I’m waiting for a connecting flight to Banjul, the Gambia as l write this, laying on a bed in what passes for an airport hotel at the Casablanca airport. It does not cost much so l should not have expected better. I had been told that the shower and toilet facilities are shared. So you get the picture.
However, I was glad to pay the €45 to at least get a shower. It cleansed me body and soul. I needed it after what had been a less than pleasing experience with RAM as they are also known.
Does that acronym suggest anything?
Anyway, setting out for a conference in the Gambia, l bought a Royal Air Maroc flight to Banjul in spite of the alarm bells that had been rung by my friend.
The first sign of the coming turbulence was RAM delaying our flight from Heathrow to Casablanca by about two hours.
For a flight that was scheduled to depart at 18.10pm we took off at 20.26pm. The flight duration was estimated to be 2 hours 45 minutes
Meanwhile, the boarding time for the connecting flight to Banjul was scheduled to be about 22.10pm.
Invariably, there was going to be a price to pay for the delay and indeed there was.
By the time we got to Casablanca about three hours behind schedule, the connecting flight to Banjul had left or been cancelled.
Passenger handling by RAM was zilch. No one provided information in-spite of the fact that they obviously had all the information about the situation with their flight. They knew that passengers on board had connections to make and the disruptions that will ensue.
Nonetheless, Passengers were left to roam like sheep without Shepherd. No one took charge. You just stumbled along until you ran into someone clad in some uniform and tried to get directions.
I ran into one who confidently told me to run downstairs when l shouted Banjul as we tried to communicate over the language barrier but where exactly was downstairs with the several stairs l could see? I turned for clarity but the guy had already moved along. The official attitude was one of collective nonchalance.
l ran around in circles with eyes on the airport display wistfully seeking to lock eyes with the name Banjul and boarding gate. I passed through another security screening until l eventually stumbled on an information desk. The guy took a look at my boarding pass which indicated that we were scheduled to board at 22.10pm, looked at his monitor, and then looked up at the airport clock as if to get corroborative evidence for what he was seeing. The hands of the clock were almost hugging each other at the top and showed glaring evidence that we were over one and a half hours late at about close to midnight. He then looked closely again at his monitor and finally shook his head in that manner that makes your heart sink knowing that your worst fears were about to be confirmed. The flight had left he declared.
This meant that you had just been sentenced to a 24 hour wait for the next flight to Banjul at an airport and airline you had been cautioned severally is not so passenger friendly.
In fact, the Arab lady that sat next to me on the London route had been upbraiding the cabin crew for the delay and warning us to expect the worst from the airline.
What next? l asked the guy at the information desk. Once again, one was pointed in a vague direction to search for a transit desk at an airport that had virtually gone to bed with shops boarded up and human traffic ebbing.
I rambled around and by the time l stumbled unto the sole services/transit desk manned by two obviously overworked staff, it was chaotic. It was everyone for himself.
Fatigued and relatively disoriented from all the running around, it was a tower of babel with Arabic, French, Portuguese, English and the odd African language mixing in the air in a cacophony of voices. It was an eclectic mix. We pushed and jostled to get to the front.
Replacement boarding passes were issued by the expressionless staff who apparently were used to seeing these undignifying scenes that do no good to the airline’s image play out. Passengers were then sent off in different directions with no idea on how to get there.
I got issued with a boarding pass for the next flight and it confirmed that it would be 24 hours later.
Now there was the small matter of my seat which l had paid ahead to secure. I usually like the window seat for the same reason everyone else does. With the number of people waiting, l didn’t check to ensure that l had been re-allocated the seat l had taken the pain to pay for as part of my personal preference. I assumed that my money will speak for me and it would reflect on their platform automatically. I was wrong as I was to find out much much later.
Anyway, the guy got rid of me before my tired brain could even connect with all that was on the boarding pass by instructing me offhand to go right and walk straight to a “Wazzez lodge”.
But, l had heard this guy tell some other passengers to go to stamp their passport and go to “accommodation” for a hotel.
Why should my case be different? After all, RAM was responsible for my quagmire and the standard practice in the aviation industry from my considerable experience is that the airline provides hotel accommodation when they are responsible for such extended delays.
Even the equally “passenger unfriendly” Air Senegal did so in Cape Verde once when they defaulted though they would later go on to abandon us in Dakar when we missed the connecting Asky flight to Abuja as a result of their delay. (That is another matter for another day).
So, l tagged along with a couple of those referred, tying my fate to theirs with a prayer on my lips and we once again stumbled around until we found immigration.
When it got to my turn, the guy looked at my boarding pass with what was becoming the usual sad face. Don’t they smile at or laugh with passengers at this airport?
Anyway, my heart and mind knew what was coming next before his words came out.
Handing me back my travel documents he said “Go to services/transit”.
Where is that l asked resignedly? Turn right and straight down he replied as if anything had been so straight forward this evening at this airport that l had been traversing.
So, NO HOTEL for me was the summation after almost seven hours now in the hands of RAM from our “false imprisonment” on the aircraft in London to the merry go round since landing.
