Category: Africa

Casablanca! A city whose named I had been raised on by my grandfather and the indomitable Humphrey Bogart. I was finally going there. With so much build-up, I wonder if any outcome aside from disappointment was possible.

I always thought of Casablanca as being old; filled with men wearing fez and aging cars gliding down small streets alongside handcarts.

Actually Casablanca is one of the newest cities in the entire country, the streets are quite large, and I never saw a fez or a bar called “Rick’s.”

The city is nice enough, metropolitan enough, but ultimately it just felt like a city. The airport was nice, though.

I really wanted to ignore the fact that I had been to this city and the disappointment it wrought, but thought I ought to let you know what you were in for if you were under similar delusions. For a Casablanca experience that won’t disappoint, go rent the movie.

Noone ever tells you to bring a flyswatter to the desert. I think this is important information to have.

Leaving Essaouira was a hard thing to do, especially after the fantastic friends that I made there. It was made slightly easier by the thought of catching up with Zsofi again. The magic of having a partner in crime equally as unemployed and adventurous as I am is a rare and valuable thing.

After a brief dash back to Marrakesh and a visit to a hamam, Zsof and I were off to the Sahara to ride camels and 4x4s and get a little sand in our shoes. Actually, a lot of sand… everywhere.

We rode with CTM bus from Marrakesh, because they had better service to Zagora. If you find yourself lost and looking for the station, grab a taxi, they are cheap. Or follow the painted signs.

The bus ride overnight to Zagora was hilarious. I have never seen that much wobble from anything maintaining a straight line. At one point, I think the French lady on the radio used the word “unpossible.” We even passed a sign said “Afrougasm.” Everyone should ride a bus so crazy.

Even before we made it to Zagora, we were being offered Sahara trips by everyone; from quiet conversations from other people on the bus to the incessant shouts of “Sahara! Sahara!” at every bus stop in every town. My new friend, Lucas, gave me the sound advice of simply catching a bus to the city close to the Sahara and picking up with a tour company there. It’s easy to find a tour company that will do anything you want, and as you get closer to the source, you get a better idea of what you are getting from the guide. Ultimately, most of the tour companies use the same guides, camels, and trucks as every one else.

Rose des Sable, meaning the Desert Rose, refers to a geological occurrence where rock mass is altered by sand, wind, and water to look like something of a floral pattern. It also happens to be quite a popular name for hotels in the desert. This is how we wound up in a completely different city than I had originally planned.

The Lonely Planet guide to Europe on a Shoestring includes Morocco. It speaks of a hotel by that name in Zagora, near the high deserts. I had originally planned on visiting the Sahara much farther east near Merzouga and Erg Chebbi. Turns out, Erg Chigaga was just as impressive.

Rose des Sables in Zagora was great. We had some initial issues that needed to be ironed out, but the staff was marvelous about fixing whatever was amiss. We had some great moments lost in translation, like when the hotel told Zsofi, “We don’t have hot milk” and we both looked at each other and just decided to let it go.

We walked around the city investigating all the tour shops, a practice that reminded me far too much of the Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia. The whole experience was a freakshow; teenagers chasing us up and down the streets on their rattling motorbikes shouting prices at us; way too much tea; prices ranging wildly from agency to agency. One kid started yelling at us every time he saw us (even days later on our return) cursing and demanding to know if we were mad at him.

One thing to remember here, and just about everywhere with a generally low average income, is that all of the locals see themselves as poor and see you as being rich. This may or may not be true, but to them it is a near unshakable belief. The basis of all commerce in Morocco is finding a price that the buyer can afford and that the seller with profit from. This means you need to initially offer much lower than you expect to pay and make concessions until the seller comes down to a price that you find acceptable. It’s not lying, it’s just the way this system works. Drink the tea, chat with the agencies, and don’t feel bad about walking out and going to another place even if you have to do it a dozen times a day to get what you want. If you are the sort of person who enjoys haggling, this makes for a marvelous day; if you are me, it makes for a headache.

Get familiar with the phrase, “What’s your best price?” You will be hearing a lot of it.

In the end, we booked three days through the Rose des Sables with a handshake to seal the deal; some grip of honor from days gone by. Zsofi even got them to throw in free turbans, or shash.

