Casablanca traffic. 

Morocco Revisited: Je suis arrivé! (I have arrived!)

I made it to Morocco - it is HOT - and my french is rustier than I imagined!

I would love to use contractions but the keyboards in Morocco are not laid out in qwerty fashion, so while many of the letters are in the same position, I cannot find the apostrophe icon anywhere. The thing I am tripping up on the most is that the M is to the right of the qwerty-placed L space, and there is a comma where the M should be. So you may see Q where A should be and commas for Ms.

As for speaking, since the last time I was here I have become more versed in Spanish and apparently lost some French capabilities. So now instead of speaking right away, I think of what to say and in my mind I have to translate, which to my brain right now means English - Spanish. Then I have to think French, and then say it. The embarrasing part of all of this is that this sequence seems to initiate only once I have opened my mouth. Imagine someone walking up to you to ask a question, but instead, you see an open mouth and can hear no sound except the rusty mental gears trying to crank the language skills back into use. When you finally hear something it is with all of the finesse that a 10-year old could flourish linguistically.

My arrival in Morocco was apparently more amazing than that of my checked luggage. I had an hour layover in Paris, and the flight arrived 20 minutes early. But in true major airport fashion, we taxied on the runway for a good 20 minutes before I boarded a bus to the terminal, and another bus to the terminal I needed to transfer to. Then I got lucky and jumped into the brand new line that formed at the transfer/customs location after which I was able to directly board for the Casablanca flight. But, that boarding went to the ground, to another bus that got stuck in a short traffic jam behind 4 fire trucks busy putting out a luggage cart engine fire.

To make things interesting, I really had to pee just before disembarking the first flight. And, since the flight staff were stingy with the liquids on the flight I was also parched. I managed the thought of not having a bathroom opportunity with the irrational assumption that, since I was so thirsty, it was probably best I retained all liquid that I had. My chances to change some dollars for euros, find a bathroom, and make my once-daily connector flight were zero.

Transit overall was very good - smooth check-in, good flight, great onboard movie selection (I had my choice of indy/foreign flicks), great food, and apparently my luggage had an easier transfer than I did. I was convinced that it would not arrive today, so seeing it on the rotator belt was a very happy reunion moment. Until I later opened it to find my shampoo had exploded in my toiletries bag. That was a first.

Now, off to a good Salon de The (tea); then a recommended spot for pastillas for dinner ith the possibility of catching a small group of traditional musicians in from Marrakech. Gleaned the latter off of the radio, so it will be interesting to see if my comprehension is correct.

One day I may upload a couple of photos, but probably won,t bother with that until I return home. Unless I run out of memory space with the camera.

watch this spqce..........observez cet espace.........

Casablanca to Mecknes

My first 2 nights in Morocco were in Casablanca, not one of my favorite stops. The first day I was pretty useless arriving late in the day after traveling from the US. The taxi driver from the airport, though, was very happy to point out and even pull over to highlight interesting sights on the 40km drive into the city. He noticed I had a camera, so I obliged and took a lot of shots. Unfortunately, they're not that good - and the subject matter was not heart-stopping. But this one I thought was interesting, because of the Casablanca directional sign.

The second day I was equally useless, knocked down (but not out all the way) by a pretty hefty migraine. As soon as I was able, I took the train to Mecknes, in order to visit the Roman ruins of Volubolis the next day.

Mecknes and Volubilis

The photo above was of a friendly boy near the Mecknes medina - when he saw my camera, unbeknownst to me, he began waving frantically. It wasn't until after I'd snapped the photos I wanted that I saw him - outside of the viewfinder. His smile dropped immediately - so I picked the camera back up and asked if I could take his photo. The image above is the result.

Once in Mecknes, I found myself with new friends from the train - Mohammed and Tony. Mohammed lives in New York but comes to Fes once a year to visit family. In this case, he was visiting in timing with his sister's wedding. The wedding occurred the week before, but the reception was the coming weekend. After discussion on the train to Mecknes, I was again faced with what I call Typical Moroccan Agressive Hospitality. That has a negative connotation, but it's not meant to - it's just the best description I can think of for what I've experienced in each of my visits to Morocco.

In each case, I've been fortunate to meet some incredibly hospitable and kind people. Moroccans are very proud of their country, and if you get off the beaten path a bit, often those that you encounter will quiz you on their country. Typically, the commentary begins like this (from the Moroccan):

• Did you know that Morocco was the first country to recognize America's independence after the war? Or that it was the site of the first embassy for the new country?
• Where have you visited?
• What did you like about it? What didn't you like about it?
• Have people been nice to you? Have you enjoyed your visit?
• Where will you go next? I have a (insert relative here) in ____ and here's his/her number. If you call them when you arrive they will show you the best things to see in ____.
• Please come meet my family / have a meal at my house / see my farm.
• I have a relative in (your home country/state).
  
