“Oh, to get out of Casablanca… to go to America… you are a lucky man.” (Ferrari to Rick, Casablanca)

The shores of Casablanca shine up at us as our plane banks in to land one brisk, sunny day in early March. We have flown in from Canada, eagerly anticipating four weeks of adventure in the jewel of the Maghreb. The virus is a distant news bite to us as we touch down. But global naiveté has no foresight.

We spend five days in Fes, exploring, hammaming and dining, but the clouds of Covid19 are moving in fast. Daily updates pronounce the crisis is escalating with travel restrictions and social distancing measures across Europe and now Canada. The day we leave Fes, Morocco declares their first case of Coronavirus. What happens next is inevitable, but we think we have time and distance on our side. We don’t.

Our journey takes us south into the desert and while we’re camel trekking across the dunes, the king suspends flights from several European countries and halts the ferries from Spain. The temptation is to escape the hard reality of the outside world, stay here in the desert and live like nomads. But we aren’t nomads. So we pack our bags and head towards the coast and inescapable events.

Two days later, we arrive in the coastal town of Mirleft, where drama abounds. British, French and German camper vans roam aimlessly around the countryside, waiting in vain for the ferries to sail. The influx of travelers into the country is stalling and the race is on to get home to Europe.  Shops and cafés, already empty of patrons, begin to shutter. Anxiety hangs in the air like a thick fog.

The region south of Morocco is much more conservative than the more touristic areas in the north. Long flowing hooded djellabas are the dress of choice and women are often fully veiled. And no one drinks alcohol. That is to say, the Moroccans don’t. We’re feeling a bit rattled by all the weirdness and decide to find a bar to pass the early evening. We ask around and someone points us to the only bar in Mirleft. The building clings to the edge of town, and the ambiguous sign outside reads: Abertih. Bien-etre. Hammam, Coiffeur, Esthetisme.

Cigarette smoke wafts in our direction when we walk in. There are a handful of small tables set for dinner off to one side, and a bar – the diminutive but main feature, on the other. Bottles of vodka, gin, scotch and rum line the shelves. An assortment of Moroccan coloured placemat sized fabrics hang haphazardly above the shelves. Four stools are set around the counter, each occupied by a relic of the 1970s. They’re all grey haired pensioners drinking beer or gin and tonics, except a young guy who stands at the end of the bar, holding court. Only the bartender looks at us when we enter. He nods in the direction of a table, then ambles over for our order. Glasses of wine in hand, we sit back to watch the action at the bar.

These people all know each other and the conversations are familiar and English. One of the grey hairs is wearing a faded short sleeved shirt, khaki shorts and bare feet that dangle from the foot rest. He looks like he belongs in Key West, drinking margaritas and spilling salt, not here in this Arabic coastal outpost.

The young guy – young, fit and cocky – runs a paragliding business and a popular one at that. Earlier in the day, on the drive here, we passed under a flock of gliders soaring through the air, catching thermals, exalting in a momentary escape from the bonds of earth. The gliders are coming in now, one by one, and the bar fills with gossip and laughter. They seem oblivious to the drama unfolding around them. It’s as if they haven’t heard the news, or don’t care. Or are they making the most of this last crack at any fun they expect to have for a while? We finish our drinks and leave the ex-pats and gliders to their extended happy hour and walk back to our inn, where we are the only guests.

Dinner and Sheba, the inn’s young puppy, are waiting for us when we return. An outstanding tagine of chicken with preserved lemons and a glass of wine brightens our mood at least for the time being. We dine well and play with Sheba, who, like the patrons at Aberthi, shows little concern for current events.

By the time we set off the next morning for the drive north to Essaouria, the news is dire. There are rumblings that flights from more countries, including Canada, will be suspended in the coming days.  Essaouria is a grey-skied blur. The town is almost vacant. No crowded medina, no diners at the seaside tavernas.  The only other guests in our inn are a group of French caravaners, in limbo with no way to cross the Strait of Gibraltar. They pass the time smoking and playing cards in the hotel lobby.