Camels are just as comfortable to ride as you expect them to be.

I hope you don’t mind me taking the mystery out of that fact of desert life. Houda once told me of her camel riding experience on the coast of Morocco. The beast charged the surf and dumped her into the water and walked off. My camel was a little better behaved, but as soon as he thought someone was going to jump in the saddle, he would stand up. This made mounting up something of a gymnastics competition; getting close enough to him that I could jump on before he could stand all the way up.

The first day was amazing. The sand skittering across the ground like a plague rolling in, blasting into the air and obsuring the sunset; diffusing the light around us like glowing mist. It is definitely a sight to see.

We were the only people at our camp the first night, and dragged some spare blankets out near the extinguished fire pit to look at the sky. Through the night, one of the Bedouins walked up to us and said a great one line; possibly the only Englsih he knew.

“Welcome to the Hotel of a Thousand Stars.”

A thousand is a gross understatement. If every living thing ever in existence on this Earth became a point of light in the sky, we would barely register. A thousand million billion gazillion brazilian stars covered the night in the most abberant display of lighting I have been privy to. The deserts of California hold skies that come close, but somehow it just seemed filled to bursting in that old silk traders hideout.

The next day was more awesome camel-tastic adventuring, but towards the end of the day, my nether regions had just had enough, and I jumped down to walk with our guide.

In the afternoon, we found an oasis and camped out to cook some lunch over a small fire and enjoy a nap in the shade of the small trees.

There were some goats running around, and when I asked where the water was, he pointed out a chunk of metal laying on the ground that was covering a well dug deep into the earth.

After a short nap… under a tree… at an oasis… in the Sahara… (yeah, I still think it sounds cool) a 4×4 Range Rover pulled up and we hopped in with our new guide, Mohamed, leaving our faithful (mostly) camel steeds with our camel guide Mohamed and took off to truly endanger our lives for the first time in at least 24 hours.

The immensity of this place, the vast distance of nothing, is staggering.

On our last day, the sandstorms came in. We had enjoyed several beautiful warm and calm days, and even a nice morning, but as we started to pack up the Rover, things got nasty. It was nearly impossible to see clearly for more than 30 yards in any direction. We could barely see the people at the edge of the camp loading up on their camels for the miserable day ahead of them.

On the ride back, our driver offered to take us through the back sections of desert towns, past all manner of donkey conveyances and squat dwellings. It truly was the other side of life in Morocco; the side you don’t see on the tourist track.

All night buses have never been the same since Argentina, but they are sometimes a necessity. Back in Zagora, the Rose des Sables provided us with a room to shower up and change clothes after our three day sojourn in the wilderness. It was just what we needed before jumping on the bus for a place I had been waiting a very long time to visit: Casablanca!

Wrap Up:

Bring a flyswatter. Bring toilet paper. Check the weather.

When booking tours: get close to the source. The closer you are to the site the more companies you will find doing the same thing, and competition among providers means good things for consumers. Do not listen to hotels in Marrakesh or other cities telling you they are offering you a reduced rate for booking ahead; it is a rip off.

Don’t accept bad behavior from tour operators. There are too many out there that deserve your money for you to give it to people with bad business practices. Find one you like, and then after you have paid, insist on what you paid for.

Have fun. Ask weird questions, and always sit with the guides and locals and prod them for stories. You will be richly rewarded.

The candles were the only light in our world. The singer blowing one out one out had left us in shadows filled with the wraiths of the shisha smoke playing through our hair and ringing the room in their supernatural presence. Mahmoud leaned in dangerously close to my face and said”, This is Arab custom. Don’t worry.”

Last night, was a night unlike any in my life.

I have an American smile, so I’ve been told. My American smile isn’t winning me a great deal of points with old Muslim women. The dour woman next to me on the bus to Essaouira was no exception. Unphased, I put in my headphones to listen to my music and plastered my face against the window to watch the Moroccan countryside roll by.

Small ruined walls, to what once may have been villa or livestock areas for all I know, littered the landscape. They may have been hundreds of years old for all I know. Yet, a hundred meters or so away, another intact, newer, nearly identical structure was fully functional.

