Just after getting my third stamp on my passport and passing through customs in Sevilla, I noticed a girl with a UW-Madison sweatshirt on. Insta-friend. Her name is Ana, and we sat and chatted on the turbulent trip to Marrakech. The woman sitting across the aisle from me and Ana, who was seated on row in front of me, which is a completely unnecessary detail that ought to be removed but most likely will not, had three seats to herself. The reason why she had three seats to herself is because she was in a shoulder harness, foot cast, and neck brace. She was struggling to get her seat belt fastened, and after hearing a story where the plane had hit an air pocket, dropped 50 feet, and everyone not wearing their seat belts bashed their heads on the ceiling of the plane (I will again never complain about the uselessness of airplane seat belts), I decided to help her out. She thanked me, and when I asked what happened, she told me that she had been robbed (mugged would be a more appropriate description) somewhere in Spain. I felt so bad for her. Then my pity was replaced with annoyance when she emptied a quarter bottle of fruity-smelling perfume in a dozen self directed squirts. A plane is a poorly-ventilated close-quarters tube, lady! Cast or no cast…
I got off the plane with my new Sconnie buddy, and we went to the information booth looking for a map for me and a way to the bus station for she. I found no maps, and we were directed to the taxis out front for transportation. We both took out some money from the ATM and were pleasantly surprised to find an exchange rate of roughly 1 dollar to 8.3 Dirhams. I took out 200DH, and shared a taxi with Ana (I needed to get to the center of town as well, and the bus station was quite close to where I needed to be). I would later find out that the taxi was a complete rip off. We split a 200DH ride instead of paying 10DH a piece for a bus. I blame the information desk.
Here’s where the culture shock begins. This is something I’ve wanted to experience for some time now. I know it sounds a bit masochistic, but I wanted to be completely removed from my comfort zone; I wanted to be in over my head. This is not something I experienced in Spain; most differences there were subtle, save for the architecture and language, and never made me feel like I was not in control. After an insane taxi ride, Ana and I were dropped off at the bus station. As we walked around looking for the entrance, we were being bombarded with Arabic and French, pushy street vendors, beggars and crowds. A man asked Ana where she was going, she told him Agadir, he took her suitcase and said follow me. I followed as well, hoping to find a vendor who sold maps. The man we followed was so abrupt with us that we weren’t sure if he was an employee of the bus company or someone who was running off with Ana’s suitcase. He took us inside a terminal, told us to sit, disappeared for a minute, then came back to inform Ana that there were no buses because they were on strike today. Then he found out they were on strike for three days. Then in the next moment there was a bus. Everything had been happening so fast, there was no time to take anything in, and when I looked over at Ana, she was laughing. I think it was a combination of a feeling adventure and helplessness, and how does one express that feeling if not to laugh. She shook her head and said, “Culture shock.”
I said goodbye to Ana; I may see her again in Marrakech, who knows. At this point I had two hours to kill before my couchsurfing host was available. Did I mention that I’m staying with a local guy named Jamal? Well, I’m staying with a local Moroccan guy whose name is Jamal. Anyway, I spent two hours people watching outside the bus station on a busy street. Marrakech needs no museums, it’s allure is the character and personality of the city itself. I sat with my suitcase and just watched. There are so many notable differences: wardrobe, traffic, street vendors, climate, nightlife, etc. etc. etc; but the biggest difference I can’t exactly place. There is something fundamentally different in Marrakech than what I am acclimated to, and I think it takes experiencing it to know what it is. Don’t take this as arrogance; I don’t claim to be overly insightful, attentive to detail, or observant, but there was something that struck me, something intangible; and it was something I loved experiencing.
I called Jamal at 1:30pm, he said to me more things than I comprehended, but the point was to meet him at Moroccan Bank. (The Moroccan Bank? A Moroccan Bank? Which Moroccan Bank? I had no clue.) In Spain I could ask questions to anyone; maybe I wouldn’t understand every word, but I wasn’t uncomfortable being lost. In Portugal I could be understood but not understand; communication was difficult but not impossible. In Morocco, I can’t communicate; save for pointing (I would imitate a monkey later this day to find Jamal). I had to hope that whomever I talked to knew some English.