• I hope you enjoy my country.

I tend to think of this as kind of an impromptu quality control over tourism. For example, if you mention that the hassles in Tangier are unbearable to someone in Marrakech, you most likely will get an apology from the Marrakechi on behalf of his countrymen to the North. Even if it is actionless, I find the intent and the genuine hospitality efforts truly unique in the world - on par, almost, of those in Nepal.

At any rate, having now met and conversed with Mohammed, I was invited to his sister's wedding reception. Now if it were my wedding reception, I might take exception to my brother bringing along some foreigner without possibly appropriate attire (or a gift) to my reception. Such is not the case in Morocco, it seems. Tony and Mohammed have known eachother for 5 years, and Tony was traveling with Mohammed to Fes for the wedding. Tony is Spanish, but his mother was Moroccan and his father Spanish - and Jewish. His funny way of letting people know his heritage was to greet them with "Shalom aleikum" - instead of the typical muslim greeting, "salaam aleikam".

We had a few days before the wedding, and were headed to the same hotel in Mecknes, so made an afternoon and night of it before taxi-ing to Volubilis the next day to explore the ruins.

I also had an appointment to keep in Marrakech - my friend Alan, with whom I worked on the Norway project (albeit in Singapore), was flying in for a quick 4 day visit. When I mentioned this to Tony and Mohammed, the immediate response was, "let's go pick him up and bring him to the reception, too!". I figured, why not. I had to get to Marrakech anyway, and having company along the way would be better than not. The price was not much different than taking the train again, but the scenery would be different, and the option to stop for photo opps and breaks was a given. But first, we had a night in Mecknes and explored the roman ruins of Volubilis.

The Mecknes medina wall and plaza at night.

The ruins at Volubilis.
Remains of an old olive press. View of either the capital, the bascilica, or the forum. Each is reputed to have been built on the high point, where this set of ruins were, but aside from maybe four small brief signs posted in the area, there was no other information. Shame on Unesco....


Inscription over the Triumphal Arch.
For more of these, click here.

Fes

A few snapshots of Fes:
This is the courtyard of the Riad El Yacout, where I stayed, thanks to a tip from a friend:

Activity within a Carpet Shop. Which just happened to also be in an old Riad.

Rooftop view of Fes. I looked back through several hardcopy photos from previous visits, and find it interesting that the plethora of antenna eyesore material has been largely replaced by the somehow less bothersome appearance of satellite dishes. Note the carpets airing on the nearby rooftop ledges.
Inner courtyard tranquility.


In Fes, I was invited along with Tony to Mohammed's house for lunch. This was a small family affair and we got to play with his sister Asmet and brother Zacharias. The house was relatively still and empty otherwise, as the family was otherwise engaged in preparing for Mohammed's sister's wedding reception that weekend. Here, the kids are kind of posing but a little distracted by cartoons:

Afterward, I learned that Mohammed, being a travel agent in New York specialising in Moroccan tours, had arranged a room for me at the El Riad Yacout. A Riad is a traditional townhouse set around a garden, and historically were the realm of higher government officials or merchants. In recent years, since King Mohammed the VI has inherited the throne, new rules in the country's land ownership structure allow foreigners now to purchase in Moroccco. A number of them have been purchasing Riads and restoring them - with loving care - to bed and breakfast facilities.

The El Riad Yacout was buried in the Fes medina. Much of the medina's walkways are literally only a person wide. Imagine trying to restore an historic building - in which the first floor is about 30 foot high - to its previous grandeur, with a modern twist - and getting grand furnishings suitable for the effort in through winding maze-like walkways. This riad in particular had been built in the 7th cenutry, restored in the 15th, and again in 2003. The restoration effort must have been incredible - while adhering to local zelij tiling styles, new touches were added such as tall blazing lamps, 25 foot high doors, and massive bronze and cedar bed structures. Other modern touches included spa tubs, cable tv, and air conditioning. The rate that Mohammed negotiated for me was approximately $60 USD with breakfast. The regular rate is triple that.

The above is the door to my guest room at the riad. It was really a door within a door, and these doors opened to a beautiful set of stained glass doors as well (below). Those above are of cedar and smell wonderful.

Iframe, Morocco - a Mountain Retreat

Since I had a little time (about 2 days) before heading to Marrakech to meet Alan, I wanted to check out a mountain town. Iframe is near Fes and I'd not been there before - I've read about it being the 'Geneva of Morocco', and that it boasted cooler temperatures. Tony also had some time to kill, so he offered to come along. I have to say, having a travel companion in Morocco who speaks Arabic opens all kinds of doors.

So we took a grands-taxi to Iframe, where we were going to meet Mohammed's friend, Sayeed, who would later drive us down to Marrakech to retrieve Alan for Mohammed's sister's wedding reception. We also wanted to explore the countryside around Iframe, and to get in touch with a samsar – or a local ‘finding agent’ – to rent an apartment for a few nights.

