My brother Glenn and i were at Sidi Yahia in 1958. After we went back to the States, I married a guy i met there and my brother joined the Navy and got sent to Port Lyautey. He said it sure was different being a sailor or an officer’s son.

A few years later, my cousin who was making a career of the Navy was sent to Sidi Yahia! But wait there’s more!

My brother later was driving a semi truck and trailer and got snowed in somewhere in the Midwest at a truck stop. He spent some time talking to everyone, especially this sailor. The guy said he was being shipped to a new duty station. My brother asked him where he was coming from and he told him: “Probably somewhere you never heard of, Sidi Yahia, Morocco”, and, as it turned out, he shared a room with my cousin while he was there!!

Top that one!

Reading some of the travel adventures folks had getting to Morocco reminds me of my family’s trip to the kingdom. We actually drove down from Bremerhaven, Germany. My dad and mom , my brother, myself and Alf (a daschund) loaded up our 1957 Chevy and headed south for the African continent.

No problems getting through France, except my dad wouldn’t go into Paris so we could see the Eiffel Tower.

However, in Spain while making our way to Rota our car lights went out coming down a a small mountain and by the time my dad could get the car stopped we were sideways in the middle of the road. My dad and brother with the help of one flashlight managed very carefully to get the car to the side of road. After a short time a nice spanish man stopped to help us. We limped down the side of the mountain following him in the glow of his tail lights. We ended up getting the car fixed on base at Rota and spent two days extra there while the vet figured out why Alf (the daschund) had became violently sick. My mom was swearing it was the water, but after a couple of days the vet came up with the solution, the dog was car sick. A couple of pills fixed that problem and we were on our way.

The next problem was a little harder to fix because it actually had to do with us getting into Morocco. After taking the ferry from Spain, the Moroccan government would not allow entry to my dad. The reason – he was in the military. So my dad and mom had to come up with Plan B.

Plan B was for my dad to return to Spain via the ferry then make his way to the base in Rota (I believe he did that by bus). He was then to fly to Morocco via Port Lyautey, commandeer some form of transportation and meet us in Tangier. Meanwhile, my mom, my brother, myself and Alf (the daschund) were to cross the border in the car and meet him in Tangier at a pre-arranged place. Before departing my dad hired a Moroccan lad to guide us to the rendezvous (I threw that word in there because after all we were in “FRENCH Morocco”) point, a hotel. My dad’s ETA in Tangier was three days.

The Moroccan lad (that’s right you guessed it) Mohammed, got us to our destination in Tangier safeley and quite efficiently. Then we sat and waited. After about a day of sitting in the hotel my mother went temporary insane (I think my brother and me were driving her crazy) and let us go with Mohammed into the city. He took us into every nook and crany of the city, the marketplace (the smell still haunts me) the cafes (we sat at the bar and drank coke out of those little bottles) and down to the waterfront. What a great adventure. My dad showed up just about right on time and we moved on down the coast to Kenitra. We stayed three months at the hotel in town then moved to a villa off base. The interesting thing about this villa was the whole yard was concrete. Also this is where we were living when JFK was assassinated, but that’s a whole different story.

We eventually moved on base near the Chief’s club overlooking the airfield. My dad could actually walk to work at the airfield. I don’t know why that impresses me so much, maybe because I have to drive 30 minutes one way to work these days.

Dean,

What a neat story. I have one about the day we arrived in Morocco. My dad had already been there for a few months, when my mom, siblings, and I (I was the oldest–15) took a slew of buses to Norfolk and flew out from there. The whole trip was quite, uh, interesting.

Our first stop was in Bermuda. We took off, wearing our Mae Wests, (October, 1957, but hot), and after we started to level off, one of the plane
engines caught fire. Of course, on military transport, there were no stewards to tell us what was going on. Finally the engine stopped and the fire
went out. Then the navigator came back to talk to us. We had a row of seats facing backward, with our luggage on the other side of the same level–real seat-of-the-pants flying. He said we could make it to the Azores with the 3 remaining engines, but if we lost another, we would have to jettison our luggage.

After they circled, dumping all the fuel they had just loaded, we landed back in Bermuda. Then we could finally get out of those hot Mae Wests. After four hours of waiting in the terminal, the plane was repaired and off we went.

We landed in the Azores for breakfast. Then as we neared Morocco, someone announced we couldn’t land in Port Lyautey as the Sultan was supposed to land there and the base was opened up to the Moroccan people. So we headed for Casablanca. Then another passenger spoke up, announced he was an Admiral, and we would land where he damn well pleased. We turned back to Port Lyautey.

