To see what I could see

For years after seeing Casablanca for the first time, I dreamed of visiting. I’d heard enough times since then that it’s not at all that city in the movie, so I came to Casablanca only as the point of departure from Morocco. Having more realistic expectations, I found the central marketplace, where my lack of French has resulted in me getting raw oysters.

They’re not my favorite anytime, but having just passed a horsemeat stall, and a fish market, and not being sure of food standards, it seems maybe a little dicey. But several people worked together to help determine what I wanted, and so I’m going to cross my fingers.

My hotel overlooks the port, and is right next to the Casa Port train station. Train stations here are architecturally interesting, clean and very busy. Tomorrow I’ll just zip across the street, buy a ticket and ride the train directly to the airport.

This is the Marrakech train station, and the inside is just as interesting.

I am having the hardest time saying Essaouira. It’s a lot like ‘eso-warah’ but what my brain knows, my tongue cannot do. I found myself walking down a street today, saying ‘eso-warah’ ‘eso-warah’, over and over. Still, caught off guard, I stumble on it.

Tomorrow I have a 3 hour bus ride back to Marrakech, and then a train to Casablanca. Google maps has been a bit spotty here, and I really didn’t want to be lost at 6 am on dark streets, so I took a walk to the bus station today. Tomorrow I’ll follow the bread crumbs back.

Only steps from my hotel, a treasure! And then, having been shown to my room, I think I may have squealed out loud when the person opened the windows. I shall sleep tonight to the sound of the Atlantic Ocean.

Later, having taken care of some work, I ventured out in search of food. I confess I’m a little bit tired of tagine and couscous and hadn’t tried bastilla (pastilla) yet. Traditionally made with pigeon, I got mine with chicken (I hope). Surprisingly it came topped with powdered sugar and cinnamon. Not bad, but no need for a repeat either. The salad is known as Moroccan salad, and it is a lot like a salsa. I’ve been eating it daily, which may have contributed to my stomach issues early on. Or maybe it helped, who knows? Olives are served at every meal, including breakfast.

All of Morocco seems to have a heavy French influence, but it seems more marked here than in Fes or Marrakech.

Khobz is stacked in piles, carried about in wheelbarrows, and handled by who knows how many before it shows up in a basket for me and the inevitable flies at the table. None of that stops me, I just close my eyes in a virtual sense, and partake of the manna.

I’m on the bus to Essaouira this morning, with a book and the passing desert to keep me company. I had an interesting conversation yesterday with Noumin, my driver. As we neared Marrakech and the end of our time together, we came back to his prior comment that he had attended university for three years, studying law. Now he told me that need like to be a judge someday, but that it is difficult to be an honest judge in Morocco, because there is a lot of pressure about decisions, and a lot of money to be made of you make the desired ones. He said, “you get a call from a minister [governmental] about changing a decision… it is difficult to say no.”

He then talked about his friend in Florida whom he had hoped to marry and thus obtain a visa to the US. Visas are very hard to come by if you carry a passport from certain areas of the world. However she has married an Angolan, and is now not responding to his WhatsApp messages. We explored his options as he drove. When I asked about France (everyone here is fluent in French), he was quick and firm in his refusal to consider it. “They are racist against Muslims.” Based on what I’ve read, I think he’s right. I had no answers for him, but it made me thoughtful again about the accident of birth, and the scope of options that is largely determined by that. Again, no answers. I know how fortunate I am, especially as a woman, to have been born in the time and place I was. It boggles my mind that it is this way.

I’ve adopted a rollie bag now, picked up yesterday in the souk for 200 dirhams. A thing of beauty it is not.

Trying to see what I had come for, I explained during the drive to Noumin that my father had been a farmer when I was a child. I didn’t say ‘my parents’ as I knew already that he is not able to view women as being in charge. So the fields, the crops, the ways of the farmers, all of this interests me far more than, say, carpet shops. I look at dry stone walls and see a work of art. And I wondered how they make things grow in this rocky soil, but clearly they do.

I’m sitting outside on Jemaa El Fna square, in the shade and it’s about 7 pm. It’s 108 degrees but with the breeze and shade it’s only mildly awful. I am getting a bus tomorrow morning to Essaouira, which is on the coast and promises to be much cooler.

Today was supposed to be a self directed ride in the country and small towns south of Marrakech. Alas, my idea of the day did not align with that of the gentleman’s at the hotel nor my driver’s. I went where, and saw what was ordained. Which wasn’t awful, but not what I wanted. In the end I just went with it, because all things considered, it just was the best choice at the time. Like a lot of heavily touristed places, they have developed a set menu of options. My limited language skills makes it a bit harder too to clarify. Still. Here’s me, slightly disappointed.

I did enjoy the visit to a women’s coop that makes and sells argon and related products.

The almond paste and argon oil mix taste a lot like Nutella, but of course healthier. I was told this is all women owned and run. That warms the cockles of my heart.

We made a regrettable stop at a carpet shop, and a stop at a Berber ceramic shop. There I saw the hard clay, mixed with water, and thrown on the manual wheel. We walked around back in the ghastly heat to see the kiln, with a fire chamber below and holes in the clay floor to allow the heat through. I knew the expectation was that I buy something, and I did. But what I really wanted was to pick through the shards in a pile on the ground. Not sure how I’d have packed those though.

So many impressions, all ordinary and yet not. A father walking hand in hand with two teen age sons. Noumin’s description of his siblings today- echoed by me, that siblings are the true love. The way the drivers, who honk endlessly, wait patiently for a little one or an aged one with nary a beep nor show of impatience. I’m off to see what I can see in my last evening in Marrakech, and then return to my room to pack and do a little work. How can you not smile at this baby donkey?