I’d never tried that before – short term apartment rental – but apparently in Iframe and other highly visited Moroccan towns, it is quite common. Essentially the apartments are typically slightly westernized (at least in the bathrooms) and often include a basic array of kitchen- and cook-ware. The bonus is that they all have a nice sized salon – so if you’re traveling with a group of friends, you can find an apartment with as many bedrooms as you need but still maintain a common area to visit, have tea, snacks, etc – instead of regrouping in hotel lobbies. It also provides a more ‘embedded’ perspective of every-day life in Morocco.

So, in Iframe, we met Sayeed at the taxi stand. He immediately reminded me of my Houston friend and former roommate, Scott Marler. Just with a little more of a tan. Sayeed had lived in Paris for about 15 years, but opted to return to family in Morocco. He and Mohammed had been friends since childhood, so by friendly Moroccan extension, Sayeed and Tony were friends, and finally that friendship extended to me. Sayeed’s English was about as good as my French.

When we met Sayeed, he introduced us to a samsar, and we quickly found a great apartment in the top of a typical Swiss-style building, right in the center of town. We opted to explore Iframe that day, and Sayeed would show us the surrounding countryside the next day, followed by our Friday drive (of about 8 hours) to the Marrakech airport to meet Alan.

Iframe is a beautiful town – it’s polished, manicured, stately, and immensely comfortable. If you were asleep and someone somehow (magic carpet, perhaps?) transported you here before you woke, you’d have a very difficult time determining where on earth – exactly – you were. There are organized tours (read: busloads) of tourists from Fes who come for short trips of an hour to two. They get dumped right into the city center to explore for a bit, and the super-tourist bus traffic is quite steady. The tourists, interestingly, seem to number as many Moroccans as non-Moroccans, who often head to higher climes to avoid the heat of summer.

As evening came, we met back up with Sayeed. Tony was determined to cook up a traditional tajine – a typical Moroccan dish, kind of like a stew but not so liquidy. Sayeed drove us to the night market where we picked up a plethora of ingredients. This market was one of the most organized ones that I’ve seen in Morocco, and relatively well contained in the large bus station complex.

After heading back to the apartment, we insisted Sayeed stay for dinner, and Tony cooked up a really wonderful tajine. Sayeed and I were practicing our English and French, respectively. I have to say I felt a bit pampered being driven by a Moroccan and catered to by a Spaniard. The Spaniard-cooked Moroccan meal was declared a success by the Moroccan.

Next day, we explored the countryside around Iframe. It’s beautiful rocky highland area in the Middle Atlas, and home to a significant population of Berbers, of which Sayeed’s family hails. He showed us some of his family’s land, scenic and picturesque sites, took us to a place in the cedar forest populated by Barbary monkeys, and on the way back to Iframe, stopped off to show us a new government fish farming initiative.

Back in Iframe, Tony and I finished off the rest of the tajine, and headed out on the town for the night. We happened into a bar, which is an interesting tangent story. Morocco is less traditional than many other Muslim countries, but typically, Muslims are supposed to abstain from alcohol and tobacco, although that isn’t a blanket observation of Morocco – there were plenty of smokers, and no bar was every empty (though many were close to it). At any rate, bars, and often tea salons, are the empires of men. Women, while empowered more in Morocco than most Muslim countries, typically are not seen in bars unless they are prostitutes. An exception is made for foreign women who are not held to the same expectations as local women. Another exception is made for Berber women, who while they may be Muslim, tend to adhere more strongly to their traditional Berber societal standings which on the surface appear much more liberated than the typical Moroccan Muslim woman.

So we’re in a bar. And in Iframe, which is somewhat progressive thanks to the University there, I was not the only woman in the bar. There were two other younger women with friends, and three older women that were slightly costumish in dress. Turns out they were Berber performers – singers and dancers – and we were in for a performance treat that night. There were three male musicians, playing lute and drums and singing, accompanied by the three women, who alternatively sang and danced Berber style. This type of dancing is similar but a little more basic than belly dancing and is said to pre-date it significantly. During a particularly long instrumental period, the women go around the bar dancing and shaking their jingly-belts around the bar patrons, who are expected to tip a few dirhams. When they got to me, they pulled me up out of my chair, held my hands, and became especially hip-animated. It was incredible fun, and for that moment, I was a little sorry I hadn’t brought my camera. (I prefer taking daytime shots and using natural lighting.)

On the walk back to the apartment, once we were inside the courtyard to the building, we heard a weird rolling sound back out on the sloping street. The moon was full, and it was a bit chilly – great sleeping weather. We looked out of the courtyard just in time to see – I swear this is true – a dog skateboarding down the hill.

All in all, it was a great way to wrap up our visit to Iframe.