We spend the evening weighing our options at a lonely restaurant in the medina. Driving straight to Casablanca in hopes of finding a flight means milling around the airport for hours, or worse, days, with thousands of other virus-prone passengers. We agree to stay with the plan and move on to our riad in Marrakesh where we’ll have refuge and clear heads to construct an exit strategy.

The next morning, Morocco slams the door. Flights from 25 countries, including Canada, are suspended.

No one has much to say on the drive to Marrakesh. The roads are quiet and the usually jammed Avenue Mohammed V is like a country lane. We arrive to learn all public spaces – souks, shops, restaurants, bars, hammams, museums, parks – are mandated to close by tomorrow. Marrakesh is shutting down.

Fortune smiles wryly upon us. We have two weeks booked as the riad’s sole inhabitants, and it is the ideal refuge. A bright and airy courtyard with a small pool, huge kitchen, sunny terrace, a handful of ensuite bedrooms upstairs and a cozy sitting room with a fireplace.

After welcoming us, Rachid, the riad manager, sadly informs us he will not be coming back for a while, and we must fend for ourselves. Everyone is going into isolation. He kindly offers to stock up the pantry to sustain us for… well, who knows how long? He drops off enough groceries to last us for weeks, and we say our goodbyes and inshallahs. A deafening silence follows the slam of the closing door.

We pour a couple of beers and climb to the terrace where we set up operations on the riad’s spa-worthy loungers. There are choices to be made. Stay for the long haul or find a way out now? Wait for rescue or begin the relentless search for connect the dots flights back to Canada?

Friends, family and Google ply us with news, updates and recommendations. We dutifully register our whereabouts with the Canadian embassy. I begin a valiant mission to reach our airline to find out how they can help us get home, since our return tickets are now cancelled. It proves to be a futile endeavor. No one answers the phone, there is no ‘hold for an agent’ option, and appeals through social media fade into the ether.

It’s not just the airline that has abandoned us.  The Canadian government has washed their hands (good Covid practice) of us too. Canada announces they too will begin suspending flights soon, so the clock is ticking loudly to find a way home. Canadians all over the world are in a similar predicament as ours and we all get the same message. You must find a way home and get home soon because we are not coming to rescue you. The news gets worse. Morocco is suspending all flights in four days. We will be marooned here for weeks, months, before we can get out.

Our search for help leads us to Canadians Leaving Morocco, a newly created What’s App feed. This quickly becomes our lifeline and our main source of drama and information. The thread was started by one of about 35 would be Air Canada passengers who arrived at Casablanca airport on March 15 for their scheduled flight home, the day all flights to Canada were suspended. Effectively stranded, with no options or help from airline staff, the group was started as a communal effort to share information to find a way out. (Within a week the group numbers 350 forsaken souls). Dozens of messages are posted every hour because that’s how fast things are changing, good news, bad news, rumours.

A trickle of travelers report they have made it home. Someone finally secured passage after spending two days and nights at Casablanca airport. Someone else arrived in Toronto after four flights and 38 hours. At any other time, it would raise security alerts – “Welcome to Canada sir. Can you explain why you flew to Canada from Casablanca by way of Cairo, Johannesburg and New York?” There is an over-riding belief among the Canadians Leaving Morocco that the government will be sending in an airborne cavalry to take us home. This even though the Prime Minister, from his own self-isolated chamber, has explicitly told us there will be no rescue.

Late in the afternoon, knowing Marrakesh is closing down soon, we take a break and go for a walk. It’s warm and sunny, but heavy clouds are moving in and the temperature is dropping. A storm is approaching. Jemma F’na, the main square, usually a throng of orange sellers, hawkers, would be guides and tourists, is nearly empty. It’s sad and weird. Like the end of the world.

In the medina souks, the mood is stoic. At my favourite shop for scents, lotions, and oil, where on our last visit we shared scrambled eggs in tagine with the shopkeeper, we talk of what is to come. He is resigned. The world needs to reset and start over. This will be a good thing. Hamdullah.

