Essaouira to Casablanca

August 9-13

I had more great kiting since my last post, with winds getting up to over 20knots. This not only meant smoother sailing, but the fiercely blowing sand had scared off the herds of people who had been crowding the beach. Joining me out on the water was Julien, a 23 year old Swiss traveling solo on a ten day holiday. We were at about the same level, and while I taught him English kiting lingo, he was responsible for teaching me the French equivalent when it existed. After another great day on the water, Julien and I agreed to meet for dinner. He was looking to try the classic tagine, or visit the fish market, while vivid memories of my recent experience with Moroccan tummy left me slightly apprehensive to try either. Despite my hesitation, I agreed to give a traditional Moroccan restaurant in the heart of the medina a chance. We were shown into a large back room, lined with banquet seats covered in flashy Moroccan pillows, dimly lit with beautiful iron and stained glass fixtures. The meal was a pleasant surprise, and I enjoyed a cool cucumber salad to start, followed by tasty couscous with chicken and vegetables (which included a thorough inspection of the chicken to ensure there wasn't a tinge of pink to be seen), with a creamy house yoghurt for dessert. We laughed about some of our more lonesome experiences while kitesurfing, with faulty equipment causing a kite to deflate, leaving you floating helplessly over a kilometer from shore. We compared self-rescue tactics while raving about the kites we liked the most- and which we wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. By 11:30pm we had finished the last sips of our mint tea, and Julien had begun to look a bit anxious, checking his watch while peering around the corner of the archway next to us, trying to catch the waiter's attention. I was curious as to why he seemed so suddenly urgent to leave, and was nearly laughing on the floor when I found out why. No, it wasn't a sudden need to get to the bathroom, but instead it was a rush to return to his hotel... before he got locked out again.
"Again?" I asked.
Julien had returned to his hotel one evening to discover that the place was locked up at midnight, leaving him to spend one of his first nights in Morocco sleeping on the steps with the stray cats. Minor piece of information they forgot to include at check in.... And based on my experiences with the Moroccans and their attempts to scam every dirham out of you, it wouldn't surprise me if they made him pay for that night he spent in the comfort and safety of the city's streets.

I returned home that evening with a full stomach for the first time in days, yet to feel any suspicious rumbling.

The next day we took a late lunch break from kiting to grab some schwarmas from a beach-front shop. A few people in the group had eaten there before with no reports of stomach problems, so considering my previous night's success, I decided to take the plunge and try another cooked meal.

Back on the beach, and no more than 30 minutes later, I knew I had pushed my luck. It was either some seriously bad schwarma (although it tasted delicious) or something from the night before, but the Moroccan tummy was back with a vengance. I resumed my course of antibiotics, and that schwarma was the end of my local food experiences- for good. I was back at the cutting board, purel in hand, slicing and dicing my fruit salad.

My time in Essaouira wrapped up soon after, and I caught the bus to Casablanca on August 10th. The smells and dirt and total lack of organization (queues, restaurants, transportation- you name it, all were painfully disorganized and hectic) that I had been cursing throughout much of my travels were becoming fond memories.

In all of Africa, I had yet to take a bus, matatu, airplane, boat, taxi, or train, where I wasn't offered some of my neighbour's food or drink, animals weren't blocking a part of the voyage, and some funky smell wasn't lingered in the air. My bus ride to Casa was no exception, as my neighbour, a soft-spoken, young male nurse returning to his home city of Casa after a weekend holiday, offered me the first sip of his yoghurt drink, which I politely declined. He watched me curiously, as I scribbled away in my journal, making notes about the when and where of my past few days. He tapped my arm, and reached for my pen, asking if he could show me "un petit truc." I passed over the paper, which he flipped and unfolded to find a blank space.

Oh great, I thought, he was going to give me his email or phone number, and insist that I call him when in Casablanca. That or he was just being friendly, and he was going to show me how to make a house with an x through it, without lifting my pen off the paper.
To my surprise it was neither. In fact I wasn't entirely sure what it was, even as he handed back the paper.
In a perfectly serious voice, he says: "It's my autograph."
I looked at him dumbly, before snapping out of my small state of shock to thank him (I wasn't entirely sure if that's what the situation called for... but I figured it could do no harm) as I tucked away the paper.
'Ha!' I thought... should I be expecting to see him on television in the near future? Or was that just his attempt at making himself memorable? If the latter was the case, then I suppose it worked.

I arrived into the bustling Casablanca bus station that evening, where I noticed a young Dutch couple, hovered over a Lonely Planet for Morocco. I couldn't hear them, but the English copy of the ever-popular travel bible was a refreshing sight to see. It had been nearly 2 weeks since I had bumped into English-speaking travelers. As I collected my bag, the couple approached me, asking if I had made a reservation for accommodation somewhere. Pasting the Canadian flag to my bag proved to be a wise choice- a clear marker of a traveler being friendly (for the most part) and english speaking. They opted to share a cab with me toward the hotel with which I had made a reservation, hoping to find another one nearby that might have vacancies. The friendly petit-taxi driver sent us walking- he was nice enough to let us know that the hotel was a mere two blocks away. Lonely planet in hand, cracked open to the detailed map of Casa, we headed off into the streets, sleeping bags and hiking boots dangling from our worn packs. As we rounded the first corner we caught up to a group of three Australian girls, the mirror image of myself and the Dutch couple- with a lonely planet map open to the same page and three big bags in tow. The six of us were headed for the same destination, so we collaborated our efforts and paused to re-orient ourselves, even though we'd only taken one turn. We resumed in the same direction, but found ourselves struggling to find any street signs or markers- making both copies of the map virtually useless. Eager to get to the comfort of a bed, where ever it was, I didn't hesitate to start asking the odd person we were passing in the street. After 20 minutes of map-checking and talking to other pedestrians, we managed to locate Hotel Gallia, nestled along an unmarked tiny sidestreet.

I tossed and turned before falling asleep, knowing it was my last night in Africa.... at least for now. I was bursting with excitement to see Margot in London, and for the first time in my trip, I didn't have the sense of unknown of what was to come, as exhilerating as it had been.

After a taxi, train, and shuttle, I made it to the Casablanca airport to discover that my flight time had been changed- leaving an hour later. So when the printout says to 'call 24hrs in advance to confirm flight time,' it's actually advisable to do so.

I boarded the plane and watched the ground disappear below me as we took off. It was difficult to leave Africa, absolutely... but I know it won't be long before I find myself back on the extraordinary continent that has been my solo-travel playground for the past 2.5months.