During a period of leave from the South East Asian airline I had been flying for, I decided to explore the possibility of securing a position with the Moroccan national airline based in Casablanca. I had always wanted an excuse to go to Casablanca ever since I saw the 1942 classic starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.

At the time, expatriate pilots working in Morocco earned high salaries with a total tax liability of 3%. Most of the flight was to Europe with flight times of between two and three hours. My friend Jim, who was flying with me to the Far East, was also interested in investigating the situation in Morocco. As Jim had family commitments in Copenhagen, where he had previously been flying, we arranged to meet in London the following week.

In London we dined at a bistro in Fulham Road, Chelsea while discussing our plan of attack to get a job in Morocco. Jim had a friend in Casablanca who was flying first officer for the national airline who had given him insight into the employment situation.

The airline was unusual in that the chief pilot was also the head of the air force. There was no formal interview process for pilot applicants. Instead, the application procedure involved flying the 727 from Casablanca to Paris and back to Casablanca under the general’s observation. During the flight, he would take a cursory look at the applicant’s documentation: licences, medical certificate, logbooks, and curriculum vitae. Indeed, the interview consisted of demonstrating the ability to satisfactorily handle the aircraft in normal line operation.

With the round-trip lockout time being just under six hours, there were plenty of opportunities to make mistakes, especially in bad weather. The reasons why this particular route was chosen were the daily schedule, as well as the rather complex arrival and departure procedures and the traffic congestion in Paris at the estimated time of arrival. This was more of a problem for those who had never flown to Paris before. Jim had heard that the slightest deviation from what the general considered standard operating procedures resulted in automatic disqualification. We already knew how difficult it was to meet him, and that those who did had a fifty percent chance, at best, of getting a job with the airline.

After dinner we decided to take the subway to the theater district to see a show. With over 40 theaters in the West End, it took a while to read what the Times theater critics had to say about what was playing. A few years earlier I was lucky enough to spend 11 days in London. I jumped at the chance and took my girlfriend to the theater seven nights in a row.

The next morning we flew to Zurich and then continued to Casablanca with Swissair. Upon arrival we were greeted by Jim’s friend Jorgen who took us to the Villa Blanca hotel. They only had two rooms left and for the next few days the hotel was full. Before leaving he handed us two complete sets of Jeppesen charts for Paris Charles De Gaulle airport, so we could familiarize ourselves with the procedures before having to fly them. None of us had been there before except as passengers.

The next morning we were taken to Bill White’s rented mansion. On the door was a sign that read “The White House.” Bill was an American pilot who had been flying for Iran Air up until the time the Shah was overthrown. In Casablanca he enjoyed a lavish lifestyle with a fairly light flight schedule. Over a lunch of cold cuts washed down with local beer, Bill confided that he had just been denied an exit visa for tax evasion and therefore couldn’t leave the country for a weekend in Paris. I was a bit surprised to hear this. Personally, he would have had no difficulty contributing 3% of a salary of more than $100,000. However, I did not comment on this as we were guests at his house, and other than that it was none of my business.

In the afternoon we were taken to the airport where we hoped to meet the general. His secretary told us that he was temporarily out of the country and that she had not told him when he would return. She added that there were limited vacancies for the 727 flight crew following the lease of another aircraft.

Jorgen drove us back to the city, collected our bags from the hotel, and then drove us to his house on a hill overlooking the city. In the evening we were taken to an outdoor restaurant on the boulevard that runs along the ocean. Bill White and a couple of other expat pilots joined us for dinner and drinks. The sea breeze is appreciated since it had been a very hot day, and the food was quite good and not expensive. It just kept coming and there was no chance of leaving hungry.

Over lunch I was disappointed to learn that not a single shot of the Humphrey Bogart/Ingrid Bergman classic had been filmed in Casablanca. It turned out that the bazaar scene was filmed in a Hollywood studio and that the airport for the film was in Van Nuys, California.

That night I slept on the sofa in our host’s living room. When I woke up, I saw a big black scorpion climbing up the curtains. I thought they lived in the desert, but they told me there were plenty in the suburbs, too. I have an aversion to scorpions so I left him alone while I showered and dressed.

After breakfast we headed back to the airport on the off chance of meeting the general. This time the secretary was quite abrupt. She told us that if we really wanted to work for the airline, we had better settle temporarily in the city as others who were now flying for the airline had done. There was no point in sending a resume through the mail, as it would go directly to file 13: the dumpster! There was only one way to get a job and that was to show skill and daring between Casablanca and Paris and back. Normal airline job interviews last half an hour maximum. This would last half a day!

Over a long lunch by the sea we discussed the secretary’s suggestion that we take a room while we patiently waited for the mandatory flight check. I must confess that it was tempting, but in the end we decided to switch off and book seats on the Swissair flight to Geneva the next morning.

Casablanca seemed like a nice enough place to live and the expat company we had met was nice enough. However, we were not in a position to wait long as we had contractual obligations in the Far East, albeit at half the salary. I guess my biggest disappointment was not being able to have a drink in the bazaar where Humphrey Bogart had said those immortal words to Ingrid Bergman: “I’m looking at you, girl.”