For the month of January, I will be in Thailand training at a Muay Thai / MMA camp: Tiger Muay Thai. I’ll be training, 6 days a week, in Muay Thai, MMA, Jiu Jitsu, stick and knife fighting, and even yoga.
I’m calling it Project Terminator.
This is all in an effort to convert my travel worn body back into something of a specimen to behold.
I have a Thai number: +66 (0) 83-392-2967, and incoming calls are free, so skype me if you get bored. Also, if you know anyone in the Phuket area who feels like hanging out (or has a guitar) send them my way!
Each time I have a conversation about the trip, this phrase comes at me. Often followed by “one day…” or “but, I could never…”
This year, since I am living everyone’s dream, I thought it would be ungrateful of me to ask for anything for Christmas. As such, I’m making up more of a ‘Hope’ list for you, my friends, than a “Wish” list for myself this holiday season.
I hope you have the opportunity to fall asleep in someones lap.
I hope someone flashes you an American Smile.
I hope you stay out of the hospital.
I hope one person tells you they love you.
I hope someone kisses you on the cheek.
I hope you meet anyone as honest and true as my team.
I hope each of you wake up to a pair of sparkling eyes.
I hope that when you go looking for it, the Mistletoe finds you first.
I hope the only tears you cry are because you are laughing so hard.
I hope the next time you say “but, I could never…” you are filled the clear and certain knowledge that YOU REALLY CAN.
We are all capable of buying so much this holiday to show others what they are worth to us, but we can’t unwrap a whispered “I love you.” The few things that I want all of you to have this year are both free… and priceless.
From roller coasters to the Hilton, Kuala Lumpur was pretty fun.
Time to think: priceless.
In KL, you can find nearly anything you want. Big malls, skyscrapers, mosques, even Starbucks; English is the one of the official languages.
Ghostbuster towers
Though, not everything makes sense…
I really don't understand
I had some good food in the street; grilled stingray.
Stingray from the streets
Inside the mall named Times Square is a very strange theme park called Cosmo’s world. That’s where I made this.
Further proof that I need a camera man.
KL was not the goal, though. KL, serving as the headquarters for Air Asia, is a means to an end for anyone trying to reach nearly any place in Asia within a budget. With most international flights under $100 US, it’s hard to pass up.
If an island is what you are looking for, check out Langkawi. An hour on a very small plane with some great scenes and you’ll be bouncing around a little island with plenty of beach to keep you busy. Check it.
Langkawi Island was fun, no doubt. The roads through the “mountains” here are windy and fun and dangerous. I got carried away on my little scooter and started dragging hard parts on the pavement through the turns.
There are advertised white and black sand beaches, though after visiting both, I think the white sand was just a little more attractive.
Black Sand BeachWhite Sand Beach
Another reason to visit Langkawi is the ferry boat to one of my favorite places in the world, Koh Lipe. The Malaysian harbor is beautiful at sunrise; which is important because you need to be there early to catch the boat.
Langkawi harbor sunrise
It’s a quick was to get to Thailand, but make sure you can get a visa on arrival. Some members of the European Union cannot, and may be in for a shorter stay than they bargained for.
Awesome
Wrap Up:
Yes, the Hilton is still awesome. Yes, the Hilton is still expensive.
Roller Coasters are just as much fun as you remember.
Flights to Langkawi are cheap and fast. Much better than 3 hours vomiting on rough seas.
Arrange your Thai visa ahead of time if you need to. Koh Lipe will send you back to Malaysia with the next boat if you don’t.
I’m back in Istanbul for a couple weeks and will be taking some Turkish language classes and drinking my weight in Turkish coffee.
The new phone number is +90-0539-871-9069, so give me a ring if you are in the neighborhood.
I just attended a Couchsurfing.com group meeting tonight, ate gland & intestine sandwiches, and already have plans for the weekend and a snowboarding trip planned for Sunday. I truly appreciate the people of this city.
What’s not to love from a country that is famous for mustaches?!
This year, I am in Israel. A place I really never thought I would go. And now I am here… looking for some semblance of purpose.
This place is full of purpose.
The populace here is surrounded by problems. They live in the shadow of war and go shopping with assault rifles. They know people who have died and have friends in captivity. And they smile. They laugh and smile every day.
The cab driver that shuffled me home one evening said that when we have these huge problems, we can be truly appreciative of the other stuff; the parts that slip through the cracks: the way she raises her eyebrows when I talk to her, sometimes, like she hears me with her entire body; the silly moments at breakfast; a warm touch from a friend; inside jokes that bind us with secret emotions to our loved ones.
Spending this year as I have, owning nothing I can’t carry, and with friends for only days at a time, I like to think that I truly appreciate these things. I know that I crave them. I see my friends and loved one in my dreams. I smile when I remember these parts of my life that have formed me into what I am. Daily, I am struck by something that reminds me of how uniquely magical this life is.
I have relied on strangers for so much this year. I have no one with me, and I must ask directions, food, lodging, honesty, transport, and anything else I need to survive from complete strangers. Some of them remain that way, while others have truly touched my heart and become brilliant stars in my universe.
