Green Travel

BABY ON

board London to Marrakech with a baby on board Rebecca Stonehill tells the story of her family’s unconventional Moroccan adventure

“Y

ou’re doing what?” Two pairs of panicky grandmothers’ eyes turn towards my husband, ten month old baby and I. “That’s right,” I reply. “We’re going to Morocco. It’ll be great.” There is a long pause as they raise their eyebrows at one other then look back at us before the inevitable barrage of questions begins. “But what will you feed Maya? Where will she sleep? Won’t the heat be too much for her?” Their alarm is building to a crescendo and it’s making me nervous. “What if she gets ill?” “There are doctors in Morocco, you know.” Silence. “And babies, of course,” we add optimistically. This last comment is met with much tutting but our minds are made up. We’re taking the train to Marrakech. We weren’t without our own reservations (though suffice to say we didn’t share these with Maya’s adoring grannies), but this was something we’d always wanted to do, particularly since making the decision to fly less. Besides, our baby’s age would be a help rather than a hindrance. For a start, she wasn’t yet crawling. And she was at that lovely age where she’d burble happily away, convinced that her jabber was making infinite sense. We felt that, if anything, Maya’s presence would make us more approachable and we’d meet more locals. It’d be a breeze... wouldn’t it?

Travelling light “There’s no plug,” I announce. It’s night one in Paris after taking the Eurostar from Waterloo. I feel as though I should be calm; after all,

we’ve all survived the first leg of the journey intact, but the fact is, I’m not. I’m hot and tired, our room is cramped and stuffy and I want to get my baby bathed. A couple of hours before, we had arrived at the Gare du Nord and walked to our hotel, one of us carrying the only rucksack and the other with Maya in the baby carrier. We’d hoped for a few bath tubs along the way to keep Maya in her routine (as much as is possible when you’re taking the train to Africa) but the fact that on our first night there was no bath and just a tiny, plug-less sink didn’t augur well. “Calm down,” my husband says and promptly stops up the sink with paper. Guiltily, we ease Maya into the sink and proceed to wash her. Evidently she finds this all good fun as she chuckles delightedly and splashes about as though she’s in an Olympic size swimming pool. She’s in great spirits – her parents might not have been organised enough to bring a travel plug but they did think long and hard about every other aspect of travelling with a ten month old. We’d bought along a travel tent (an ingenious mini-dome tent which, in its bag, is the size and weight of a sleeping bag), a small electric blender to prepare her meals and even a travel kettle in which to boil eggs, vegetables and make Ready Brek.

A fresh approach One thing that became apparent from the very start of the journey was that our previous notion of holidays had been turned on its head. Rather than going out to sample the Parisian nightlife, we were up and about

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ABOVE: Maya and her daddy enjoy the colourful streets of Morocco; RIGHT: Koutoubia Mosque, Marrakech
“May I kiss your baby?” we were frequently asked. Kisses, evidently, are a mark of respect imbued on babies who are held in great esteem in Morocco.

Green Travel

early the next morning. Very early. Now as far as holidays went, this was something novel for us, if not somewhat exhausting. But I couldn’t deny the charms of watching Paris slowly come alive – the pavement caféés opening, the cool, quiet air, the parks slowly filling with toddlers and their carers. Yes, we thought nostalgically as we watched the early morning stragglers zigzagging their way along the streets after a night on the tiles, our lives had most definitely changed. Two years ago in Paris we visited Montmatre and the Musee D’Orsay. This time round we sat in play parks with mothers and squabbling children. We also visited Parc Buttes Chaumont, a charming, hilly haven incongruously located in the 19th arrondissement, earth’s last stand against urbanisation.

On the sleeper The sleeper train to Madrid was a joy. There’s nothing quite like watching the Parisian suburbs race by, as we pulled down the beds and lay on the narrow mattresses beneath the changing shades of sky. Miraculously, we even managed to squeeze Maya’s travel tent in to the little floor space we had. Our cabin was next to the lively wagon bar so we took it in turns to go and join the revellers for a beer whilst we sped through the countryside. As we’d paid a little extra for a first class sleeper, we had a cabin to ourselves and breakfast was included, served by a tuxedo wearing, fast talking Spaniard who expertly poured coffee from a height as the train lurched towards Madrid.

Sampling edible delights In stark contrast to our day in Paris, we were the perfect tourists in the Spanish capital. We wandered around Plaza Mayor, watched puppet shows and flamenco guitarists and ate copious amounts of churros (deep fried dough) dipped in cups of thick, steaming chocolate as well as a tapas lunch of prawns and tortilla. All thoroughly indulgent, but we justified as we had a long journey the next day. And long it most certainly was – five hours from Madrid to Algeciras, a wait at the port then a windy, three hour ferry crossing to Tangier. Maya was tired by the time we got to the quirkily eccentric Hotel Continental in Tangier. But then we were tired too. In fact, we both admitted that our baby

was dealing with all the travelling far better than we were. We were overjoyed, therefore, to discover not only a large spacious room awaiting us, but also a bathtub, a wonderful surprise for Maya who could finally have a proper splash around.

Time difference If any of you travel from Spain to Morocco in May, be warned that the clocks go back not one but two hours. As two non-watch wearers, we learnt this the hard (and somewhat stupid) way by going to bed at eight, thinking it was 10pm and then of course getting up at 5am. We couldn’t work out why the streets were so deserted and were starting to think that Tangier was an eerily subdued town until we caught sight of a clock back in the hotel lobby. On the dubious plus side, we found we had the whole morning ahead of us, poised ready to leave for the train station. Thus after breakfast, we headed back to the streets of Tangier where we passed small market squares with women in traditional costumes selling vegetables, hardened shop owners sniffing out fresh tourist blood and local women dressed in attire ranging from western garb to the full burqa.

Kissing the baby Wherever we went, we were surprised to hear people clicking their fingers at us. This remained a mystery until we realised that they were actually clicking at Maya, an involuntary action used by the vast majority of Moroccans when confronted with a baby. Maya found this rather disconcerting at first, yet this wasn’t nearly as perplexing >

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