Morocco ... Part One

It's been thirty-two years since I was last in Morocco, a long time between mint teas.

I took my daughter there to celebrate her 26th birthday.

Our sojourn began with a one hour wait at Casablanca airport's passport control.

Despite the long queue behind us, the immigration officer was happy to spend some relaxed time querying Jamilla's origins.

"You've got an Arabic name?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"But you are Australian?"

"Yes."

"Is your mother or father Moroccan?" he asked.

"Yes, my mother," she said.

It was late at night and we got one of the last trains from the airport to the port, then paid an exorbitant fare for a devious taxi driver to take us through near-empty streets to our hotel in the old city.

the view from our hotel terrace

Casablanca port