We hear the same refrain at our favourite spice seller where we stock up on aromatic cumin, harissa, paprika, lemongrass, mint, saffron, coriander and lemon pepper. Yes, we agree, we have been sent this virus as a challenge, and we will overcome the challenge. The challenge is just beginning.

We begin a routine that goes something like this: when the mizzen calls to the faithful and heathens alike in the pre-dawn darkness. (there’s no ignoring him – the minaret is just feet away from our riad and the amplified call blasts down through the open courtyard) I come down to the kitchen, make tea and check my mobile.

As the tea steeps, I open the Canadians Leaving Morocco feed. Congratulations to one of us who has managed to get out. And empathy for someone whose attempt at confirming a flight has failed, again. Mug of hot tea in hand, I settle into the cushioned sofa and scroll though my Google feed for news from home. The Prime Minister’s wife has it, Tom Hanks has it, an NBA star has it… when the rich and famous are affected, it triggers concern and panic like nothing else.

We move from the breakfast room to the terrace and, like cats, shift the loungers to face the sun as the day ticks on. From here, we search relentlessly for flights. We follow tips and rumours, sometimes blindly keying in airlines to see if they are still leaving Morocco. We become pros at navigating Ryanair, Easy Jet, Transavia (yes, that’s an airline) and Air France sites. Like detectives hot on the trail, we follow blind alleys to Iceland, Cairo, Dublin, Copenhagen, Madrid, London. Anywhere.  But we have to be able to leave from these points as well, and doors are closing as fast as we find them.

In the evening, with a fire blazing in the hearth, we repeat the routine from the warmth of our sitting room. Our pursuit continues for three days, trying to connect a flight leaving Morocco by the 19^th, in two days’ time, with a connecting flight to Toronto. But it’s like fitting puzzle pieces. Some flights are canceled almost as soon as they show up, others are sold out before we can complete the booking.

Finally we decide to go with the latest popular advice from Canadians Leaving Morocco. It’s a Hail Mary play: book an Air France flight for a date in April, then go to Casa airport tomorrow and present the ticket to get stand by. I buy tickets for April 2, then book another flight for two days from now, on March 20, from Paris to Toronto via Montreal. Rachid books a taxi for the princely sum of $200 to drive us to Casablanca at 8 a.m. the next morning. Our intuition tells us this is a bad strategy – it’s too risky. We are about to drive nearly three hours to a chaotic airport to spend hours, maybe days, waiting for – hoping for –  a plane to take us out. And we must get out tomorrow – the last day for flights. I feel like a character in the classic Bogart movie set in 1940s Casablanca, where refuges languished, trying to secure passage to the New World amid the dark days of World War Two.

“Waiting, waiting, I’ll never get out of here. I’ll die in Casablanca.” (scene at Rick’s Cafe, Casablanca)

I don’t sleep that night. We’re packed and ready to go, but I’m up long before the mizzen calls, checking Google for news, checking Canadians Leaving Morocco for a miracle. There are well over 100 posts. Someone has posted the fresh news that Ryanair will have 10 rescue flights out of Marrakesh today. My heart jumps. I hop online and manage to book two tickets on Ryanair to London. As fast as my fingers can type, I search for a connecting flight and find West Jet leaving at 12.15 the next day, Toronto from Gatwick. Then I back track, cancel Air France, cancel the flight from Paris. Then I call Rachid to cancel the Casa taxi and rebook one to Marrakesh airport later in the morning. It’s still only 7 a.m. Now all we have to do is pray the Ryanair flight isn’t cancelled.

Marrakesh is a ghost town. The 20-minute drive to the airport takes 10. It’s raining and cool. Like mother nature shedding tears at the state of things. Or are we being cleansed – baptized into a new life?