The foreign landscape flew by and I jammed out in my headphones occasionally turning to throw my biggest American smile at the mustached woman next to me to see if she was any more receptive. The answer was always: No.

The directions to my riad in Essaouira were the opposite of my directions to the riad in Marrakesh which simply stated, “very Near Djema elfna.” Here in Essaouira, the directions were so intricate and overwhelming I had no idea where to start. Luckily, a local guy spoke English and was happy to walk me through the Medina to my riad for a small donation.

Immediately upon arriving, I was struck by the style and decoration of the place. It was, and is, marvelous. Not overly grandiose, but just cool. Riad El Pacha used to be the home for visiting officials of state when they came to Essaouira on business, roughly 40 years ago. It also has the greatest bunk beds ever.

Today, rather than Arab politicians, Riad El Pacha is filled with adventurous people from all parts of the globe telling stories and filling the spaces left by missing loved ones.

A couple from Scotland have paid to buy dinner for the whole Riad tonight in the form of traditional Tajin. Akhmed, the cook, is in the kitchen working away, while we all chat. It had been about 7 hours since I had eaten and I ducked out for a quick something at a local vegetarian place to take the edge off.

This is where I ate “Burger Women.” I have no idea what this means, but it was rather tasty and very filling.

After I got back to the riad, shisha pipes were making the rounds; filled with flavored tobacco that smelled like apple and licorice. Everyone was swapping stories and I jumped right in. Soon, the mother of all tajin was about to make an appearance.

The scale of this thing is simply not well represented with this picture. I swear to you in person it looked about ten times that size. Pretty soon, every had full plates, hands, and mouths. Akhmed, the cook, came out and sat down with us and made sure everyone ate far more than their fill. It was like some odd family gathering for a Holiday that everyone else in the world had long ago forgotten about.

Hours later after the remainder of the food had been packaged up for Akhmed to take to someone who might need it, noone had moved from their seats. Somehow the shisha pipes had appeared again, reloaded by Akhmed, and Lucas, the kiwi, had a guitar and was requesting candles.

All the lights were turned off, aside from the candelabra on the table between us and Lucas began to sing. Smoke and the flickering candlelight played all manner of tricks with my eyes. Arabic apparitions clawed and climbed their way around the edges of the room, never threatening, just coming to hear and see and be in that moment with us.

Lucas on occasion would lean forward and blow out another candle to add weight to a particular song, never relighting them, so as the night progressed we drew deeper and deeper into our own shadows. Everyone was leaned against the person next to them smiling and feeling truly in the moment. Some time after midnight, I was almost asleep in the lap of the lovely Irish girl, Mary, and decided it was time to put me to bed.

As felt totally natural, I made sure to round the room and clasp hands or kiss the cheek of each person I had spent the evening with. With Mahmoud, we clasped hands and then he leaned in and for a moment I was unsure what that meant.

“This is Arab custom. Don’t worry.” he said as he planted a kiss on each of my cheeks.

Coming from an North American background as I have, this sort of thing really doesn’t happen. Guys don’t hold hands, or kiss, or anything like that unless they are into other guys. I’m not, so it was something of a learning curve for me to see this and become accustomed to it.

There is so much for me to see and learn about in this world. I marvel at how others live their lives constantly. The differences in appearance and custom, and the similarity in values and importance. The fact that we strangers could find ourselves tossed into this room, not even a common language between us all, and relate to one another on a level that engenders that feeling of closeness is nothing short of a revelation in a world where people fight over office politics and parking spaces. This is real life; as real as any on the planet; and this night, I am so happy it is mine.

Wrap Up:

Getting to Essaouira may be faster on a bus than a train, check with your hotel or guide book.

There are a great many riad in the city, and you don’t necessarily need to book ahead, but you may want to so you can stay al El Pacha!

Part of the culture here is giving to the poor and as such, many people on the street are willing to give directions or even take you to where you need to go. Keep a few coins ready and don’t be afraid to ask.

There are two markets in Essaouira; one for the tourists, and one for the locals. To really have a blast, get an Arabic speaking friend to take you to the local market and go for it.

Lastly, if you have the opportunity to fall asleep in a pretty girls lap… take it.

