating our diversity rather than fighting it.

Our wander through Rabat’s Medina was mercifully short, though Sue managed to conclude it with the triumphant purchase of an amber and silver necklace after some spirited haggling.

By the time we returned to Casablanca, night had fallen. We freshened up and headed to the restaurant on Deck 10, where we dined with Jonathan and his mother. Afterwards, the theatre offered a video of a Pavarotti concert. We gave it a polite 15 minutes before slipping away to our cabin, where TV and a quiet night seemed infinitely preferable to more operatic shouting.