I am hoping that if I live an honorable life, give to charity, help little old ladies (other than myself) across the street, remember to walk daily and take my supplements, I will NEVER, ever, have to fly that poor excuse for an airline again. Royal Air Maroc (herein reviewed) is rather like an airline-wannabe, similar to a run down eatery in the wilds of the Sahara boasting a rep it doesn’t have by calling itself “21”. “Royal” it isn’t, though it may be owned by the king himself. At the Casa airport, the check-in equipment didn’t work at two or three of the passenger check-in desks. Calls across the distance to a colleague for a baggage tag and boarding passes was an ongoing annoyance. Waiting in lines that seemed never to move, we watched clerks running the little luggage belt-way to fetch and carry these important print-outs. Initially, they couldn’t find my reservation, though I had a confirmation. “I am sorry, madam, the airplane is full,” the story (or nightmare) began before I pushed the confirmation right under his nose. It seems that the RAM website doesn’t always inform them of ticket purchases.
Later, when they saw that I had one extra bag, they demanded 150 Euro. For one bag! No, it wasn’t posted that way on the website. Even RAM staff thought it was only 550 MAD (around $65) for an extra bag. Apparently, there is one price for Europe and another, higher, one for the US and Canada. Getting ready to board the plane was likewise inefficient. First they screen your luggage with the x-ray on your way into the terminal, and then, to hold everything up, or perhaps, to give people work, they do it again, by hand, pawing through your possessions in search of what, contraband that is leaving the country. Next, the body pat down. The woman who did the “body check” made a minute tactile investigation of the front hooks on my bra until I explained it in Arabic. “Front hooks.” Oy vey. For people in Morocco, a country I adore, this airline may be the only game in town, but I’d rather not play, thank you.