Morocco

September 9, 2011

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      Feel free to read this post in steps or when you have a lot of time because, well, it’s really long. Sorry.

Land ho! Welcome to Morocco, the boarder land between Europe and North Africa. Who knew such different cultures like the French and the Middle East could create such an effective and exciting hybrid. Our boat pulled into port around 8am and I had no time to appreciate being on land before I was shuffled directly off the ship and onto a bus. We then proceeded to drive three hours up to Marrakech. I spent the time chatting to my brand new friend Tory and looking out the window trying to absorb as much Morocco as I could. We passed big cities, building projects, and wide open farm land full of sheep. On the one hand it was hard for me to see all the trash and plastic bags caught in the brambles across every farm, but at the same time these people used cactus fences. All they have to do is cut off a leaf, bury it, water it, and when it grows they have an instant and free new fence. It’s such a simple and useful idea that I’m a little shocked I’ve never heard of anyone doing it before!  

The bus stopped about twenty minutes outside of Marrakech and we again were shuffled right from one form of transportation to another.  I got off the bus and onto a camel! Camels are smelly, stubborn, and wonderful creatures. They’re legs are about twice as long as they should be and when they lie down their legs fold up about three times directly under them in an awkward display of ‘that can’t be comfortable’. Once we all got onto our camels and started walking, the animal right behind me immediately started chewing on my pants. Maybe it was more of a light nibble than a chew, but my leg had saliva all over it so I think I officially get to say I was spit on by a camel.  Our guide was young and looked quiet and stern at first, but once he discovered that a couple people in our group spoke broken French he kept on running up and down the camel line telling us the names of our camels and singing Black Eyed Peas songs. “My Humps” seemed to be one of his personal favorites. I asked him how to say hello in Arabic and he yelled, “SHALAM! Morning, noon, and night, shalam, shalam, shalam.” He said it so many times that I think it’s the only Arabic word I was consistently able to remember. About half way through our camel ride, Tory’s camel got antsy and decided to break away from the group. Mine was right behind her’s and adopted the same rebellious notions. Our two camels started to run off into the desert. You know how I was taking about their awkwardness?  Well running camels shouldn’t head for ditches, which both of ours did, and they tripped while Tory and I were along for the ride with white knuckles death gripping our saddles. When the animals stood up, a bunch of little kids who’d been playing nearby saw us and started running at our camels and shouting in Arabic with rocks in their hands, urging them on. Luckily the creatures didn’t pay any attention and started eating the tree in front of them so our guide retrieved us and lead us back to the group. Speaking of eating, Moroccan’s and I definitely speak the same language on one front…FOOD! The food was delicious; everything I ate was colorful and packed with flavor. I did feel a bit left out of the French pastry course L but I was able to eat almost everything in the five other courses so I can’t complain too much. Just like in France, Moroccans like to take hours for each meal. The last course is always a traditional mint tea which I was obsessed with. I think I had at least two glasses every day and I bought some to bring home, you won’t understand until you try it. It’s mixed with green tea which also means it has caffeine, an added and much appreciated bonus.

After we got off our camels alive, we headed into the heart of Marrakech and checked into our hotel.  All of the buildings in Marrakech are pink which makes even the dirty parts of the city look quaint. He had dinner and got settled in and a group of us set out to find a hooka bar. I realize smoking is very bad for me and so on, but what could be more Moroccan than hookas? They sell them about every three shops and most of them are as tall as I am. We asked the woman at the hotel’s front desk where the nearest one was and she had no idea what we were talking about. We kept on trying to outline a hooka shape and act like we werere smoking but I’m pretty sure she just thought we were crazy. Eventually a man nearby saw us and asked “sheesha?” We all got very excited and jumped up and down and nodded vigorously. The woman at the front desk did not look impressed.

