There are 5 other Georgetown students that are going to Africa with me and we all had to take the same flight because even though we are paying full Georgetown tuition (twenty something thousand dollars a semester) for a program that should cost half—if that, they are too cheap to pick us up individually. Everyone else wanted to pick Royal Air Maroc because it was th
e cheapest (well DUH!) so Royal Air Maroc it is! Let me tell you, it's no Lufthansa, believe me. And there was Arabic writing on the outside; I'm kind of morally against flying in an airplane with foreign writing on it, for some reason it just doesn't scream FAA regulation. But at the same time I think that Arabic writing on an airplane is the equivalent of putting a 
red cross on a van—no one's going to bother you. The cool part, however, was that we got to have a 12 hour layover in Casablanca, Morocco (incidentally Casablanca Int'l is more just a glorified road in the middle of the desert that happens to be big enough for planes to land on). Anyways, they gave us a free ride into the city, paid for three hotel rooms for the day and lunch (we're not exactly sure who "they" were but all I know is I didn't pay a penny, or in this case, a Dirham). Driving into the city we passed by this shanty town/slum. The weird part about it was that even though they were holding their roofs down with rocks, each of the shacks had its own satellite dish. I'm trying to imagine these people
deciding between putting humus on the table or buying satellite TV so they can catch late night re-runs of "I Love Lucy"—and then choosing the latter—but clearly priorities are priorities and I'm not going to be the one to judge someone's love for television.
Anyway, Cassablanca is a lot less glamorous than it sounds. We spent an hour walking along the coast trying to find a beach—there were only grimy shipping ports—but instead we found this huge amazing mosque. Yaa da da da blah blah blah it was nice. Mainly I was just hot and grumpy and really confused about where I was—not just geographically but in general, like have you ever opened your eyes and realized you're staring at a Mosque in Morocco while you're halfway between here and there and it's really hot and you've been awake for the last 24 hours (ok clearly you haven't had that exact feeling but you know what I mean, it was just completely random—but that's how this trip seems to be heading, a string of random encounters tied together by awkward language barriers, strange customs and a mosque or seven). Did I mention I was really hot??
In other news, racial segregation still exists in Africa (what?? no!!) or at least that's what we've surmised thus far. On our flight from Morocco to Dakar the six of us were the only white people on the plane, which in and of itself is not evidence of racial inequality. But even though we all had booked our flights at different times, for some reason, they had us all sitting together and we were all in the first two rows of the plane. It was only mildly uncomfortable as we sat there in the front row, forced to subdue to a litany of disapproving mugs as people walked by.
"Don't blame me. Blame Monica at the check-in counter at JFK. She's the one who still subscribes to apartheid."
"Whatever, white boy. I'm surprised to see you decided to take off your pointy white hat for this trip. I'd just ask that you wait until after we get off the plane to burn your wooden cross. Tampering with lavatory smoke detectors is a federal offense, you know." I'm pretty sure Rosa Parks was rolling over in her grave (may she rest in peace).
e cheapest (well DUH!) so Royal Air Maroc it is! Let me tell you, it's no Lufthansa, believe me. And there was Arabic writing on the outside; I'm kind of morally against flying in an airplane with foreign writing on it, for some reason it just doesn't scream FAA regulation. But at the same time I think that Arabic writing on an airplane is the equivalent of putting a 
red cross on a van—no one's going to bother you. The cool part, however, was that we got to have a 12 hour layover in Casablanca, Morocco (incidentally Casablanca Int'l is more just a glorified road in the middle of the desert that happens to be big enough for planes to land on). Anyways, they gave us a free ride into the city, paid for three hotel rooms for the day and lunch (we're not exactly sure who "they" were but all I know is I didn't pay a penny, or in this case, a Dirham). Driving into the city we passed by this shanty town/slum. The weird part about it was that even though they were holding their roofs down with rocks, each of the shacks had its own satellite dish. I'm trying to imagine these people
deciding between putting humus on the table or buying satellite TV so they can catch late night re-runs of "I Love Lucy"—and then choosing the latter—but clearly priorities are priorities and I'm not going to be the one to judge someone's love for television.Anyway, Cassablanca is a lot less glamorous than it sounds. We spent an hour walking along the coast trying to find a beach—there were only grimy shipping ports—but instead we found this huge amazing mosque. Yaa da da da blah blah blah it was nice. Mainly I was just hot and grumpy and really confused about where I was—not just geographically but in general, like have you ever opened your eyes and realized you're staring at a Mosque in Morocco while you're halfway between here and there and it's really hot and you've been awake for the last 24 hours (ok clearly you haven't had that exact feeling but you know what I mean, it was just completely random—but that's how this trip seems to be heading, a string of random encounters tied together by awkward language barriers, strange customs and a mosque or seven). Did I mention I was really hot??
In other news, racial segregation still exists in Africa (what?? no!!) or at least that's what we've surmised thus far. On our flight from Morocco to Dakar the six of us were the only white people on the plane, which in and of itself is not evidence of racial inequality. But even though we all had booked our flights at different times, for some reason, they had us all sitting together and we were all in the first two rows of the plane. It was only mildly uncomfortable as we sat there in the front row, forced to subdue to a litany of disapproving mugs as people walked by.
"Don't blame me. Blame Monica at the check-in counter at JFK. She's the one who still subscribes to apartheid."
"Whatever, white boy. I'm surprised to see you decided to take off your pointy white hat for this trip. I'd just ask that you wait until after we get off the plane to burn your wooden cross. Tampering with lavatory smoke detectors is a federal offense, you know." I'm pretty sure Rosa Parks was rolling over in her grave (may she rest in peace).
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