On the Road Again: Marrakech to Fes for a Wedding Reception (or: Hangin' with the Hajji)

The drive to Marrakech to meet Alan’s 3:30 plane started off with a rush. We had no alarm clock in the apartment so tried to rely on open windows for the dawn’s first light to wake up, with limited success. Our goal was to be on the road by 7 am allowing for traffic on the 8 hour drive. The main road south is a two-laner with lots of villages and towns to slow down for along the way, not including other traffic – often heavily laden truck traffic which can be time-consuming to pass depending on oncoming traffic. Also, because it was Friday, weekend markets were in preparation mode, and traffic was going to be a bit heavier than during regular weekdays. We managed to wake up, shower, packup, and do a quick apartment cleaning in 15 minutes, and were just opening the door as Sayeed arrived.

The first few hours of the drive were relatively comfortable – cool morning temperatures in the mountains were well appreciated, knowing that we were soon to be driving in the plains toward Marrakech where the temps were in the triple-digits (Farenheit). Also, Sayeed’s car does not have air conditioning. It’s a Puegot hatchback. So, Tony and I took turns on who would ride in the back seats. With both driver windows down, the bulk force (and grit) of the air focuses on the rider in the back seat. If you’ve ever ridden in the back of a pickup truck at high speeds, and felt the wind force itself in through your nostrils, you know what this is like. As we headed further south, unfortunately, this wind became hotter and hotter. Whoever was in the backseat did little to no talking – the air would force its way into the speaker’s mouth and leave them instantly parched.

We did manage to take some breaks along the way for snacks, drinks, and once along the large dammed lake in the center of the country that supplies irrigation to what would otherwise be desertified, unarable land. That land, while red and sandy and dusty and hot, is still managed to cultivate fields of olive trees, argan trees, corn, beans, chickpeas, grapes, date farms (palmerias), orage apple and cherry groves, etc. In the spring it must look like a carpet of variegated greens.

We made it to Marrakech just after 3 pm, and waited for Alan’s arrival. There were 3 or 4 flights landing at that time so it took a while for him to clear customs, but when he did, he got a warm group welcome – even though Tony, Sayeed, and I were completely burned out by this time.

We headed into town to figure out what we were going to do for the night. After having a few beers to cool off and unwind, we met another friend of Sayeed’s, also a samsar, who showed us a cream-of-the-crop apartment in the ville nouvelle (new section) of the city. It was beautifully furnished, and had some very nice artwork. It was also walking distance from the Djma-al-Fnaa, the main square in Marrakech, where caravans of old used to stop to sell their wares and rest after crossing the Sahara. Today it is a Unesco World Heritage site. The medina backs right up onto the plaza, and from there you can wander into snaking alleyways selling everything from extracted teeth to herbal cures for witchraft curses. The main square is filled by day with various vendors, my favorite of which are the orange juice vendors. For the equivalent of about 25 cents (up 5 cents from 8 years ago), you can order a fresh-squeezed-as-you-order glass of orange juice. At night, the plaza fills with acrobats, performers, snake charmers, and my very favorite, the story tellers.

In this day and age where every rooftop seems to have a satellite dish, and even the most remote households are somehow ‘plugged in’, I love that the storytellers get such large audiences in the plaza. The stories they tell are millennium old, and spoken in Arabic, with lots of fanciful gesturing. Even without understanding the language, it is a performance not to be missed. The largest groups of spectators gather around the story tellers, after which a hat or bowl is passed to collect contributions.

Unfortunately, on this night, probably due to my not eating during the day (while roasting), I had developed a pretty bad migraine. So, Tony and Sayeed took Alan out for the night to a somewhat touristy restaurant that also includes belly dancing and other performance art, along with very good traditional food. It was a good introduction to Morocco for Alan’s first visit. The next day, we started our long drive back to Fes to attend Mohammed’s sister’s wedding reception.

Alan, Sayeed, young musician, and Tony - dancing a jig at the Dammed Lake in the Middle of Morocco.

Because of weekend traffic, driving back took us almost 12 hours, so we didn’t arrive at Mohammed’s place until about 11 pm. After having been in a pretty warm windy car all day. I can’t say that we were on our best appearances. At any rate, the family welcomed us in with open arms.

On a side note – I’ve been invited into several Moroccan homes in the past, but have always been treated like, and with, the men; not like a visiting woman. Typically the woman’s domain in the home is the kitchen or the rooftops, and I suppose it’s nice not to have been subjugated to those realms in the past, but I have often missed out on interacting with other Moroccan women because of this. Not so with Mohammed’s family. His sisters speak some English, and immediately his younger sister Asmet (who was dressed, literally, like a fairy princess) took me by the hand and led me into the salon – filled with women. There was one other westerner there, a co-worker of Mohammed’s from New York. All of the women, except the bride, were older than me, and were involved in discussions that I would have felt intrusive joining. Especially since I don’t speak Arabic. So, Asmet, who probably was anxious to have someone to play with, tried to teach me to dance.

