Morocco Part One

July 26-August 3

While lifting off out of Nairobi, not entirely upset to be leaving that particular city, the flight attendants came on over the loudspeaker to announce that they would be spraying the cabin with insecticide, and that "any discomfort you may experience will not last too long." Only in Africa.


The flight to London took the cake for bad flights... my seat didn't recline (that's almost worth a refund when you've been coated with chemicals and have to sit at 90 degrees for 8 hours overnight), the in-flight entertainment system wasn't working, and I swear my complimentary wine was balsamic vinegar. Not only that, but I had the pleasure of sitting snug amongst a group of 25 Americans from the deep south who were returning home after "3 weeks of mission 'ry work in Ken-yaw."


I arrived at Heathrow exhausted and entirely overwhlemed by the efficiency (imagine that- me, overwhelmed by efficiency!) and pace of the airport and its millions of transients. Unable to check my bags until precisely 3hours before my departure time, all I wanted to do was sit down in the comfy leather chairs at the first cafe I saw and read my book. But I couldn't... because I would have to be a paying customer to enjoy such a priviledge, and to do that I would need to purchase a 'triple organic super smooth healthy orange juice,' ringing in at about $15. So I chose the staircase nearby, while my butt numbed and I drifted in and out of sleep while sitting up.


I stumbled off the airplane in Marrakech late in the evening on July 25th, desperate to get to my accomodation for a good night's sleep. My first taste of the Moroccan people wasn't the best, as I had to chose between one of two cabs waiting outside the dead-quiet airport. I was half asleep and in no state to effectively barter, en Francais, to bring the price down from twice of what Lonely Planet quoted. It's not like I could walk away from the bad offer and start up with the next cab- these asses played off one another and entirely took advantage of my situation, pretending as if this ridiculous amount was the standard rate. I stepped back, looked around for a sign of another option, and glared at the two men that stood between me and reclined sleep. I mumbled a stream of curses and got into the taxi, unimpressed with my welcome to Morocco.


My first day brought beautiful sunshine as four of us early-arrivals ventured into the Ourika Valley, about 1.5hours outside of Marrakech. We took in the vast desert scenery as we approached the Atlas Mountains lining the horizon. The day was spent meandering through the valley, which was chalk-full of locals enjoying the river of refreshing spring water on a hot weekend. The valley, which was more like a gorge, was just wide enough for the access road, the stream, and handfuls of cafes lined along the opposite narrow shore, with flimsy bridges as crossings. I had my first taste of the traditional tangine meal at lunch, which featured coal-roasted beef, carrots, beans, and chilis. Very flavourful, and definitely took my spice tolerance up another notch.


I was pleasantly surprised to discover that our hotel in Marrakech had a roof-top terrace with a pool, overlooking the massive neighbouring park. I could definitely get used to the immensely longer days here... with dusk, my favourite time of day, stretching from 4:30 until 9:30 at night, when the sun finally sets.


The following day was spent on a guided tour of Marrakech. Definitely an effective way to see a city, but not my preferred way. I was bored out of my mind. I've made a mental note to save such tours for much later on in life... when kitesurfing, hiking, climbing, and the like, aren't viable vacation options.



The Moroccan culture and people are a stark contrast from the Africa I had grown accustomed to during the first part of my travels. The Moroccans are much more aggressive in their sales tactics- I was accosted in two different cities by young ladies overly keen to decorate me with henna, despite my insistence that I was uninterested. One managed to get an entire flower squiggled onto my hand before I pulled hard enough to get away, while the other managed to get a firm grip on my upper arm and I was left with a bruise and more free henna.


The snake charmers surrounded you if you expressed even a remote interest in seeing the classic Moroccan street show. I don't particularly enjoy snakes, especially when politely declining the opportunity to hold one and yet to still have one thrust at you from around some Moroccan's neck, where it had appeared to be no more than a pretty sash. I am known to be jumpy... so you can imagine my reaction to that. I kept a solid 20m radius from the snake charmer tents from that point onward.



