Am I Going To Dine With A Real King?
Why are their bullets flying through the skies Mom? Issue #7
ifOnlyi… realized once again how lucky I was. This time, to make it through an assassination attempt, not on me but around me, with flying bullets hitting our hotel, windows, and cars below. Thankfully, we all survived, and so did the King.
I spent the summer of ‘72 in Estoril, Portugal, with the family, and a visit to Rabat, Morocco, was planned. We were to have lunch and ride camels with the King of Morocco, H.M. King Hassan II. This trip was organized long before my dad and I arrived in Portugal. My mom's friend Boris, the Baron, arranged the visit to Morocco. Dad couldn’t join us because he had flown back to California to handle business.
The plans were to drive from Portugal, through Spain, take the ferry across to Morocco, and drive to the capital, Rabat, where we would enjoy festivities with the Royal family. It was roughly a 966 km drive, but with all our stops and side tracks, it took us several days. The trip there was the best. We ate picnics every day; we sometimes jumped out of the car when we saw a melon farm and stole a melon or two.
I know, “Why?”, you ask. I think it was the thrill with no damage done, although I remember one close call by me. We had a contest: who could steal the tastiest watermelon? I think my first sister won that one. Every night we had hotel reservations, booked well in advance, and the journey was enjoyable. I was so excited not to meet a King but to ride the camel, oh yeah, that sounded fun.
More information on why I chose this image of Rabat later.
We arrived on time in Rabat, checked into the hotel on the city square, and were planning the next day’s events. I ate some dinner and went to my hotel room; I had my room. Well, the excitement didn’t last long! Shortly after getting into my room, I saw cars stopped everywhere outside the town square, with no rhyme or reason for the craziness. Car doors were left open, engines still going, and people ran everywhere to find a safe hiding place.
Next, there was pounding on my room door. I was scared to death and shouted, “Who is it?” “Boris,” he replied, “open up”. “What is happening, Boris?” I asked. He replied, “The military is escorting the King from his airplane back home.” There was a coup on him, and fighter jets were shooting at His Majesty’s airplane; that’s why you heard bullets and screaming. So we need to keep everyone safe, Boris said, and slid my bed under the window.
He said, “Don’t leave the bed until I come back for you, and don’t under any circumstances look out the window, not even for a second”. “Understood, yes, sir,” I replied. I was good at taking this kind of order seriously with all my military school and private boarding school training. Now it was time to man up!
About half an hour later, Boris returned and said, “Pack your bags, we’ve got an escort to get us out of the city! Now, chop chop. It was dark, late at night, and we were to leave around 1 am. My sisters were crying, but I was ready. I didn’t know for what, yet I felt that all those years of marching with a rifle could be useful, if I were called upon.
Yes, I wanted to protect my Mom and sisters. Boris was off speaking in many languages to people, getting the plans for driving through the safest areas away from Rabat. Everything was in a citywide lockdown. Cars were still scattered over the streets, many engines still running and car doors wide open. It looked like something out of a movie. We were getting to do a runner, a midnight one at that, and all illegal, one for sure as it was mandated not to leave.
I was told to get into the boot or trunk of the car; Mom was lying down with my sisters in the back seat with blankets and luggage on top of them, and off we went. I’m sure the official guard was paid dearly to get us out and led the way. I was about to piss in my pants or maybe I even did. Once we were out of the city and into the darkest of dark areas our car stopped the trunk was opened and told get in the back seat now, All was ok. Was it though?
We were low on gas, gas stations were closed, hotels were mostly closed, and they were fully booked once we stopped. These were not big hotels like the wonderful ones we stayed in on the drive. The one we got in the end had a bed with a sheet and a water jug. The sinks had no running water, and all rooms shared the toilet. “What, no pillow?” I was told just to be quiet, grateful, and get some sleep; we would have to leave again soon.
It felt like I had 10 minutes of sleep, but it was more like 2 hours. We had to leave and drive, hoping to catch the ferry and get across to Spain as fast as possible. Once we were at the border and passports and yellow cards were checked and money passed into the hands of these border agents, we kids had to have vaccinations.
I’d had all my shots before I left America and I know my sisters were fresh up to date too, living in Portugal for the year, it was a scam, these feckers just wanted money. Boris and Mom said we had to agree or not pass through customs. Having no idea why or what would happen if we disagreed, I kicked in high gear with my manners and said Yes ma’am, sharpen up the needle.
Done, and we were driving again. It hurt, and the next morning my arm was red, swollen, and felt like you could see my heart beating where the needle went in.
Nowhere did we have reservations for hotels at all, and as it was summer, people had their plans made and hotels booked. Driving and looking for places to stay along the way was tricky. The watermelon contests were forgotten; we needed a shower and a bed. But before we could get to a hotel for the next night, there was another border checkpoint.
It was like the Gestapo, ‘passport and yellow card please’. The yellow card was to show all the vaccines you had in your lifetime. Guess what? The bloody agents who gave my sisters and me the shots at the Spanish border never stamped our yellow cards, and now this border patrol was insistent that we get the same shots again, even though we just had 'em hours before.
My arm was pulsating with pain and swelling up, it didn’t matter to them, so if we wanted to pass through and make our way back home to see Pk’s Ass (our donkey) we had to get these shots again. Had to! No option, no matter the number of payoffs offered, and this time Mom made 100% sure we got the stamps in our yellow books.
I was numb, where to next, and how long until we return to our breadman and chickens too? I didn’t care about the King, the Camel ride, or even the promise of the best lunch ever. Drive Boris drive, faster, faster please LOL…
We arrived just two days after crossing Spain and returned to our Estoril home. I was so happy to be home, tucked into my bed, looking forward to the smell of freshly-baked bread the next morning. Sometimes the simple things are just what we need!
Facts about the attempted Coup from Wikipedia
On 16 August 1972, as King Hassan returned to Morocco from a personal visit to France, four Royal Moroccan Air Force pilots, flying Northrop F-5 fighter jets, attacked the Boeing 727. It was said that Major Kouera el-Ouafi led this attack. The planes shot holes through the fuselage, killing some passengers. During the attack, Major Kouera el-Ouafi plane's was damaged and was forced to bail out, but was captured shortly afterward. One plane broke off, strafing a nearby airfield and killing many on the ground.
Eight passengers on the royal jet were killed and forty injured; however, the plane was able to land safely at Rabat airport.
ifOnlyi…. short stories are published chronologically, and follow my life growing up in California from 4 years old. If you’ve just found me, the stories will come together when you start reading from….Issue #1
🙃🙃🙃🤗🤗🤗😘😘😘😍😍😍🥰🥰🥰