She was like a little ballerina, Moroccan-style – meaning she was doing early belly-dancing and berber dance moves, complete with intricate finger movements, facial and even eye expressions. The whole room got a kick of me trying to learn from (by mimicking) a 10-year old who was very clearly much more skilled than I. Then some Berber music played – which by now I’ve come to recognize. So I tried to apply some of the moves I saw the Berber dancers doing in Iframe a few nights before, and this got applause from some of the older Berber ladies in the room. Berber music is often accompanied by a very syncopatic, loud clapping that is done with both thumbs pointed straight up. The ladies started clapping – louder, faster, and Asmet and I had a hard time keeping up, before falling onto the couch in fits of laughter. I’m sure the other women were thinking “what crazy foreign fool is this”….but I was having fun, and so was Asmet, so that was OK.

Then I was brought into the other salon where the men were. One of the ladies in the kitchen, keeping tabs on our location via calls from Sayeed, had prepared a meal for Tony, Alan, Sayeed, and I, along with the fathers of both the bride and the groom, and of course, Mohammed. The groom’s father was a hajji, or a Muslim who has completed his pilgrimage to Mecca. I’d never met a hajji before, but he insisted on sitting with Alan and I. When the first course was served – a huge chicken pastilla (a pastry crust filled with chicken, vegetables, couscous, and almonds, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar) – the hajji broke off some of the best internal pieces and placed them in the main communal bowl in front of Alan and I. In a communal bowl feast, it’s considered rude to eat the food not directly in front of you – such as reaching into another person’s area for a good morsel. By placing the choicest morsels on the dish in front of Alan and I, the hajji was offering us the best bits.

Finally, sometime after midnight, we put an end to our long day. Mohammed, despite his day’s activity with his family, arranged rooms for Alan and I back at my favorite place, El Riad Yacout, where we stayed up until 2 am drinking and catching up on news in the courtyard. We didn’t talk much in the car on the way up, because….it was just too darn hot to talk. And, we had to decide what our game plan was for the next two days. This was Saturday, and Alan flew back to Norway on Tuesday – at 7 am. So we had to be back in Marrakech for Monday night. Having just made that drive, twice, in a hot car, we were discussing alternatives into the wee hours of the night.

I don't have any photos posted for this post - I was quite tempted to bring the camera along for the wedding reception, but there are times when it just seems impolite to shoot photos of other people's moments. Considering that Alan and I were guests, and treated most graciously, I would have felt uncomfortable snapping photos of a large family that I didn't know during a very private and otherwise traditionally significant event.

Where to Next? Back to Iframe and Marrakech!!

During the night, Alan and I discussed some realistic options considering the distance we had to travel to get back to Marrakech to see him off. One of them was to rent a car and drive back via another route, up and over the Atlas Mountains, coming into Marrakech from due east, via the Dades Gorge and some of the most scenic high passes in the country. The only problem was that this would add significant drive time – because it’s the only other road option – and because those roads are less maintained than the main one that took us to Fes. And, because they were mountain roads, the speed levels would be limited and the route much more circuitous (although more picturesque). Not to mention the inherent danger, with sheep and goats ranging the countryside, of driving in this area at night.

So, we decided to rent a car, with air conditioning, and drive back part way the way we’d come to Fes. Then, we’d take an eastward tack to go up to Azilal and Denmante in the High Atlas, which loops back down to Marrakech. This offered us some cooler mountain temperatures and a variety of scenery for the second half of the drive.

But first, we met with Tony and Mohammed in the morning at the Riad El Yacout. They had a few errands to run, and Alan and I were going to roam the medina somewhat before meeting them at a pre-ordained destination. I think they seriously doubted that we’d be able to find the place to meet them and, since Alan brought his mobile phone, they were likely expecting a call from us for directions. The medina in Fes is reputed to have nearly 10,000 “streets”, though tiny, snaking, labyrinthine alleyways is a more apt description, and to date, it has never been thoroughly mapped. It’s one of the only medinas in the world (other than Cairo’s) where, unless you have a day to find your way back out, you often do require the help of a local or guide to get you to your desired destination. Unless you’re strictly wandering.

Alan and I started off in and around the medina, knowing that the further downhill you go, the deeper you get. We walked by horse stables, bakeries, tanneries, tailors, butchers, weavers, metal smiths, carpet shops, vegetable and spice markets, clothing markets, and general bric-a-brac and knick-knack stalls. Then, we tapped a local on the shoulder, asked him to take us to the ordained destination, and got there without a hitch.

Here’s the interesting part. We beat Mohammed (the Fes native) and Tony to the meeting place. When we did call them, is was to flaunt that we were ready and waiting….what was taking them so long??!

