Marrakesh from above (foto: )
16th September Lisbon Marrakesh 800 km
Rio de Janeiro still lay 10,000 km away. It was another beautiful day in Portugal, and no wind this time. Upon reaching the Mediterranean, there was that same sandy haze that had made my flights so difficult on the Eastern side of the African continent: no horizon to fly by and the sea barely visible directly beneath. No point in making a detour to visit the Rock of Gibraltar!
Even before the tragedy in the US, Morocco had many zones where flights are prohibited. Tangiers Radio vectored me away as I crossed the Straits of Gibraltar. My friend Flemming, in Geneva, had thoughtfully given me a copy of the complicated Moroccan VFR charts. I felt an utter idiot for having left them at the bottom of my overnight bag, stuffed behind my seat where it was unreachable in flight. When the controller requested my estimates for various VFR reporting points, I had to admit I did not know them. His first reaction was to instruct me to land in Tangiers to obtain the charts. I switched from English to French, pleading that motor gliders take a long time to gain altitude. It worked: he gave me the GPS coordinates for the reporting points. This was the first example of Moroccan friendliness and willingness to help.
At 5,500 ft I could barely see the ground, but with a new functional autopilot, I had no problem keeping the Ximango straight and level and realized how much I had suffered without autopilot on those tough flights through the monsoons and in the Middle East. The visibility improved near Marrakesh and the Atlas Mountains took shape behind the city. The hundreds of hotel complexes surprised me. I admit to being rather disgusted by the sight of four golf courses sprinkling water on the desert for such a futile purpose: when we will start giving this precious commodity the value it deserves? What next? Ski-runs?
After landing, Mansur, the ground traffic chief, led me through airport security to the Briefing room. There was something unusual about this airport and I finally realized what it was. Without exception, everyone was smiling and attentive. I told Mansur I would only leave the airport later, as I wanted to work on the plane. In fact, I had two hours to wait till it was time to make a transmission from the aircraft to Globo TV in Brazil. Mansur suggested I should only clear Customs and Immigration when finally leaving the airport. For the second week running, transmission was delayed enormously as some vital individual didnt bother to show up at the studio in Rio, even though it wasnt beach weather. As if I have nothing else to do! After waiting for him for another two hours, the images were finally beamed up via satellite and through Embratel’s ISDN lines to the studio.
When I presented myself to Immigration, almost 5 hours after landing, there was an outcry. Are you Monsieur Moss? We have been looking for you everywhere. We sent special agents to the hotel you mentioned. They thought I had escaped into town without doing customs! I was summoned to appear in front of the Inspector General, but when they realized that Control had always been fully aware of my whereabouts, they apologized for the inconvenience and let me go.
But the drama was not over for me. The said hotel in town looked too noisy for my liking and I decided to go elsewhere but the taxi driver was summoned inside and returned a little nervous. I asked him to find a hotel in a quieter street and he drove off, saying nothing. When he stopped to talk to a policeman, I thought he had been pulled over. He started driving very fast back towards the airport, claiming he had to pick up some passengers urgently. I grabbed the steering wheel and struggled to make him stop. He was astonished when I got out of the car with my luggage, and soon returned with another police officer. Once again, I was under arrest.
I could understand nothing of their conversation, but finally guessed what was happening. Since we were right in front of the Mamounia Hotel, I asked if I could check in whilst they sorted out the problem. Permission refused. I put my luggage on the curb to wait. More security agents came by, chattering nervously into radios. It took 30 minutes to get confirmation from the airport that the search warrant for me had been cancelled and I was no longer a wanted man. They all apologized profusely, blaming the airport for not advising them. I paid the taxi (he gave me a discount!) and all was well. I have to say that under the circumstances, the Moroccans behaved extremely courteously and in spite of this early misunderstanding, I feel totally at ease here.
So, now for that couscous
Este texto foi escrito por: Margi Moss
Last modified: setembro 18, 2001