Back at the bus station I had procured a large map of Marrakech. The map actually proved to be very useful, not because it had Morocco Bank listed, not because it gave me any useful information at all, but because I looked like a confused tourist, and someone was nice enough to offer a helping hand. Aside: No one I’ve met hates Americans. Even if the hate America, they still know that every person deserves the benefit of the doubt, and no matter where I’ve been there has been someone willing to go out of their way to help me. This trend continued as I folded up my map and started walking to hear a voice say, “My friend, where do you need to go?” “Um, Morocco Bank?” “Yes, yes, I know where you need to go.” How this man knew where I needed to go is a complete mystery to me. There is no one Morocco Bank, there are several, but as luck would have it he gave me directions to the one I needed to go to (which was by no means the closest one; honestly I don’t believe my own luck sometimes). Anyway, I got general directions for this man, then more directions from two others when I was on my way. I finally made it close to where I needed to be. When I called Jamal to ask where exactly he was, he told me he was by the monkeys. Right. The monkeys. The next man I asked directions from spoke not a word of English or Spanish. Luckily for me, the raise-one-arm-above-your-head-and-scratch-your-armpit-with-the-opposite-hand-while-jumping-up-and-down-like-a-fool move is a universal symbol for monkey; he pointed, I found Jamal. Rejoice.
Marrakech has two parts of town: a historic city center surrounded by a newer, more traffic friendly section. Jamal’s place was on the outskirts of the newer part of town; one step removed from the chaos of downtown Marrakech. Jamal lives with a classmate named Mohamed; they are in a service industry training program. Like many countries in Europe, their education is free. That’s hard to hear for someone who’s tens of thousands of dollars in debt because of his education. Anyway, back to Jamal’s place. He lives on the ground floor of a hostel-house; that’s the best way I can describe it. There are two or three private bedrooms, a communal kitchen, communal toilet, and communal shower room. I can say that the communal areas were cesspools; I know that’s disrespectful, but it is the truth. Jamal and Mohammed’s room was small and simple. A twin mattress on the floor and a pad for me, two wicker chairs beside a table and a speaker with a CD player. No dressers, no closets, no computer desks, just the basics.
The first order of business was to get the homemade hookah up and running. After some quick repairs with a lighter and a plastic bag (I liked these guys immediately for their McGiver-esk repair skills), we were enjoying some apple-flavored hookah tobacco. I’ve smoked hookah a couple of times in the past, but this was by far the best; smooth and tasty, what more could one hope for? Mohamed spread something on a baguette and tore it in half. I asked what he put on it, and he said, “It’s made from meat.” Good enough for me, I was hungry. It kinda tasted like bologna, and it was nice to get something in my empty stomach. After a short nap (I had only slept a couple hours the night previous), we set out for a plaza called Jama’lfna. It’s located in the old city center; it’s a massive collection of people, shops, and most importantly food.
I’m not sure the name of where we went, or even if it had a name. I can say the same for whatever food Jamal ordered for me. What I do know was it was delicious. There were two plates, one that contained a lighter, fatty, very tender meat, and the other was a darker, leaner cut. We were given bread with the meal, and that served as both our utensils and napkins. One thing that’s consistent in the three countries I’ve been to: Bread comes with everything, and I mean everything. Without bread, it’s just not a meal. After sopping up every last bit of meat and every last splash of the oil based sauce it was served under, I was stuffed. It was then that Jamal asked me if I knew what I just ate. Knowing only that it was delicious, not what it was, I was surprised to find out that I had eaten lamb head (and I realize that’s very general; there are, after all, many things that make up a lamb’s head. I can’t be sure which of them I’d consumed, only that I had thoroughly enjoyed it).
After saying goodbye to two of Jamal’s friends (who I have not mentioned because it was almost as if they weren’t there; they spoke Arabic and French, I speak English and bad Spanish; no overlap, no conversation), we met two more of his friends nearby. Simon, a Moroccan guy, and Anna, a Polish girl, both spoke English. Simon did not stay with us for long, but Anna accompanied us to a coffee house called Mama Africa.
We had some coffee and chatted for a while as we listed to Bob Marley play on the sound system. It was relaxing. Good coffee, good conversation, good people. After this, Jamal and I headed back to his place to sleep. Worth mentioning was the bean dish we stopped and ate on the way home. Delicious!
There’s too much to write about. My dilemma is that I want a record of everything I’ve done; I don’t want to forget. I want it to be interesting; not only for you, but just as much for me. But when you write too many words with not enough content, you’re effectively torturing the reader with boredom; even if the reader is the writer. And on an unrelated note I have a rash on my ankles from my hiking boots, whose laces have torn a half dozen times. Also what’s going on with Snoop Dogg?
