Agadir (Morocco) > Reviews (19)

Having just rambled on elsewhere about the benefits of getting cheap deals, it would be remiss of me not to alert you to the dark, hidden side. There is a human cost involved, and every year thousands of holiday makers put price before enjoyment and have to endure a year of glancing jealously at their co-workers, tanned, happy and full of tales of fun from their hols whereas all they have is regret. This is the world of the inappropriate resort and below I take a quick look at one of them, the notorious town of Agadir in Morocco. Given that we visited some ten years ago, the following criticism may seem inappropriate save for the fact the problem is metereological. (There were other problems - general untidiness, poor food, openly leering behaviour of the male population, noise and pollution, but hey, a decade of round the clock infrastructure improvements, attitudinal correction for the youths of the town and environmental controls may have transformed the place beyond recognition)

When I need a definition for 'understatement' I am always reminded of the welcome meeting on arrival in Agadir. The chirpy rep mentioned that Agadir has an occasional early morning mist that burns off as the day progresses. Contrast this with the reality - myself and the less than enamoured current Mrs O occupying a small sqaure of sand. We assume that the sea is nearby because we can hear it but after walking hands in front style groping sea-wards for five minutes we felt like we'd sit down for a rest. To our left a persistent ringing sound and then, the mother of all camels is on top of us, cussing and spitting its way across the sand with some terrified tourist clinging on for dear life. In its wake followed a platoon of hawkers - drink, sun-tan lotion, drugs, beach mats, coconuts, trinkets, double glazing (alright not the last one) - it was like some bizarre reversal of a supermarket where the customer stands there and all the shop pass before them. One general 'no thanks' and stern shake of the head should have been enough but unfortunately the ritual had to be repeated eight times (did the strange design on my tee-shirt really say 'I am stupid. I buy anything. I see your beach as a wonderful shopping opportunity. Of course I came to the beach with nothing. Lets haggle, beach boy'?)

Turning round, I noticed that the CMO had gathered the beach gear we had assembled in anticipation of a lounge in the sun and headed off (it would be wrong to add 'back to the hotel' because it was the gesture that counted - she had no idea where she was going and I did think at the time that she looked like Captain Oates leaving Scott in the Antarctic). Mindful of further errant camels I blindly followed her (what a lovely encapsulation of our life together). As we encountered further hawkers it was clear that the CMO had clearly slipped into exorcist mode, her usually demure personality replaced with that of a foul-mouthed harridan, inviting the now-wary sellers of trinkets to engage in acts of great intimacy with their camels.

I'm not known for sensing an atmosphere but it was apparent to me that Anglo-Morrocan relations were deteriorating and, unable to perform my usual rather inept method of changing the subject by saying 'what's that over there?' pointing toward the horizon (the only possible response in the fog would have been "your finger, stupid") I grabbed hold of the CMD, now in full flow, conjuring up images requiring great dexterity, a very liberal-minded camel and copiuos amount of lubricant, and marched off in another direction, finally grateful for the feel of part-constructed pavement underfoot when we stumbled on what passed for the built up part of town.
Be warned.