Errands completed, Alan and I needed to head back to the Riad, collect our bags, and pick up a rental car. Mohammed expressed some concern about being able to rent a car on a Sunday, almost guaranteeing us that it couldn’t be done. But I like a challenge. Back at the Riad, with a mixture of French and English, I was able to contact a local car rental service – because, indeed, the majors like Avis, National, Budget, Alamo, etc were closed on Sunday. The car rental industry in Morocco is different than that in many other countries. It’s almost expected that you’ll rent on a one-way circuit, and the agency sends someone to meet you at the end of the drive and take the car back to the point of origin. Also, most rental cars are standard. So, when Hassan showed up, bringing the car to the Riad, I was quite pleased with myself. I was able to negotiate a rate better than the range indicated by Lonely Planet, and in French. And, lucky for me, I can drive a stick shift.

When Tony and Mohammed showed up, they were a bit surprised about my accomplishment. They don’t know me so well, apparently. At any rate, Tony still had some free time on his hands, but Mohammed had to go back to New York, so we thanked him and wished him well, and accepted some money from Tony for a shared ride back to Marrakech. I wanted to keep the car and head to Essaouira afterward, one of my favorite spots in Morocco, before heading back to the Casablanca Airport where the agency rep was to meet me and retrieve the car.

By this time it was late in the afternoon, the car was almost out of gas, and we didn’t have much daylight for driving. So we decided to go as far as Iframe – after our descriptions of it to Alan, he was intrigued by seeing something so different, yet Moroccan.

We headed out into Fes traffic, and this was the most difficult part of the driving. Having said that, the roads are well signposted and cared for, and the first part of the drive is 4-lane road up into the mountains. We had beautiful end of day, golden-light…and arrived in Iframe just in time for a few rounds of beer and a trip to the market. Tony went back to the same apartment folks that we’d rented from previously – by renting directly from the owners we could save a little money that would normally be the samsar’s cut. They had a bigger unit with more bedrooms available, so after securing that, we decided to cook up a meal and crack open the Vodka that Alan brought, having a night in, with good company.

Then things got very silly. In my journal, I repeated myself 3 or 4 times – but am still surprised I had the discipline to write at all that night. We knocked off several beers and a few bottles of wine before getting into the vodka. Tony was again cooking, this time a Spanish Tortilla.

Being from Texas, I had my doubts about how a big tortilla was going to feed all 3 of us. Near Mexico, this is essentially flour or corn flat bread that’s used as a wrap for other ingredients. Apparently it’s something completely different in Spain. And Tony loves to cook. So, this was going to be like a big potato and vegetable has, that in theory, you can flip in a saucepan like an omelet. Unfortunately, the saucepan was not up to the task, and the handle bent under the weight of the food. Tony was getting more and more animated in his frustration with the lack of quality kitchenware, and Alan and I were getting the giggles. Tony got so frustrated in the kitchen that we’d often hear a string of rapid-fire Spanish echoing from around the corner.

As the night and the hilarity wore on, the men engaged in discussion of physical fitness – I suppose as men are wont to do. It became quite funny, then, when Tony was demonstrating a kind of all-body type of push up (more akin to yoga’s downward dog pose), and then some kick-boxing squats, which Alan was dutifully trying.

After a late night, we started our drive south in the morning. I started driving, and literally after 8 hours behind the wheel – because it was so much fun – it only felt like 4. The roads were narrow, incredibly windy, and immensely fun to rip through.

We again passed by the dammed lake in the center of the country, where we got out, again, for the obligatory leg-stretch and view. There is a young boy who haunts this pullout. He plays a home-made stringed instrument made from a rusted out can. It has two strings, but this boy can make that squawk box sing. We gave him some snacks and dirham to play an Irish Jig, which I tried to jig to, and Tony belly danced to. It was good fun.

By afternoon we had reached Azilal, an incredibly picturesque town in the High Atlas, that strangely, is not hugely touristified yet. It’s got the best of what I love about Utah and Wyoming – mountains, red rock canyons and cliffs – supported by systems of artesian wells and year-round water. The only thing missing were bears and moose. I felt as though this was the place I’ve been looking for over the last decade.

Later, I needed a rest stop, so we pulled off at a small village gas station, only to find a field mobbed with people on the other side, partially blocking the road. We went over to see what was happening, and learned that this village was having its annual celebration of the locals having turned back nomadic tribes, centuries ago. The demonstration included outfitted men riding equally outfitted horses, and toting musket-like guns with abundant silversmithing. Various bands of the riders would start from one side of the field, allowing their horses to dance and trot forward a bit, before charging the other side – guns raised, women ululating, and finally, guns firing as they approached the opposite side. This continued back and forth for some time. Men on the sidelines were betting on various horses (or riders). It was a thrilling, completely serendipitous moment.