This year, I spend Thanksgiving on a military base, surrounded by kids with guns who all have stories of their own. Every place I go reminds me of how much I love the USA and how fortunate I am to have been born there.
I am thankful for American smiles, and all the doors they open.
I am eternally grateful for the memories I have that keep my heart warm in the cool and my mind focused on the goal and remind me that in order to have memories like this we must live everyday with purpose and love.
Hope: the belief that all this will lead to something even greater. The hope that I will create something great with my experiences and be able to give all that I have back to the world in some fashion.
Never take something for free. A very wise warrior told me this.
I try to go out of my way to tell everyone how thankful I am for their help. It is the people who enrich and affect my life daily that will help me to give back to the world around me. If I haven’t had the opportunity to take you by the hand and look you in the eye and express my thanks for the influence you have had on my life recently, then know that I am speaking to you now.
Thank you. Thank you for all that you do and all that you are and all that you have been to me.
In the USA, today is a day of Thanksgiving. Today, in this far off place, I give thanks to you; for you.
Let’s face it, we lose things every day. we lose socks in the laundry, money from our pockets and hours from our lives. What if by voluntarily giving up these things, in effect losing them, we could gain so much more in return?
I just lost three weeks in Israel. And in return, I gained amazing friends, new skills, and a pretty cool scar on my back. Ok, so maybe not everyone thinks the last one is cool. Story as follows…
Before this, Israel was never really high on my radar. Little did I know, with a little help from LLWorldTour.com, it was about to get a big upgrade. Lisa Lubin, the amazing woman from LL World Tour, wrote an article on Voluntourism. That was all I needed. I contacted Sar-El, the organization that coordinates volunteers for the IDF and bought a plane ticket.
I was warned that coming from Turkey and Morocco, I might be asked a few extra questions on my way into Israel. This is basically how it went.
Guard: Why are you coming to Israel?
Me: To volunteer with Sar-El.
Guard: Oh, cool. Do you know where they are putting you?
Me: Nope.
Guard: ok. have fun. *stamp*
Not much to it.
I skated through baggage claim, and met my contact Pamela in the terminal at Ben Gurion, and checked in. She told me a little bit about the program, I paid her the equivalent of $90 USD for my room and board for the two weeks we had agreed on, and wondered what to do with the next 6 hours until our bus left for the base I was to be stationed on: Beit Lid, a paratrooper base.
My first itinerary item was to find a cel phone chip; I have problems with payphones. This meant going into Tel-Aviv because there are no cel phone company stores left in Ben-Gurion airport. No sweat; this is fast and easy. Grab the train outside the arrivals terminal to HaShalom station for Azrieli Mall. It costs 14 sheckles and at least 50% of the populace speaks enough English to give you directions; never fear.
This was a mall like any other in the USA, aside from the fact that half the signs were written in Hebrew and half the 20 year olds were carrying assault rifles.
After some searching, I found the only company to sell pre-paid simcards is CellCom, and they hooked me up with a number.
Sunday evening approached and I returned to the airport to catch a bus with volunteers from around the world out to our base. Switzerland, New Zealand, Australia, Hungary, Canada, USA; people seemed to come from everywhere! On this bus we also got to meet our Madrichot, the IDF members assigned to help our merry band integrate the IDF; Lee and Romi.
That night we loaded into our army barracks. My roommate Aaron was alternately obsessed with smelling his passport and overjoyed to finally be here for the event that he had spent so long waiting for. We chose our bunks from the metal framework and racked out.
Not everyone got such nice sleeping accommodations.
The following Monday morning, we arose and had our first-of-many flag raising ceremony, picked up our snappy new uniforms, and got to work.
The next first week was hot, sweaty, dirty, very rewarding work. We emptied old warehouses, tore things apart, painted, built shelving and organized all manner of military kit. That doesn’t mean we didn’t have fun doing it; far from it! We had a blast talking to soldiers, teachers, officers, logistics workers and each other. The officers Alon and Rami were brilliant; truly good men with great hearts. The logistics staff were hilarious, making sure we were well caffeinated and always smiling.
Every night our Madrichot had an activity for us following dinner. Often these were lectures, guest speakers, games, or activities with the soldiers. The hard work that went in to these evenings was apparent and I made sure to tell the organizers every night how much I appreciated to effort. I know that being in the military can be a thankless job sometimes, so it’s good to take the accolades where you can get them.
The meals are all provided on the base, and the food is great. The cooks there really put their hearts into it, and you can tell. Everything from humus to schnitzel and a million vegetables in between. When we were there, someone was rather fond of cucumbers.
The weekend for the volunteers starts on Thursday afternoon, when we all jump on a bus and head back to Tel Aviv for the weekend. On the weekend, the volunteers have the option of staying at an IDF hostel, Beit Oded, in the city free of charge. It is right next to the beach and a movie theater and provides rudimentary meals and housing for the volunteers. As opposed to the base, the food in Beit Oded is enough to keep you alive; little else. One thing they don’t tell you ahead of time is that everyone who stays there has to clean up the bathrooms, rooms and everything before heading back to “work” the next Sunday morning. There is also a 12 midnight curfew. It is basic; you get what you pay for. It is exactly what you would expect of an Army hostel.
