Sarajwolcott’s Blog

Finally, Morocco

October 3, 2009 at 6:26 pm (Uncategorized)

It’s been a long time coming. For those of you who’ve known me for a while, you know that I’ve been wanting to go to Morocco since I was about 20 or so – nearly 8 years. Good grief, that’s ridiculous!  I’ve a good understanding, at least, of why it took me so long to get there (thanks to the best therapist on the planet) but I’m still sad that it did. Regardless. I did make it, if only for 2 weeks, and I feel confident I can and will return. It’s really not that far away. Except that when you are there, you are a few worlds away……

I’ve never wanted to go for any other reason than to just go – to learn the language, the culture, read about the history, eat the food, see the sights – to know a country. Not to change it or to fix it, not to alleviate poverty, not to help anyone. Morocco is what it is.

I went from Granada. I flew into Malaga, Spain, then spent 2 days at the Alhambra in Granada, before taking a bus to Algeciras, and from there a ferry across the little stretch of water that separates ‘Europe’ from ‘Africa’ to land in tangier, commonly called the ‘gate way to africa’.

Having already been in Africa proper – Sub Saharan Africa, where Arabs are generally foreigners, I was not convinced tangier was much of a gateway, or at least, not to ‘Africa’. But as my African friends remind me, what really is Africa, anyways?

Of course, one of the first things that hits you, in making that journey, is how similar the city you left from and the city where you are going are, regardless of which way you are traveling. Muslim women with little children and their husbands/fathers/brothers filled the boats both ways, as did tourists from Europe. The two cities bear a resemblence to one another, and I could still feel the memory of a time when they were part of the same empire, not the great divides between Europe and Africa that shape so much of the modern psyche.

Tangier has its own beauty, and my heart was thrilled at the Arabic/french signs, and I was determined that my brief vacation would accomplish two things: to remember the Arabic alphabet and to practice my french. Both were easily accomplished; I was surrounded by people eager to help me remember the alphabet through which Allah speaks to his people. Who are, as I was constantly reminded, all people, for Allah is a god of Peace.

My partner and I made our way to the bus station, and I was reminded of so much of being in the third world that I had, in my year studying development, forgotten: how long it takes to get things going, the continual ‘network problems’ that lead to hours of delays, the smell of dust in offices and old computers and sweat, the old men who sit and wait while others find things to do, the small relationships that I did not understand, so many little things that reminded me that I was a foreigner. And, I soon realized, that I had arrived in the middle of Ramadan. A time most Westerners choose not to travel in Morocco, as much is closed, and food is not as accessible as it normally is.

We met up with a young man we’d met on the boat, and, eventually, found ourselves a restaurant while we waited for our bus to a small town in the mountains recommended by my trusty and already well-used Lonely Planet. The restaurant was busy preparing for the breaking of the fast, setting out plates of eggs, sweet things, dates, and bowls for soup and orange drinks (sometimes orange juice, sometimes a fizzier, sweeter, not-real orange colored drink). And that began what was to become a fascination for me during my time there – watching the entire country break its fast with (more or less) the same food.

I’d always been fascinated with Islam – since at least 11 years old, when I built a mosque out of paper meche in Ms Woody’s history class, and painted it bright blue and green, and wondered what a real mosque was like, outside of the national geographic photos that was my muse.  And in a world where young girls were expected to want to flaunt their ‘stuff’, my insecure self was intrigued with the foreigness of a world where girls my age were encouraged to hide their hair and their bodies.

It was that fascination, that has long since matured into respect tinged with sadness, that won me some of the best conversations I had. But that first night, as the sun set over the Megreb, I watched for the first time the heart of the country come to life as the colors shone brilliantly against the sky before coming to dusk. And with dusk, came the noise and laughter of people eating. Women in bright veils and men in worn jeans sat at plastic tables up and down the street, drinking orange-colored liquid first, then eating the dates (the sweetness of Allah) and then the soup, which I would later learn had many variations, from simple vegetable to a simple grain. Some people had cake, everyone had the staple bread. Nutritionally, it is a great meal to break a fast with.

On that first night, I had a kebab. It was good- but it was the salad that was thrown hastily onto the plate that was better, and the olives, perfectly ripened, that delighted the most.

We took a four hour bus ride to Chef Chauoun, what the lonely planet called ‘the prettiest town in morocco’. We arrived late at night, but we found a young man, maybe thirty, in a sweater and jeans, ready to take us to our hotel – even though we didn’t have a hotel. He clearly had done this before. Lost, tired, and needing a guide, we said yes.

I had known the town was at the foot of the mountains, but I had not appreciated that meant a kilometer hike with our heavy backpacks (not real backpacking packs, just ‘regular’ packs stuffed to the brim).  In the dark, I was quickly turned around as we entered into the medina, and not particularly re-assured by our guide’s talk of ‘we are good people, this is a safe place, don’t be afraid’. It took nearly an hour to find the hotel, and then it was full, and so were the next two. But at least it was Ramadan, so the streets were alive with people – children, women shoping, a few tourists having a late meal.  And even in the darkness I loved the Medina, the narrow streets, the occaisional donkeys, the screaming children. Finally we found a hotel, blue, like all the other buildings in this town, and a older man greeted us with an attractive price: $12/night.  yes, that was definately in my price range!