Beyond that, it was a relatively uneventful drive back into Marrakech. We wanted to get an easy-to-get-to hotel, because traffic there is unreal. Tony drove the last portion of the stretch, because I didn’t want to try my luck in Marrakech.

After finding a hotel in the Ville Nouvelle (new city), we settled in for a few beers. Tony had another friend from Spain, another Mohammed, who lived in Marrakech, and he joined us for drinks and a game or two of pool before heading home. Alan and I were kind of wiped out from the day (Tony frequently catnapped in the cool comfort of the back seat of the car), so we opted to have a night in and catch up on news, gossip, and all the other good stuff to know that’s happened since we last saw each other a year ago in Singapore.

Marrakech to Essouira - some R&R

Starting off the morning slowly in Marrakech. I wanted to take a wander through Djma-al-Fnaa, my favorite plaza in the world, for some breakfast and fresh squeezed orange juice. Tony was with me for the ride to Essouira, so we walked through the medina to visit his other friend Mohammed for a walk and chat. I kept one eye open for a kasbah lantern - was thinking this would be perfect in the bathroom - but didn't see any that called out for me. In Nepal, it is said that you cannot go shopping for buddha statues - the buddha has to find you, so I was applying the same philosophy to finding a lantern. Or being found by one. No luck on this trip.

Eventually we hit the road from Marrakech to Essouira, about 3 hours eastward. Driving out of Marrakech was a bit hectic - it was good to have a co-pilot along for the ride. Morocco's roads are well signposted, even in the cities. But in Marrakesh, the traffic is horrendous, and any 6 square inches in front of your vehicle could at any time be immediately squeezed into by a biker, a mule cart, a horse-drawn caleche (well, you'd have to be a bit slow for that), a motorcycle - you get the idea.

Just outside of town, I experienced my first police shakedown. As with any town's outskirts, I suppose, the speed limits drop coming into the city, and gradually increase when leaving. Unfortunately, I probably really was doing 70k in the 60k zone, just feet in front of the 80k zone. As I was pulled over, I was excited to see how this would pan out. Fortunately, I had Tony's linquistic and bargaining skills onboard. When the officer approached and I handed him the paperwork, I'm not sure he quite knew what to do with me. He took the paperwork and my license over to the other waiting patrolmen, while Tony and I watched in the rear view mirror.

They way it goes, apparently, on Moroccan speed traps, is that once the officer begins writing in his Big Official Book with Carbon Paper, you get an Official Ticket, and have to pay 400 dirham (a little more than $40 USD). OR - you can offer the officer 100 dirham, for his troubles, for the heat, for the inconvenience, etc. - and be sent on your way. Tony suggested going the 100 dh route.

Problem was, I kind of wanted the official ticket. I could add it to my collection from Norway, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, and the 'ticket' from the Maoists in Nepal to walk through the countryside. But, Tony took it upon himself to go out and have a word with the officer. He brought a candybar along (it was on the verge of melting) and a 50 dirham note. With the ease of a graceful, hidden handshake, and the handover of the candybar, the deal was done - my paperwork was returned (to Tony) and I was free to proceed. Without a ticket.

Essaouira - At Last!

I have wanted to return to Essouira for several years. On my previous visit, it had all the peace and charm and laid-back grace of a mellow, former hippie enclave. Nowadays, it's developed some - there are explosions of condo construction - but the vibe remains the same. Essaouira is known for its annual Gnaoua music festival in June (click here for a sample). This music has a sub-saharan undertone with a reggae backbeat and is unlike music elsewhere in Morocco. The village just down the coast, Diabat, was once a month-long refuge of Jimi Hendrix (still featured on the Gnaoua festival logo). It's also one of the worlds pre-eminent wind-surfing locations, known for steady knots in the afternoon, and as such has recently also become a bit of a kite-surfing mecca.

But it's much more. It's been the seat of a number of films, including Orson Welles' Othello there, and last year, Ridley Scott's Kingdom of Heaven, which I might have to rent. Besides facing due west and enjoying a daily sunset extravaganza, the city is built on old Portuguese ramparts (Skala de la Ville or du Port), still lined with branss cannons. The city has also realized it's beach potential, and cleared a wide swath of beach for tourism. The beach plaza has soccer fields, basketball courts, a few food stalls, and of course, wind- and kite-surfing rental shops.

Just a bit further south, there are remains of an old Portuguese castle that are reachable during the morning's low tide. Just south of that are windswept sand dunes, hills, and scrub brush leading down the coast to rocky cliffs and some rubble-and beach coastline. It is one of my favorite cities in Morocco. Even still.