We landed and the Moroccans all pressed forward–seemed like a million of them they were so crowded, thinking it was the Sultan’s plane. We couldn’t disembark.

Finally a laundry truck pulled up and we were hustled into the back of it to be taken to the terminal. It took many days to find all the natives and get them back off the base. About the same time, a shipment of furniture arrived, wrapped in orange plastic. Some enterprising native collected the plastic and cut slits in them and made raingear and sold them off base. I remember natives riding their bikes or walking around in those flowing orange outfits.

Then we got the classes about what was safe to eat, and learning how to soak the local vegetables in Clorox (yuck) to make them safe to eat and all.

Quite an introduction to Morocco. But I really loved it there and would love to go back to visit someday. Anyone else have any stories about arriving in good old du Maroc?

Judy (Hill) Swanson

Having read a number of rememberances of those who were in Morocco, I would like to add a few notes of my own. I first arrived in Casablanca aboard the USNS (MSTS) General Geiger in September 1953. We went directly to Port Lyautey where my dad was living even though he was working as a base engineer at Sidi Slimane since 1952. We stayed at several hotels including the Mamora and then into a series of private homes on rue de Lyon, Avenue de la Gare, Avenue de lorraine and the Route de Rabat.

In 1953, I was in 7th grade and always remembered waiting for the Navy school bus and watching the French kids approximately my age then walking to school carrying a baguette and a bottle of red wine. Things were certainly different then. The only persons I can remember from the school bus days are Chris Navarro, Bill Griffin, Leila Griffin and Lapred Brady. I had many good times there. I graduated 8th grade in 1955 and came back to the US and did my freshman year here and then went back to Morocco via MATS to Nouasseur for my sophomore year 1956-57.

I can remember Brian Burke, Pat Perkett and Mrs. Riggs but few others. I lost my copy of the “Sultan” many years ago, so I go by memory only.

Most people seem to have been in Morocco in the years following my stint. I do remember the French Navy cooks slaughtering the pigs or hogs in the open on the street directly below the school. Sanitation was not a requirement. I have many other remembrances of Morocco.

If anyone would like to drop a line it would be nice to hear from you all.

Vince Bailey

Well, after all this activity in the past few days, I just had to jump in!!

I remember passing SidiYahia on the way to school in our packed bus. At times there were mobs carrying red flags, and it was fairly scary. Can’t imagine living there. Remember the Arab that always rode in the back of the bus? I was at Sidi Slimane and attended Wilhoite in the Spring of 1958 after moving from Ben Guerer AFB. Would have graduated in 1959 if I had used the good sense I was born with, but I opted to go to work at the BX. Thought the long ride every day to Wilhoite was a waste of time, I guess…

My biggest memory of school was the daily slaughtering of the pig. Does anyone remember that? Also, I skipped school (the only time in my life!) to go study at the base library and got caught and in trouble. Seems like I was with another girl … maybe Lynn (can’t remember her last name)

I have lots of good pictures that I will share as soon as I can find them We just moved to NC this July and most of our belongings are in storage, since we are in the process of completing the building of our home.. Anyway, I have pictures from a dance on Sidi Slimane and about ten of us in formals, also a school picture (1958 seniors?) with the class sitting on bleachers and some others.

Remember Sandy Spies, DeAnn and Colleen very well. Do hope we can all get together next year.

Linda DeLashaw Gilliam

This is just unbelievable, just reading the wonderful letters from you all has cleared up many things I had forgotten. I too lived at the American hotel, the first one was small but later we moved in a much larger one and we could go up on the roof and sun tan. My Mother was a great cook and she would make big Pizza’s for every one that lived on that floor. Does any one remember that? My Dad was Air Force (I got a lot of teasing from that) and stationed in Rabat.

Back in 57 there was no high school there and I was the oldest civilian female there all of 17. I was jeeped to school every day back and forth (sometimes in a six-by) for a while. I was the only high school student stationed in Rabat. We also lived in Port Lyautey, still took the bus to school but don’t seem to remember much of that. I remember the McBride twins I was real close to one of them.

I remember the awful bus accident, I cried a lot. I have been looking for them for years but can’t find them. Years ago, I found out that when they came back to the States, the girls went and lived with their grandmother and for the life of me I can’t remember where. That was back in 1964. After my life got busy and time just got away, but now as I get older and things are more or less at a stand still I have time to reflect.

