Mobile Telephones are a wonderful thing… Half way through the first half at Manchester Untied v Liverpool I received a text message. Yes I’m supposed to be concentrating on the big game in front of me but intrigue wins me over. It is from another photographer currently in Morocco kindly informing that the game I am covering on Tuesday in the city of Rabat, may well be changed to Marrakech.
The day before I was at Cambridge United v Shrewsbury Town.
Young footballers playing on the pitch at half time during the Sky Bet Football League Two match, to commemorate the Christmas Truce of 1914 when German and British soldiers crossed trenches to exchange seasonal greetings and played football.
Remind me not to go to Stanstead Airport again. Seemingly suffering mass over capacity, there strangely appeared to be a different kind of traveler than you see at London Heathrow. The quiet calm was no where to be seem. Instead queues galore with panic stricken passengers hurded up like cattle as security focussed on just the X-ray machine with lazy staff going through the motions leaving experienced passengers with an eagle eye on hand to stop catastrophes of crashing trays coming out of the other end. A sincere nod in acknowledgement to one helpful lady resulted in me doing my bit for karma and also stopping the trays carrying passengers belongings as the exited out of the X-ray machine from causing a bottle neck resulting in a hullabaloo.
Talking of bottle necks, it really did not seem like 12 months ago since we were here last. Mad drivers, surrounded by traffic police on every roundabout ready to pounce on anyone who disobeys. Pushing in is part of the culture, as is the sudden change of impeccable social behaviour when being over seen by an array of people in uniform carrying a variety of guns.
For all I worry about getting old and having time fly by too quickly, even though we rely so much on mobile telephones and sat nav and GPS technology to guide us around strange cities, the three of us traveling together soon rekindled our skills for getting from A to B around Marrakech.
If men with monkeys and snake charmers trying to get a bit of foreign currency from those who stuck out like a sore thumb was bad enough, it was a sharp reminder not to stare too much, especially at market stall holders.
Another journey to the stadium after a bite to eat was a more different experience to what we had encountered only hours before. Armed with accreditation passes and car park passes, Police screaming at us telling us to park elsewhere resulted in concerned media officers when relaying our experience when we finally got to the stadium media centre.
Whilst chatting to a journalist from Sudan, I soon realised that I was in front of what was a growing queue for the media buffet. Colourful food filled with spices may not have been everyone’s cup of tea, or mint tea being as though I am in Morocco, but the cultural difference of North African pushing in was in fine form once the go ahead to get food was given. Perhaps I am simply too British but in a world that is in debt, where everyone else seems to be corrupt, if I am going to survive this week I need to change my ways very quickly in order to survive.
LED boards surrounding the pitch projecting more light than the floodlights, photographers employed heaps of money to just document play in front of Sony advertisements, as some would say, “The game’s gone.”
With in minutes – boom – a goal. My tournament off to a great start. Sergio Ramos heading in the first of many Real Madrid goals against the winners of the Americas Champions League of 2014, Cruz Azul.
Perhaps I should study play and tactics more deeply. For all the football I see, I so appreciate running off the ball, space awareness and with my profession certainly do not follow play like a TV camera does or indeed the average spectator. However one thing is for sure, I so prefer shooting Italian and Spanish style of play compared to that of the English game. It may appear to be a rather pompous statement, but my world is a better place if Real Madrid or AC Milan are in front of me.
A comfortable 0-4 victory with my pictures appearing on various websites around the world in this age of instant digital media, and more importantly a less frantic journey back to our hotel with the prospect of a nice lie in meant stress levels on zero. This did not stop us from walking out of a restaurant when waiting over 20 minutes for drinks to arrive and when busy, remind me not to order late night food in a hotel again via room service.
I anticipated the normally delicious Beef kofta tajine a l’oeuf. Beef braised in a soup like spicy tomato sauce accompanied with an almost floating poached eggs – I got a made up concoction of salty lamb meat.
Did I kick off? …some may read this with great surprise… no. Drinking the one litre of water was more important to satisfy my thirst. And after spending a horrendous eight days sorting out receipts and expenses from the World Cup, my Moroccan daily rules are only going to bed every night, after the accomplishment of having every expenditure documented and all pictures edited and syndicated out, so to wake up with a non-stressful head.
At least it didn’t rain and at least I don’t have the arduous journey of having to get from Rabat to Marrakech for the next round of games.