I woke up in the morning feeling well rested. I was able to wander around the city for a few hours while Jamal was training. I don’t know the city well, but I know it well enough to get lost and then found, and I was able to successfully wander back to Jamal and Mohammed’s place without incident. Again I people watched and took in the architecture. In Spain, the buildings are generally white with clay tiled roofs. Here in Marakech the buildings are an orange-brown color with flat rooftops. I think a city is more beautiful when the buildings agree with one another; in color, in style, in placement. This trifecta is hard to find in the US. After I returned, we ate. Actually, before I returned I ate as well, but as my friend Tim Rhorer is known to say, “Full is just a feeling.”
The first course was basically scrammbled eggs with oil poured overtop, again with bread as an edible utensile. Mohammed cooked up the next dish, it was a Moroccan Salad. This was one of the more unique dishes I’ve had on this trip. It’s a fusion of a fruit salad and an ordinary salad. The shopping list includes a few leaves of lettuce, bologna-ish meat product, tomato, red onion, a few olives, banana, apple and orange, served, of course, with bread. It’s strange when you combine very familiar flavors in very unfamiliar ways. I very much enjoyed it. Add to this a bottle of Moroccan red wine, and to use another Tim-ism, I was set like a table.
Jamal and I went back to the open market that we had eaten at the night before. On the way there we raced each other through a semi-crowded plaza; it made me feel like I was a carefree boy. The market had several carnival-like games aimed at taking money off tourists, though the drummers, dancers, monkey owners, snake tamers and cigarette vendors shared their spirit. I must also mention the beggars. I’m not new to homeless men on the street looking for change; I spent the last five years in Madison walking up and down State Street. What is new to me is children asking for money. It’s hard when a cute four-year-old comes up to you, tugs your arm, says, “Monsieur, Monsieur!” and wants you to buy them a toy. The more aged take a different approach here: instead of sitting and shaking a cup (granted, there are many here who also do this), the men will walk up to you, shake your hand, talk to you for a while, then inevitably ask for money. Jamal didn’t seem too annoyed by this; he wouldn’t give them money, but he would give them a minute of his time, treat them like a human being, and even though the person wanting money didn’t get it, they parted with a handshake and a smile. I experience it a bit differently. When someone asks me for money and realized we can’t communicate, the conversations skips to the end, an open hand and a wanting, humbled expression.
Changing gears… (which reminds me, everyone drives stick here. There are almost no automatic transmission vehicles, save for the donkeys. And furthermore, you wouldn’t believe the amount of dirt bikes on the streets. They weave in and out of the cars and bicycles [which I would later experience first hand]. Every time I take a cab I feel like we’re going to run someone over). One thing Jamal informed me of is that Moroccan women are easy to pick up. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I am sure that some Moroccan guys have no shame when it comes to courting the ladies. The strategy is this: Say something, anything, to any cute girl who walks by you. If she ignores you and walks away, then forget her, she’s not worth your time. If she laughs, scoffs, or reacts in any way, follow here around and keep talking to her until she talks back. There’s also another strategy that Jamal attempted to show me in the market where two girls were watching a performance and two guys stalked behind them; what they did we’ll call a form of dancing and we’ll leave it at that.
We met up with Mohamed, who had just returned from his evening excursion. Jamal biked on home and Mohamed and I stopped at a stand for some fish and veggie stuffed pitas. At 5DH a piece, this was a great snack at a great price. We capped off the remaining wine at the house and fell asleep early. Jamal and Mohamed shared the bigger (but not big) mattress; they joked that they were husband and wife. These two are great company.
I can’t believe I’m only now getting to today. To those who have made it this far: I apologize for robbing your time. No pun intended. Okay, guilty, it was intended.