In 2000 my soul mate of 21 years came down with a liver disease and is in the border line to qualify for a liver transplant right now he is doing pretty good but that can change in a heart beat. But he still has his great laugh and personality. Then this past January we had a fire at the house that destroyed everything on the inside, just gutted and charred everything. But my year book survived and a few other things, anyway we are going to rebuild but with winter coming and bad weather things are going to slow down for a while, so we are at a stand still for now.

We are renting a cute little house two streets over so it is a two-minute drive to the house and we are there almost every day still digging through muck but we are getting there. We are out in the country and have four acres out there so we will rebuild, and I will once again see the deer in the morning mist.

Well, I will close for now and hope someone remembers Paulette Kaczmarski, your old class mate

I only have my 1959 yearbook out and so I started hunting the others down this afternoon….without any luck. It helps to look up everyone and see pictures!

Has anyone kept in touch with Aicha Laghzaoui? She was a junior in 1959 with my class and was one of the Moroccan diplomatic students. We were good friends and her family lived in Rabat. Her father was chief of police and a body guard to the king. A big limouisine would pick us up at school and take us to her home for the weekend. Wonderful house, servants, etc. I remember being surprised and a bit embarassed when her maid came to wash my feet! The other Moroccan girl gave a big slumber party at her house and we watched movies and ate my first croisssant! Anyone remember that party? We stayed up all night.

Keep it coming!
Sandra “Sandy” Boudrou

Enjoying the memories of time spent in Sidi Yahia and I just have to add mine! We came to Morocco in March 1957 when I was a Freshman and lived at the hotel until we found an apartment in downtown Kenitra. We were on the top floor (108 steps I remember!) and looked at the Mamora Hotel. We were there until we got housing at Sidi Yahia. Lived on base until June of 1960 after graduating from Thomas Mack Wilhoite….my sister was a junior (Cheryl Boudrou). My name is Sandy Boudrou. I have my yearbooks with pictures of us getting on that bus. We were pretty rowdy! We used to bring a loaf of wonder bread, share it and have spit ball fights! We would sing sometimes for the entire hour and hassle the marines who got on to check all of our ID’s at the gate in Port Lyautey-singing the marine anthem, etc…..

Others on base were Kitty Favor, Gayle and Mike Corder. We were all best friends. Swam at the pool, took lifeguarding lessons there and went to the movies between the buildings. My mom, Cheryl and I (and Gayle) were all on the Women’s Sidi Yahia baseball team! ha ha I still have a pic of us.

Remember riding the big truck back and forth on the weekends? We would goto Kenitra and the base to play-horseback ride, bowling (where we setup o ur own pins) and of the course the navy exchange and lived on french fries and cokes. We had lots of slumber parties and would sneak out the window and roam the streets of Kenitra meeting our friends. Got caught by shore patrol one night and never did it again! I believe Anita Jones was with us that night! No fears in those days.

Haven’t found Kitty, Gayle or Mike yet? Anyone know where they are? Just talked with Anita last week for the first time. Wonderful feeling to catch up with classmates.

Sandy in WA

I vividly remember the Sidi Slimane evacuation incident. I had graduated and was working at the PX (AFEX) in Slimane. Sister DeAnn was at school in Kenitra, but parents picked up younger sibs and I, and we drove a distance from the base where many cars lined up alongside the road, where we waited and waited and waited. Seemed like forever before we were allowed to go back.

Judy, where did you find the online info? I recall some pretty scary times during the revolution while living at Mehdia. We’d get a knock on the door, ordering us to close shutters on windows, keep doors locked and not venture out. Like you, at the time I recall feeling apprehensive, yet excited.

Didn’t the name change from French Morocco to Morocco sometime between ’56 & ’57? I remember calling it French Morocco when we got there in ’56.

Sherrie (Greenwood) Hendrix

From my experience of attending the 2000 reunion in Rabat, nothing has changed. I was on a bus that had been chartered to take the alumni from
the airport to our hotel. The bus driver started to get frustrated with a truck in front of him, so he pulled out to pass, only to discover a much larger truck heading right for us! His natural response was to swing all the way over on the left shoulder and execute the passing maneuver, seemingly oblivious to all the pedestrians who were jumping out of the way! I was sitting in the front seat behind the driver at the time, and I’m not sure if anyone else on the bus even noticed. We were all so excited to be there, but were quite tired from the overnight flight from New York.

Lee Sichter
Alumni – ’64 – ’67
Class of ’69