The second day of the tour took us through Casablanca, where we visited the modern Mohammed V Mosque. Finished in 1993, this massive, beautiful mosque was built over 6 years with construction running 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The movie Casablanca has led many tourists to visit the exotic-sounding city, but I was warned that it tends to be a bit of a disappointment. Aside from the mosque by the sea, Casablanca didn't have much going for it... Cafe Americano and all.



The next stop was Rabat, where I saw the King's palace (nice looking, but not awe-inspiring). I found the most interesting bit to be his guards, who were dressed in white Aladdin outfits. We wandered over to the seaside and spent a few hours at the beach, which was absolutely rammed with locals. The crowded sand packed with umbrellas and radios playing different stations reminded me of Wasaga Beach, only without the late-afternoon tatooed drunkards.



From Rabat we traveled to Meknes, where we stoped at Volubilis, the site of 3000 year old Roman ruins. Although I've never been to Rome, I can only imagine that those ruins are carefully roped off with designated tourist paths. Well.... only in African can you wander UNESCO world heritage site ruins wherever you please. Have a seat in the public wash basins, take a photo with the Roman equivalent of a neon-lit brothel sign.



We made our way to Fes where we spent a full day visiting the cities highlights. At about mosque and mausoleum number five, I was getting the gist of the religion and the type of architecture used... so unfortunately it was another day erring on the side of boring, spent in the scorching heat just below 40 degrees.


I had one lucky shot at the bartering game, which was when we visited the tanneries. I didn't get much info on the process, but it was mesmerizing to watch the Moroccans work in the middle of the medina, feet sloshing around in stinky tubs of various dyes. Few sites were without a curio shop at the end of the tour, and the tannery was no exception. In fact our view of the dye pits was from a massive leather product shop, where we got to trying on various extravagently coloured and incredibly soft leather jackets. The salesmen took us for genuinely interested customers and insisted on knowing how much we'd pay for one. I happened to be trying on a jacket that had garnered some sincere oos and ahhs, so I did some quick math and jokingly offered the equivalent of $130, an eigth of what he was quoting. I laughed, having no intention of buying the jacket, despite how fantastic it was. As we waited for the rest of the group to make our way outside, he kept firing away at me, insisting I bring my price down. It's pretty easy to hold steady to your price when you're playing the game without anything to lose, and I suppose that determination came through because he kept dropping his price... until all of a sudden he said,

"Ok lady. You strong woman. Come, I take that price."

My jaw dropped.

I realize I was by no means obligated to buy the damn thing... but heck, it was a nice jacket and I was being offered an unheard of price. So I put the cash on the table and walked out beaming. That was the highlight of my day.



I had been enjoying the safety and security of group travel thus far, and was eager to explore a bit on my own. The closest I could get was to wander ahead of the group during our evening excursions, where at one point I had obviously appeared to be alone, and a young man approached me,



"Hello miss! How much for you? I have 20 camels, my father, he has 30. Tell me, how many camels for you?"



After Fes we headed inland, through the High Atlas Mountains to the Sahara Desert. The heat was crippling, reaching over 40 degrees. We were pleasantly surprised when, in the middle of the desert, we got a dribbling of rain that afternoon. After 8 hours in our stifling hot mini-bus, and the beginnings of "Moroccan tummy" kicking in for most of the group, we were all starting to feel under the weather.

We cut off the main road, through a tiny Berber village, and then bumped along the open desert into oblivion. About 20 minutes into oblivion, the Berber camp took form on the horizon, sitting on the edge of the as-seen-in-hollywood sand dunes. We were herded over to the waiting camels, with their somewhat flirtatous eyelashes, for our sunset jaunt into the dunes. As I climbed up, a fierce wind began gusting the sand into a flurry, making it impossible to open my eyes, let alone see straight ahead. Within seconds the wind developed into a full-fledged sandstorm, and any exposed skin was pelted and whipped with every exposed orifice quickly becoming a sand dune itself. I had my camera out at the time, hoping to get some shots of our awkward unbalance as the camels stand up, back legs first. And just my luck... because it was a matter of seconds before sand had managed to infiltrate every imaginable crevice of my month-old camera (which replaced the first camera that broke while in South Africa). The sandblasting quickly became unbearable and we rushed inside for shelter, leaving camel trekking for the next day. I was pretty frustrated and upset about my camera, that is until the "Moroccan tummy" I mentioned earlier kicked in again, and all 9 of us collapsed inside, griping our cramping stomachs.