We got directions, and on our way to the hooka bar we passed a wedding with two men, covered in bright beaded clothing, sitting on horses and armed with shot guns at the door. Inside was a whirl of colors and music and everyone was in their formal dress. I officially decided that I want armed guards on horses at the gates of my wedding too! Write that one down Mom. The hooka bar was great because it was obviously a local place. People sat around tables in twos and threes and sipped on their hookas like it was dessert while watching bad documentaries on Arabic pop stars. We also ordered cocktails to go with our sheesha and I’m not quite sure if cocktail meant a mixture of juices or if it was an alcoholic beverage. None of us could tell…one of those unsolved mysteries. Whatever we were drinking, it tasted great!

                                                  Our awesome guide

On the morning of day two we were up bright and early and taken on a tour of tombs, palaces, and mosques around Marrakech.  It is outlawed for non-Muslims to enter the mosques in Morocco because, during the French occupation, the French would get drunk, enter the mosques, and cause general chaos such as urination and thumb biting. How rude. We DID get to see the inside of the tombs and palaces however. They were beautiful and covered in mosaics and carvings. Islam forbids trying to copy God’s work (aka drawing pictures of humans and animals) so everything was entirely decorated with flowers, patterns, and Arabic poetry carved into the walls. My favorite room in the palace was the wives’ room. It has
Posing in the wives' room


always 
been the law in Morocco that you can have no more than four wives. They all have to have an equal amount of space and belongings and none of them can get preferential treatment. If the king brings one wife a ring, he must bring the other three a ring as well. If the king sleeps with one woman well…I hope he has a lot of energy. If any of the women felt that they were not receiving equal treatment they could report it to their sponsor and get a divorce. Now-a-days polygamy is still technically legal but it can only be done with the wives’ permission (imagine that) and is rarely ever done. That afternoon we were taken to a natural healing store where they described to us the healing qualities of several plants and spices and demonstrated how they made certain things. They had oils for warding off mosquitoes, lipstick made from poppy seeds, anti-wrinkle lotions, and aphrodisiac teas.  I guess that explains how the king could keep up with his responsibilities. They also served us mint tea, which I needed because it has caffeine and I was running on four hours of sleep. I almost forgot! I had so little sleep because the walls of the hotel were very thin and I could hear everything. I kept on thinking the girl I was rooming with was about to come in but she didn’t get back to the hotel until 4am where she proceeded to drop things, stumble, and possibly fall in the shower from the sound of it. When she actually got into bed she kept on rolling around furiously and making loud sighing noises that occasionally sounded like gagging. I kept on asking her if she was okay and she’d sit bolt upright and ask “Are you okay?” Yes, I was fine, just really freaking tired. Oh the joys of living with strangers.

In the afternoon we went to the market and everything was completely overwhelming. Depending on what block I was standing on, I was either intoxicated with delicious smells of saffron or lavender, or gagging from the smell of urine. It was impossible for me to look at anything without someone running up to me and naming a price. People would grab my arm and drag me into their stores, and if I ignored them when they spoke to me they would try saying the same think in about five other languages. The shops went on in an endless maze of person after person trying to grab my attention and demanding I look at what they had to sell. By the end of the day I was so exhausted and over stimulated that anyone approaching me got a death glare, friends included. On the plus side, I got to bargain for the first time! Everyone was nervous about bargaining but I thought it was fun. It’s part of the culture. They suggest something ridiculously high and you say something ridiculously low and you keep going until you meet in the middle and both leave happy. The main square was full of juice vendors, snake charmers, and men with monkeys. My friend Michael got persuaded into taking a picture with one of the monkeys and when it climbed onto his shoulders, another man noticed and came over and put HIS monkey on Michael’s arm. Michael was uncomfortable and couldn’t move when the second monkey started peeing off of him. He then had to pay the monkey men like two dollars for the picture. It was hilarious to watch from a distance and I think he likes the story he now gets to tell but he didn’t look so happy at the time.  After the monkey picture we all needed to sit down so we went to a café and I ordered mint tea and ice cream. Sanity was partially regained. That night, a lot of people were going out to Posha, the biggest night club in Africa, but the cover charge was pretty outrageous so a couple other people and I hung out at the hotel bar and chatted by the pool. The bar was dark and a band played live, traditional Moroccan music while a lot of stern looking men hung around and didn’t talk to each other. Moroccan people all look so serious all the time, but when you talk to them they are extremely helpful and friendly. This leads me to my favorite story of the trip which I will tell soon.