Last Full Day in Morocco

For the last complete day in Morocco, I wanted to finally enjoy some R&R time. I'd been rushing through the countryside, meeting people, going places, doing things - which is fine. My philosophy on vacation time is that this is the rare window of opportunity within the year I get to really live, so I cram as much as I can into it. Let's face it, it's no big secret that I, like many millions of Americans work in the Job I Found Myself Landing Into, as opposed to the Job I Wanted to Create for myself. I have only just recently almost begun to start accepting that. For now. But, it's certainly not the Life I Want to Live, which is what I do, sadly, a few times a year on vacation.

This trip was exceptional in that I got to do so much on my time away, and often, would break out the camera as an afterthought. But, for my last day in Morocco - specifically, Essaouira - I wanted to relax and play with my camera. It was also Tony's 40th birthday. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. I suggested ushering in a new decade by trying something that he'd never done before, so we opted to go find some horses.

Just down the coast, in Diabat, there is a ranch - really the back of an old crumbling mosque - with a stable of horses. It's only recently begun attracting tourists, so is fantastically still authentic - a run-down, functioning stable as opposed to a flash tourist destination. We opted for a few hours' ride to fill the morning, and were quickly fitted out with knee-high chaps. As someone who's ridden in Australia and once for an hour in Texas, I've never worn chaps - contrary to common Texas stereotype (as held through much of the world). We started off following Hassan, the guide from the stable - though why we really needed a guide in this beachside nestle of dune-hills, I'm not sure.

At any rate, we started off, and the horse I was on really didn't like the other two. He would, despite my best pull of the reigns, try to bite the other two horses' faces. Once we emerged into more open riding area, I thought this would stop, but it didn't. So, Hassan, the guide, and I swapped animals. Now, I was on the best looking horse from the stables. A tall, majestic sable brown horse that somehow exhibited a leadership air about him, if that's possible - probably from being used to leading the riders. Since Hassan was leading, and it was Tony's birthday, I opted to hang back and ride last. This also gave me the opportunity to sometimes wander a bit, since I had my camera with me.

We meandered initially on a closely wound trail through scrubby dunes, emerging onto pure sand dunes. When I was last here 8 years ago, this stretch of dunes had a string of Atlantic-washup trash almost a kilometer long. It was heart-wrenching - there were recyclables of all imaginable types washed up along the tide line. Now, however - likely as a result of its continued 'destination' status - Essaouira has really cleaned up its act, and this has been adopted by the surrounding communities as a means to attract more tourism. The benefit is an improved environment; the downside is the wave of new, perhaps unsustainable development on a delicate seaside ecosystem that has occured in the interim. Of course I'm glad to see that this has been cleaned up, but it is a bit disheartening to see that the reason - rather than pride in one's own environment - was instead to attract what is slightly less ugly concrete block condo development.

At any rate, we rode toward the beach and then along the old Portuguese fortress ruins. It was there that I remembered, on my last trip, I also had short hair. I was traveling with a friend from Australia (Adam) and he snapped a photo of me climbing the ruins, and then perched on top of the highest point, thinking. Which my mom then painted in a portrait. Small world. At any rate, it was a wonderful and novel way to see the scenery. The wind was strong, but so was the sun. I had a tank top on but wore a button-down shirt over it, and at the end of the day, was rewarded with a weird take on a farmer's tan (burn): red arms up to the sleeve point, but with a scoop-neck front. And my ears!


As we slowly made our way via a grand loop back to the ranch, the horse I was riding decided he wanted to have some fun. Who could blame him? He's on the beach, got the wind in his hair, has been tracking kind of slow but normally was used to leading. So he popped a horse-wheelie.

He reared up in that classic horse pose - both front paws reaching skyward - and let out a fantastic whinnie. When all fours were again on the ground, he took off on a run. Didn't matter that I was indicating a slow, and then a force-stop on the reigns. He slowed when he was damn good an ready, just a few moments longer. I didn't notice at the time but after the excitement, I somehow had the werewithal to protect my camera by rolling it into my button down shirt and covering it with my left arm (from the saddle horn). It was all quite exciting.

Afterward, the day was filled with remaining R&R activities...a few celebratory beers, lunch, strolling along the medina, snapping photos....and then meeting up with friends to celebrate Tony's birthday.

Treed

Today, my co-worker's friend, attorney, and spare-time tree-trimmer, old-school style, came by to trim the giant maple in the back yard. It's around a century old, and unfortunately, is nearing the end of its life - tho she does have a few good years left in her yet (the TREE....). Two old branch-holes near the top of the trunk have filled with soil (better that than rot) tho sound a bit hollow, so it's only a matter of time before the core rots out with age. But, we'll fill the missing branch-holes with expansion foam to keep them from filling with water and rotting more quickly. At any rate, I think I've found the perfect platform for a good backyard tree-stand.

....and the aftermath......

New Hammock

I picked up one of these cat hammock contraptions recently, because Kathman spends so much time on this windowsill. Here you can see his interesting....weight gain.