We watched the blizzard of sand from the security of the Berber auberge, where we were welcomed by the cute Berber boys in traditional dress, who served us piping hot mint tea- exactly what I felt like in 40 degree heat. The hospitality was appreciated all the same.

The group sat down to a traditional Berber meal, as Berber drums were beating outside the window. Unfortunately few of our stomachs were up to the task of eating anything close to a normal serving, so much of the tasty food was left untouched. We were filling up on immodium and tylenol instead. Refusing to let the experience of life in the desert pass us by, we joined the Berber boys outside on the dunes, taking in the dark night sky, as the beat of their drums mesmerized us between trips to the bathroom.

At midnight the air was still thick with heat, and the clouds from the afternoon had yet to clear. We trekked out to the authentic Berber tents, pitched about 300m from the main building, where I slept with the sand beneath me and the sky above. I was a littled concerned about snakes and bugs, but my nerves were put to rest as we passed a few Berbers sleeping soundly in the dunes. Despite my aching stomach, spending the night under the stars, which eventually came out, with the slightest desert breeze to keep me cool, was definitely a once in a lifetime experience.

That morning I woke in time to catch the sunrise, and took in the desert vista as I plodded along on the camel. I used what little bit of energy and strength I had left to make my way to the top of the highest dune I could see, and watced the sun come up over the Sahara Desert. I wasn't able to get any photos, but it was just as one would imagine- like in the movies.

As the sun rose higher and we made our way back to the camp, the increasing heat sapped me of any energy I had left and I dozed off on the cool ground, in shade of the auberge courtyard, while those feeling well enough had a small Berber breakfast.

By that point our group looked like death, with high fevers and debilitating stomach cramps. We managed to shuffle everyone into the swealtering van and made the journey to Todra Gorge. I was delirious all over again, with a sky-high fever, and didn't really take in much of the scenery during our afternoon and evening at Todra Gorge. The hotel was nestled in the depths of the massive gorge, which had an icy cool stream running down the middle. The site was packed with day-visitors relaxing on their weekend, but by early evening as the sun had set, the serene location quieted down. I spent the entire afternoon sleeping, the only way to survive the 40 degree heat in my shoebox hotel room which lacked air-conditioning. The medication wasn't breaking my fever, so I was setting an alarm to wake myself every 3 hours to have a cold shower- the only way to keep my body from cooking itself. I don't think I've ever experienced heat like I did that day.

At around 9pm, I had yet to eat anything that day, so I shuffled down to the restaurant to get a small meal of something as bland as possible. I mumbled my request in French to the manager, who replies, en Francais,
"Oh yes, your stomach is not well. Ok then, we will make you some rice, with some cumin, and paprika. Would you like chilis as well?"

I nearly stumbled backward at the thought of cumin and chilis, and adamantly shook my head no, looking at him like he was entirely crazy. I clarified the order and managed to keep down a few mouthfuls of plain, white rice.

The next day I awoke feeling rested, with a reduced fever, and we made the journey back across the Atlas Mountains into Marrakech.

Our group said our goodbyes and well-wishes, and I gleefully set off for the independent travel I'd been missing. I arrived in Essaouira today, and have been pleasantly reminded of the sense of achievement one gets from merely reaching the destination when traveling alone. My French is being tested more than I ever would have imagined, but it's been a great opportunity to practice!

I've got a relaxed week in this smaller beach city, where the wind is already blowing strong for lots of kitesurfing. As the bus approached the Moroccan coastline, I nearly jumped from my seat at the sight of kites dotting the horizon.

A mere 11 days stand between me and Canadian soil, but I can already tell it will only be a short stay.