My heart sank for the second time. My feet were even complaining. They had tried now! I had even given them the stress of jogging a long distance in the morning.
Now, l was no longer quite sure what distance they would cover before giving up on me.
But, how for do? to use a common expression among my people which they use to rouse themselves.
So, again the search for the services/transit desk resumed. My mind did not want to contemplate that it was that same desk we got the boarding pass. It seemed so far off and how did we even get here. No direction.
Once again, it was the odd airport official who repeated what had now become a chorus. Go straight, turn left and turn right directions.
I did and somehow voila; here l was again at that desk. The crowd was less but the attitude was the same; condescending.
I was directed back here from immigration l said and got the sterile go to “Wazeez lodge”. Where l asked? Turn right and go straight. I now asked pointedly no hotel? The guy simply repeated himself in a manner that somehow suggested everything is there. Maybe l should be more open minded l thought.
So with some expectations, l hurried off. It had been a punishing two hours or thereabout of running around meaninglessly since we landed that more proactive passenger handling by RAM could have voided.
I began the search for the “Wazeez lodge”. It was like searching for an oasis in the desert. The further l trekked, the more elusive it seemed.
After many inquiries, turns and strides, l eventually arrived at indeed an oasis. As my eyes locked on the sign it dawned on me that what l had been hearing these guys referring to all this while as “Wazzez” was actually “Oasis”. It was the language inflection.
Was this truly going to be the Oasis lounge that will refresh me? I sauntered in and for the third time my heart sank.
It was at least a lounge but for passengers who were stuck here for at least 18 hours, they deserved better.
This was just like a transit camp hostel with something akin to camp beds. More like mass housing. Everyone stretched out. I heard someone say they will bring food. It was already 1am.
This was no way to handle passengers in this contemporary age.
I decided to take my destiny in my hands and ambled off to find any airport seat to lay my weary body and see if my soul could regain some of its rhythm.
Then it dawned on me that l still had at least 20 hours to wait and this would be torture. My body was already protesting loudly and would not listen to the customary Nigerian “It will be well”.
l now desperately needed a respite. I had seen a sign of a hotel but on inquiry was told that it was no longer in existence and all hotels were outside the airport. I couldn’t consider that as l had no visa.
However, l decided to give it another try. I saw three young guys sitting over a pizza and obviously relishing it. They were full of smiles. I turned to them to ask for directions but before l could utter a word one of them asked me to take a piece of pizza which was the last thing on my mind. I was tired on my feet. The more l tried to get more words of inquiry out, the more the guy insisted “just one piece”. Before you knew it, the three young men in that infectious go happy spirit of young people turned it into a sing song 🎵”just one piece”.
For the first time, l smiled. It was not a forced smile. My spirit was uplifted. I capitulated, took the piece of pizza and they pointed me to the lift to the hotel just behind them.
By the way, l enjoyed the pizza and munched on it with equal relish as l finally found some succour at the Fly Hotel.
If only the Royal Air Maroc had been half as friendly and welcoming as these guys it would have been a different experience. They do not seem to appreciate how much the poor passenger experience is hurting their image.
I was advised before hand not to fly ROYAL AIR MAROC. However, when l considered my limited options flying from London to Banjul, l chose to fly it because it was an African airline.
I must also admit that my options were limited in the first case because l carry a Nigerian passport. European Airlines would have been much more user friendly, faster and cheaper too but you see as a Nigerian, l must have a transit visa to transit through most European airports. I didn’t have one. I delivered myself to Royal Air Maroc not because l was expecting a royal treatment but at least the minimal aviation industry standard.
Now see what they have delivered to me. Terrible passenger handling, extra airport hotel expenses and the ripple effect of the twenty four hours delay on my mission to Banjul.
Now it is noon, l must check out of the hotel to continue my remaining ten hour wait in the “wilderness” of the airport.
I decide to re-visit the oasis lounge. It looks arguably decent for holding out for a few hours but definitely not overnight. Even the sign says passengers waiting for between four to eight hours. I meet passengers from the previous night spread out on the “quasi camp beds”. They are resigned to their fate. Outside l hear grumbling about the nonchalance of RAM. It is further proof that am not just a wailing wailer (Nigerians know what l mean) or flying solo on this path
l walk out in search of a meal and a waiter tells me to get a free meal voucher from RAM.
They oblige me. It is the only gratuitous act l receive from the airline. For his kindness, the waiter comes around to ask for a tip. He has saved me some bucks so l oblige too. A good turn begets a good turn after all.
It is a lesson that RAM should learn and be good to their passengers who definitely have a choice.
So, as l wander around the airport to while away the long hours, my mind also wanders and the main thing it will be wandering about is; why should l ever travel on Royal Air Maroc again- and l evidently won’t be the only one reasoning this way.
However, when l remember the infectious spirit of those three young Moroccan men singing and urging me to “take one piece”, of pizza, it lifts my spirit and puts a smile on my face.
It is the smile that will see me through the rest of my journey but to Royal Air Maroc, l say; Good luck but not again. Just one piece is enough.
Wilfred Ewaleifoh is a former media executive and itinerant journalist.