I woke up early and went to the bus station. Did I mention that I wanted to go to Agadir? I wanted to go to Agadir; it’s a Moroccan city that borders the coast and is known for surfing. I’d left my larger suitcase back with Jamal and Mohamed; Since I’m flying out of Marrakech I will just pick up this bag the day of my flight. I mentioned before that being outside of my comfort zone boils down to not being the one in control of my situation. When I arrived at the bus station, it was like someone grabbed the remote from me and pushed fast-forward. Someone asked where I was going, I said Agadir. I followed the man who asked me where I was going; I followed him for no other reason than the fact that he said, “Agadir? Follow me.” I had to run-walk to keep up. Then he handed me off to another man. He wrote something Arabic on a suspiciously unofficial looking piece of paper. This was my ticket? This made me uncomfortable. Was I being taken for a ride on a bus, or was I just being taken for a ride? It was 80DH, I payed. They both started walking away. Fuck, I though, I’ve been had. Then they shouted back at me, “Come!” I followed, and then I was on a bus all of a sudden. The entire thing happened in about one minute.
I sat down, relieved to be on my way, and one of the street vendors was walking down the aisle on the bus. The bus was moving, how’d he get on? And how was he getting off? And, mmm, those muffins he’s selling sure look tasty. “How much?” “Five.” I gave him 5DH, he gave me a muffin. Then, as I was expecting, he asked for more money. “Five Five,” he said. “No.” “Five Five.” “We’re good” “Five Five.” “I’m not giving you any more money, you can give me my five back, I’ll give you this muffin back, and you can leave, but I’m not giving you fifty five dirham for a goddamn muffin.” “Five Five?” “No.” “Five Five.” “No!” The bus had pulled in to gas up, and was now ready to leave. Since the vendor didn’t want to go with me to Agadir, he let me keep my muffing, and he kept his 5DH (which is not a bad deal for either of us), and he got off the bus. I smiled.
Five hours and some amazing scenery later, I arrived at my destination. Allow me to rephrase, I arrived at a destination. I wasn’t sure at first, but since I didn’t see the ocean anywhere, I feared I was not in fact in Agadir. I wandered from the bus station and found an internet cafe (finding it was not trivial). I asked someone where I was. Do you know how awkward it is to ask a stranger what town your in? Very.
Turns out I was in Inezgane. I stayed on the bus one stop too long (how was I to know?), but it wasn’t far away so I took a cab. The cabby spoke English! I asked him to drop me off at a cheap hotel, and he did. Success! I dropped off my stuff and made a B-line to the beach. The weather is perfect, sunny and almost 90, the water is cool, but not freezing, and the beach is full of… well, old saggy tourist, but still, I’m happy!
One last mini-story. On my way to the beach I stopped at one of the street vendor’s stands. The decision for me to stop was his, not mine. He walked up to me, went to shake my hand, then when I shook his hand, he grabbed hold and effectively dragged me over to view his merchandise. I’d like a memento anyway, I thought, so I let him try to sell me something. I bartered a bit and finally settled on a price that was a ripoff, but not a enormous ripoff. That’s as much of a win as I’m going to get. Then he went to shake my hand again, I obliged, and again he wouldn’t let go. He wanted to sell me drugs (everyone wants to sell you drugs). I told him no, but he wouldn’t let go. I told him I’d come back later, I wanted to watch the sunset, so just let me go and I’ll come back. He called over his younger associate, who shook my hand and offered me hash. I told him maybe later; I was very uncomfortable and just wanted to get the hell out of there. I started walking away, my hand still trapped in his. Finally I broke free, but the younger man was following me. I walked and walked; he followed and followed. I’m not sure if he was trying to follow without me noticing, if he was he was bad at it. I stopped on a crowded street, walked up to him and asked, “So you’re coming to watch the sunset with me? It looks like a nice one.” He said, “No… I also work at…” His head turned and looked around. “…this bike stand!” and he pointed at a nearby bike stand. He was smoking. I asked him for a cigarette, not becuase I wanted one, but I wanted to see if he’d give me one. He said it was his last one, I told him to have fun at work. I left, he waited, he followed. I went to the beach, and I kept an eye on him. On the inside I was very uncomfortable, but I enjoyed my sunset nonetheless. He watched from the path just north of the beach. It’s been 30 minutes and he’s still tailing me. I stayed near groups of people and I walked up to a major street. I loitered beside a policeman who was directing traffic, and finally I hailed a cab and got the hell away from him.
So now I’m back in my hotel. I’ll hang out at the beach tomorrow and most likely head back to Marrakech, unless I decide to stay here another night. If you’ve made it this far, I applaud your diligence. Don’t worry, there won’t be many more posts. I have but half a week left.
Actually, by the time I’ve finally uploaded this, I’m back in Marrakech. I found out this morning that I can’t stay with Jamal tonight, so I’ve got to figure something else out. I’ll write more later…