The airport is a different story. A mass of humanity. Line ups to nowhere. This is an airport that usually handles moderate traffic. It’s become a 24-hour revolving door of exiting travellers. Planes land and take off with frantic abandon.  It’s pandemonium inside the airport. We randomly try a few line ups before finding the right one to check in. And then we wait. And wait. For six hours. Social distancing is non-existent. We are packed like sardines.

Jon makes friends with our line up neighbours behind us to pass the time. A couple of British 20-somethings – young guys who probably had big plans to roam the Sahara. An older Albanian lady, very stressed, who keeps telling us she’s stressed, and her son. Somehow they move ahead in the line-up and an hour later, they are several people ahead of us. Being a stressed old lady has its privileges. We spend most of the waiting time chatting with a family of five from New York. Costa Rican born Andrea and her American husband Eli, her mum and step dad. They have two kids; the son loves Canada and dreams of moving there. Jon gives each of the kids a Canada pin and they are thrilled. Here in this wild, tumultuous moment in time, a traveler’s friendship is forged.

While we’re waiting, we check the Canadians Leaving Morocco feed. We learn that Air France is only taking French Nationals today. Anyone going to Casa in hopes of boarding an Air France flight will be turned away. A small win – that would have been us.

We finally reach the check in counter and the clerk informs us we have not ‘correctly’ checked in. Andrea and her clan get the same news. This sparks a lively and loud conversation. The clerk sullenly escorts us to a circular glass-enclosed office in the middle of the airport. Eight wickets fan out around the office, facing about 200 confused, angry passengers waiting to pay for their check in. A handful of passengers strain to get the attention of the staff inside with stamps, printers, and official looking documents. But we’ve been fast-tracked, and a man in uniform takes Andrea’s five passports and her credit card and disappears inside the oversized kiosk. I’m sticking with Andrea, she is my connection to getting my payment fast-tracked too. It’s about a half hour before Andrea’s passports emerge with an official paper. I have to wait 20 more minutes but I keep pressing my new friend in uniform and he finally gives in and takes my passports and my $200.

It’s well past departure time before the fees are processed, we return to the check in counter, get officially stamped, through security and on our way to the gate. Then we wait some more. Finally, we’re herded onto shuttle buses for the drive to the airplane. It’s there – a real plane. Hope springs. We shuffle across the tarmac to climb, at a turtle’s pace, the narrow wiggly staircase and onto the plane. Jon lags behind me and because there are no seat assignments, we are seated several rows apart. I end up at the back, next to a young man, his wife and baby girl. The baby is not happy and has good lungs. She’s been at the airport since 6 a.m. and has decided enough is enough. I feel the same way.

Finally we’re all boarded. Then we wait some more, and uneasiness descends among the passengers. We worry the flight will be called off at the last minute. But then the plane starts to crawl along the runway, the engines dig deeper and we break into a trot, then a gallop. We’re all holding our collective breath until finally, the wheels leave the tarmac. We’re up. Everyone erupts into loud applause.

Like sports fans who high five each other when the home team wins, we feel we share the credit for achieving this miracle lift off. As we climb into the clouds, I peer out the window and say goodbye Morocco.

There’s more applause as we touch down in London at Stansted. It takes just over an hour to retrieve our luggage, say goodbye and safe travels  to Andrea, Eli and the kids, and transfer to our hotel at Gatwick airport. We celebrate our successful exodus from Morocco with a couple of dry, chilled martinis in the hotel bar. The next day we’re back in the air, enroute to Toronto. Casablanca is one of the movie selections. I pass the time watching Rick and Ilsa, caught up in the drama of another desperate time in history, and their story of trying to leave Morocco.

“Here… the fortunate ones, through money or influence or luck, obtain exit visas and scurry to … the Americas. But the others wait in Casablanca, and wait, and wait.” (Narrator, opening scene, Casablanca)

We are just two people among many thousands caught up in the turmoil of Covid19. Ours is just one story and it ends happily. Others were not so lucky, and they still wait, and wait, for a flight that won’t come for many more weeks.

THE END