After ripping the pages for Morocco out of my lonely planet, I mailed the remnants back home so I could later revisit all the insanity I had scribbled on it’s pages over the past few months.

I stuffed the pages in my backpack and immediately ran off into a rain storm and soaked them. They survived, sort of, and that is how I made my way around Marrakesh for the day.

The call to prayer is a unique, weird, and sometimes beautiful thing, even for me,  a Non-Believer. Does that make me an infidel? I dunno. Every mosque has a specific guy who chants the call to prayer over a loudspeaker for the neighborhood so everyone knows what time to pray and/or come to the mosque. I am still not accustomed to it, so I stop and listen each time the call is made.

The first night in Marrakesh, I hung out around Djemaa el fna square. This place is a total freakshow and should not be missed. Monkeys, drum circles, toons of food, people from everywhere. It is really cool.

The following day, I swung back through and it had toned down quite a bit, so I consulted my pages and took off south to rock the kasbah. The Kasbah is the old royal section of town.

I rolled through the tombs and a couple palaces, I was nearly run over a dozen times and was followed by a cartwheeling child speaking French to me for about half an hour. I recommend all of this to a friend.

The sun was out all day, and more than once I just sat down in the plaza of one of these centuries old palaces, soaking up the sun, and watched the world pass by. I missed the sunshine!

The buildings here are more intricate than I had imagined they would be. They are diverse, colorful, and totally foreign. I love the city, and I think I will be just as excited when I get to the coast and out to the desert over the next couple weeks. Take a peek at my day!

Never thought I would say this, but I wish I spoke French.

My first impression of Morocco was the RAK airport in Marrakesh. It was beautiful and spotlessly clean. Even the airport food smelled delicious.

The bus driver spoke Spanish and English well enough to help me with tickets and directions. I am surprised to find English is more prominent that Spanish in a country that I thought spoke Arabic predominantly, followed by French and Spanish, with English a distant fourth.

French is everywhere. My cel phone messages come in French. The signs are all in French and it is spoken on the street as often as is Arabic.

I want to eat everything! The smell of the food here is wonderful! I was hoping to get back to eating sparse vegetarian meals after Italy, but I may have to change that up and really take in the local fare.

The city isn’t all roses, though. The park next to Djemma el’efna smells heavily of urine. The usual beggars are out in the street, and everyone wants money for something. That being said, I feel rather secure walking the streets and alley ways thus far.

My riad is like something out of a movie. To get here, I have to wander down a couple tight little alleyways that are usually peppered with people just standing around and cats doing cat things. The interior is amazing. It is a huge courtyard decorated with wonderfully foreign things and encircled by rooms filled with people from all around the world. I feel like I am in an Indiana Jones flick.

My cell number is now +212 0626918969 through a company called Inwi.  I almost bought an iPhone while I was out tonight for 10 euro. You can buy anything here. I’ve been offered hashish at least once an hour.

Electricty is hard to come by, but this and all the other small quirks are things I am prepared to deal with. I am a little let down, there is no WiFi in the hostel as was advertised, but that really isn’t much of a shock.

Everything is wet. I left Rome in the midst of a pummeling rain storm. The walk to the bus and then to the terminal soaked everything, so my room is a menagerie of everything I own splashed across every available surface drying out. J

Exchange rate is around 8 dirham to a dollar and 11 dirham to a euro. My hotel tried to charge me 3300 dirham instead of 330, and I almost paid him. That sort of thing is important to know.

There are a number of Spanish speaking people staying in my riad, but I haven’t had much time to talk to them. I feel tired tonight, but happy. I don’t know what I will do tomorrow, but I am leaving for Essaouira  the day after tomorrow, so I’ll have to make it count.

There are no locks on any of the doors and no locker in the room, so I will have to pacsafe my bag and lock the zippers of anything I leave out. I’m not saying anyone around here is untrustworthy, but fool me once… you know the rest.

Hotel Ali is pretty close to Djema el’efna and they have some great food, can do currency exchange, and are quick with directions and things, so in a jam, head there. The tourist police office was helpful too. They pulled one of their garbage collectors off duty and before long it was me and three local guys winding our way through the crowds to get to my riad. It worked out well.

I’m excited to be here. Not sure what comes next, but I’m ready.