The second week, we were all a little more accustomed to the routine. The work was still hot and sweaty, but we were faster and more coordinated so it flew by. Ours was the first Sar-El group that the paratroopers at Beit-Lid had ever had and they weren’t quite sure what to do with us, so sometimes we found ourselves with nothing to do since we finished the days worth of work before the day was half over. The IDF officers didn’t want to work the volunteers too hard, but many of the volunteers came to do just that: work hard.
There was a good deal of self regulation among the group as a whole. The ones who tired quickly took more break time, leaving the ones who wanted to work… well, working.
Tuesday meant we took an entire day off from life in the service and put on civvies, civilian clothes, to go and visit a nearby city, Zichron, and see some of the history of the area and visit a refugee camp from WWII.
Not being Jewish myself, nearly everything I saw and heard was some form of revelation. I didn’t know about the origins of the language, the important events in the country’s history, or even important founding members of the government, so I constantly needed to be filled in by someone nearby.
One of the highlights of the week was a paratrooper named Lior. Not only was he just about the coolest soldier we met, but he showed us the workings of the m4 assault rifle, made us coffee and chai in a trench in a field over a small fire and under a starry sky.
At the end of the second week, I was supposed to be done with my initial commitment to Sar-El. That didn’t happen.
The sense of purpose and family I was developing with the people at the base and on my team was having a bonding effect. I wanted to stay and finish out the third week on the base with my group; each group only stays at a base for 3 weeks. I asked the Madrichot and the program coordinator if I could stick around and they quickly agreed I should stay.
Rarely in life is someone given the truth of themselves. It engenders a strength, understanding, and humility that draws people like a magnet. Doron was one of these people. Doron spent a great many years in the IDF, eventually stepping back from the line to become a trainer for the next generation. We volunteers were beyond privileged to have met him while we were there, not once, but several times as he made special trips to come and speak to us.
The third week was (surprise) more sweaty dirty work. The logistics officers had become more accustomed to our pace and were finding all manner of jobs for us to do. Unfortunately, as I said before, they weren’t fully prepared for us and sometimes they didn’t have the gear we needed to safely and effectively perform the work, so we had to find something else to do; like Krav Maga.
One afternoon in the final week of our engagement with the IDF, our Madrichot told us we were going to take a field trip. We all piled on to a bus, with the usual assortment of machine guns and handbags. After several hours of beautiful terrain, Lior informed us that we had arrived at his Kibbutz.
A Kibbutz is something I had only read about, and even then, I thought they had ceased to exist some time ago. They are something of a socialist living agreement between the people there and they do all manner of things for one another. They had horses, chickens, cows, a factory, a dairy, cars, a pool, and schools. We cooked pita over an open fire and played guitar and ate until will into the night before we had to rock back to the base.
As luck would have it, the final night of our three week engagement at Beit-Lid would also be the first night of Hanuka. I personally had never seen anything Hanuka related outside of a store front or television program which meant I knew 0.1% of what was involved.
The Tsanchanim put on a giant Hanuka dinner and invited we volunteers to come and be a part of it. It was awesome! We had tons of food, people wouldn’t stop handing out presents, I heard a Hanuka song and prayer for the first time in my life; but not the last. Everyone was having so much fun it was hard to believe that it was such a religious event. Most religious things I had been to previously have been a little dry and heavy on the boring. This was anything but…
I even got to show off a short video I made to thank our hosts.
Eventually, the night had to end, and everyone went to work cleaning up and putting away the party we had enjoyed all night. Embraces, handshakes, and non-stop goodbyes ate up most of the late night hours and the next morning. I had to promise Alon at least a dozen times that I would come and stay with his family when I came back.
Finally retiring our brown uniforms and donning our civilian clothes for a final time, we hopped our last bus and ate up the miles back to the city and my last weekend with my friends in Tel Aviv.
There are times, when I am away from life as I know it, that I realize how truly fortunate I am to have nothing. In place of my own life, I get to pick up other peoples lives, their responsibilities at times, and carry them for a while to see how it feels.
Giving up my life as I have, I get these chances to walk a mile in a pair of shoes that I didn’t know existed. I have the true pleasure of working and playing with wonderful souls on every portion of this planet and it does nothing but enrich my life and allow me to feel closer to the world as a whole.
While we may not all be able to drop our lives in a storage locker and go, we can find opportunities like this closer to home with all manner of volunteering; I’ve helped at hospitals for children, animal shelters, with the Boy Scouts and even churches I am not affiliated with. We can even make the plan and leave home specifically to do something like this. These are ways that we can multiply the rewards we receive for or efforts. It’s worth the time; so take it, and lose it.
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.
You can find very interesting things in an Arabian market.
Though, even more interesting might be the people who are buying them.
I’ve said many times how much I loved Essaouira and the people in it. One of the highlights was an evening some of us spent wandering the old market with Mohamed. I compiled a quick video of the spice shop where we picked up some amazing tajin spice so you can see a little bit of the haggle process and some of what goes into that amazing food!
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.
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