We left Marrakech early the next morning and got into Casablanca around noon. Casablanca is a big city with an entirely different vibe to it than Marrakech. It feels a lot like any big city really, only slightly poorer.  We spent the afternoon searching for Rick’s Café (from the movie Casablanca if you haven’t seen it) and walking our way over to the Hassan II Masque which happens to be the third largest mosque in the world. It was beautiful and huge and we got to hear them announce the call to prayer through megaphones out of the uppermost windows. the sound was very powerful and traveled for miles. I don’t know if this is true for all mosques, but one of the ones we saw didn’t have any stairs, only ramps. This was for the benefit of the old men who lead call to prayer. Ramps allowed them to ride donkeys all the way to the top of the buildings where their voices would carry the most.

                                                      Hassan II mosque

That evening we were done being tourists and wanted to be Americans so we went on a mission for an internet café. Here’s my favorite story:

We were lost and as far as we could tell, street signs didn’t exist in Casablanca. Eventually we passed a sign that said something about ‘tourista’ and asked the man standing in front of the building if he knew where we should go. Every one of us spoke English and Spanish which did us absolutely no good. We listened to his Arabic-French as closely as possible and followed his pointing fingers as best we could. These directions, not so surprisingly, lead us to a sketchy bar and a dead end. We sighed and turned around and walked back to the road where, all of the sudden, two mopeds pulled to a stop in front of us and the men started talking to us in Arabic while motioning a police officer over.

We thought we might have done something terribly wrong and were getting arrested until one of the men on the mopeds managed to communicate that he’d overheard we were lost. A man in a Maui shirt walked passed and they immediately called him over in hopes he spoke English. We now had four men and a police officer all trying to help us find an internet café. The Maui shirted man looked like he understood where we wanted to go and told the moped men how to get there in rapid Arabic. The police officer then pointed to the two men and said, “private protectors.” We nodded and followed as they pulled their bikes into moving traffic and stopped it for us so that we could pass safely. We all were very grateful, the honking cars stopped in the middle of the road felt otherwise. One man then road right ahead of us, leading the way, and the other road behind our walking group and kept an eye on us. These men stuck with us for the fifteen minute walk to our destination, where we found yet another sketchy bar. We all started laughing. They had taken the time to stop traffic for us and escort us all the way to the wrong place. We thanked them profusely anyways and when we trying to tip them they refused. I have never had anyone in the United States try to be that helpful when I was lost, and let’s face it, I get lost a lot. We didn’t find the internet but we DID find a restaurant next door with rotisserie chickens cooking right on the sidewalk. We sat down and ate a delicious meal of chicken, rice, olives, and French fries for about $3 each.

Our last day was very mellow. We slept in a little and then went out and looked around the shops. It was just me, Tory, and two other girls so we didn’t have any male body guards but I was surprised by how comfortable it was. We definitely got some cat calls but they were in another language so we had no way of being offended by anything. Honestly, the French men are much worse. I remember having to sprint away from a man in Paris who proposed and insisted that he loved me. We then ate a famous two hour lunch, finishing it with mint tea of course, and found a hotel with a bar and wifi. The four of us split a bottle of wine and checked back in with the rest of the world…and then it was time to get back to the ship! Basically Morocco was surprising and incredible, at least for me. Apparently four students have elected to go home and three have already gotten kicked off the boat! We’re dropping like flies. Oops, I shouldn’t have said anything; I might get busted by the rumor ranger. Seriously, they have a rumor ranger. Now we’re back on the water and headed for Ghana – the saga continues.  

P.S. I’d love to hear from all my friends back home! Shoot me an e-mail at kmwelsh@semesteratsea.net