Later, he and I sat and talked in my broken french about the changes the town had gone through. He’d been a teacher of Arabic and French. His daughter, about my age, spoke no english, but I knew that, had I stayed longer, we could have become friends; she had the same lively banter with her father that I had with mine, and was clearly strong willed, determined, intelligent, very social and loved her life.

Over the next few days, we explored the town, ate some of the best olives and tagines I would have during my trip, climbed around a river, and explored the casbah before moving, almost relentlessly, for another bus (a cheaper one this time) to Fez.

At Fez, my partner, who has worked throughout Africa and southeast asia and so is no newcomer to travel, had his wallet stolen within 10 minutes of getting off the bus. Thankfully, it was not his passport. And, oddly enough, that is where much of the real adventure began. Because he lost his wallet, we tried to find it. which led to us meeting ‘Joseph’ who led us on a wild chase around the New Town (only 800 years old) with a taxi driver who was worth his weight in saffron to find the bus, right before it left town. not surprisingly, the wallet was not on the bus. that led him to take us to his house to break the fast with his family in Fez, which was my first taste of the ‘breakfast’ and my first visit with a family, which, eventually, led us, a few hours later, being put on another bus to the Sahara, where we would go on a camel ride, where he just happened to have some friends who ran a company that took people into the desert. overnight. for a good price for a good friend who had just lost his wallet.

later, i learned the price was not so great. but that’s a different story. that 10 hour bus ride was terrible. i arrived wondering if i should do any camel riding at all. but as soon as we got out of Risani and into the ‘hotel’, I felt better – as soon as I saw the dunes rising out of the flat, gritty and rather ugly landscape, I knew I had to go there.

We spent several hours at the hotel, just looking at the dunes, before finally getting on our camels and going out there. Nothing can explain the beauty of entering the dunes, which rise slowly and then suddenly before you, like tall mountains. the camels were sweet to us, and it was less than two hours before we were at our campsite.  But those two hours transfixed us into a new world, one made of the simplest of elements: sand, air, sun, wind, a bit of water. The lines of calculus rose and fell around us, so simple. When we arrived at our camp dusk was falling, a thunder storm was brewing and a sand storm was rising. Our guide dressed me in the ‘proper’ dress of the berber, the people of that area, in a long thick woolen outer garment similar to a basic dress, worn more by men than by women. It was perfectly suited to the climate: neither the sand nor the gentle rain got through, and I  took off my shoes and climbed a small dune and watched the sand storm in the distance change the peaks of the dunes around us.

We were lucky – there were almost no other tourists around us, just a few ‘locals’ – nomadic families who’d stay in this area for a while until their goats ate what they could find (and yes, there is vegetation out there, usually at the base of the taller dunes) and they moved on. They are, all of them, strong.

Our cook was an older black man – the first black man we’d really seen. He told stories in Berber (his Arabic was limited and his French almost nonexistant), and I enjoyed listning to them, even though I could only understand a few words. He used to work in the archaeological digs, where they found the old sea creatures, small fossils they sold for small amounts of money in town. well, the big men who owned the business sold them. Hard, back backing work in the hot sun along the border, where border guards were not always friendly. It was hard to imagine wars being faught amongst these sandy lands, hard to imagine people not just falling down the dunes, much less firing a gun accurately.  But these men were strong, and tough, and told long stories, and many battles had been fought in the sands that soon wiped away much of that memory with the simple blowing of the wind.

The stars were amazing, and my partner and I lie beneith them, and watched shooting stars, until it got too windy and too cold, and then we went inside the tent, whose carpeted walls protected well against the wind, and ate the delicious chicken tagine, and slept well, and were woken early – way too early – to watch the sun rise.

Nothing can explain the sun rise over the sahara. The sand changes colors more times than you can imagine- silvers and grays and golds and pinks and tans.  I knew, then, that I will return to the dunes, and the people who live there.

We soon went back to our ‘hotel’, leaving the simplicity and the quiet and the serenity of the small sahara behind us, following a path that I could not discern. I enjoyed the camel ride.

We went that night to Marrakesh – a terrible bus ride that left me badly sick. My partner returned to San Francisco, and I stayed on in Marrakesh. There, I met a family who took me ‘in’, and showed me the baths, and taught me to make cuscus and tagines. I also went to the ocean adn galloped along the sea shore and dove into the atlantic ocean (cold) and bought spices in the souks of Marrakesh. And while I probably loved Marrakesh more than any other city, (well, I wasn’t so keen on Fez but I was only there for a few hours), and while I loved riding horseback, the best part of the trip was that camel ride through the dunes, and watching the stars, and listening to stories I didn’t understand, and hearing drumming music, at night, music with a rythm that I recognized, a rhythm from further south, below the sarhaha, where people had black skin and only sometimes spoke Arabic. It was that music, heard from within my tent, that made me feel, more than anything else that yes, indeed, I was back on the African continent.