I’d fallen out of practice at this travel thing. It feels different somehow, like things have shifted and won’t go back to the way they were.

Photos from the trip to Marrakech, and then some wandering in the souks and on the square. The square, known as Jemaa el Fnaa, is huge, but in the evenings it fills with entertainers, juice stands, vendors, and just a lot of people out eating, shopping and enjoying the slight respite from the heat. It was only 100 degrees when I walked to the square at about 9 pm. With the night fallen, and a breeze, it felt pretty ok. I never thought I’d say that!

Today is a quiet day of sorts, with some work to be done, further travel plans to organize, and a high today of 111. I didn’t leave the hotel all morning, focused on getting things done. I sat on the rooftop terrace for breakfast and work, until the heat drove me inside.

I’m off to get food and a rollie bag, such are my grand goals for the day. There’s a haze in the air, but very hot. Today is the king’s birthday, but we tourists carry on and so do the vendors. The square was busy last evening with juice stands (I got mango), cigarette vendors, performances, carriage rides, henna artists and many sellers of ordinary things. Morocco has felt remarkably safe as compared to almost any place, but here in the busy souks and square I make it a point to keep things close. I’m not sure what exactly makes me feel that need here when I didn’t elsewhere, but I’m going with it.

I didn’t look very hard for a lunch place in the hot square, but stepped into the first one that had inside seating with A/C. I was greeted in French, responded without thinking in Spanish, and then proceeded to order food in English.

One dirham is worth approximately 10 cents, which makes it easy to convert quoted prices on the fly. I’m not great at dickering, but I know I must here – or just overpay.

And here is a delight in traveling. I went for a walk near the hotel, as I am waiting for the time to leave. As I passed a doorway in what I would call an alley, a man and woman exited.

Man, in a surprised tone ‘Bonjour’

Me- Bonjour

Him in French -You are French?

Me -No. American

Him- Welcome

Me – Thank you

Him More words I don’t catch.

Me -No entiendo

Smiles and waves

Ahh, coffee with warm milk. I slept well last night and I’m a new woman this morning. I’m sitting in the courtyard of my hotel in Ouarzazate, which is our stopover on the way from the desert camp to Marrakech. There is also Moroccan mint tea, which comes with the glass stuffed full of fresh mint leaves, fresh french bread and khobz (Morrocan bread), with butter, strawberry jam or cheese to go along, boiled eggs, yogurt, and freshly squeezed orange juice.

The desert trip, as I’m referring to it now, had several stages. The process involved in shuffling everyone where they are to go is complex, with multiple tour sellers, providers, and a lot of transport, meals and other services involved. By the time you get to camp, you are far from the one who assured you of what you were paying for. For the tourist, or at least for this one, it ends up with a fair amount of waiting- sometimes at a restaurant, sometimes in a van, and sometimes by the side of the road where you seek out whatever shade is available.

It’s nearly always true about travel that even with the information available on the internet, you don’t actually know the way of things on the ground until you have experienced it. You try to pick the best hotel/restaurant/tour or whatever, but until you have been there, it’s very hard to judge, for instance, the best area of a city to stay in. It’s all personal preference aside from budget considerations anyway. So someone else’s opinion must be taken as just that.

The road from Fes took us over the Middle Atlas mountains

It was fascinating to see the sand dunes- although I have to admit we were never ‘at sea’, being always close enough that I could have walked to the road. My camel was kind and seemed well cared for, which mattered to me. If you have ever ridden on a camel, you’ll understand the sense of insecurity in the rising and sitting process. First as they gain their knees, you lurch forward so far it would be impossible to stay in your seat but for the sturdy metal ‘handle’, and then you rock back as far the other way, then one more time to get from knees to feet. And then you are aware that you will do that in reverse to dismount- in front of a fairly large audience. Or I suppose you could pay the big bucks and have a private tour, thus reducing the risk of your ignominy being posted on someone’s social media. At any rate, it is an experience worth having. I tried to call my grandsons from camel back, alas none were currently available. But I did have internet, which was a surprise that perhaps should not have been.

There was no air conditioning in the tents- which may not surprise you. However, there were air conditioning units- they just would not turn them on. It was 99 degrees outside at 10:30 pm, and warmer than that inside the tent, with no air moving. I pulled the two seat cushions in my tent outside, and borrowed one from another tent, and slept under the stars for much of the night. I use that term ‘slept’ very loosely, the cushions were narrow and lumpy, there was a fair amount of activity for a couple of hours as people came and went, and I wasn’t quite sure whether any creepy crawlies would be joining me. As they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or some such sh#$t. Already I can laugh about it.

There were six of us, plus our driver in the van once we got underway to the desert. Fernando and Arianna are from Buenos Aires, Jordi and Marla from Valencia (although Jordi explained that he is Catalan by birth and from Barcelona), and Juan is from Fairfield CA. Funny, funny world, yes? They all speak Spanish as a first language (other than Jordi, whose first was Catalan but he is fluent in Spanish), so that was the language used most. I could not follow when they spoke at a normal pace. Sometimes they reverted to English for my benefit, or it was a mixture, especially at shared meals. Juan is still in university, but had been traveling with his family in Europe. He likes solo travel and now is on his own for a bit before returning in time for school. Jordi and Marla are traveling in his van, which they had left in Fes for this jaunt. However it’s a short van trip, as both have jobs to get back to. Jordi is a chemist, and I was never quite clear what Marla does. Fernando is a public defender in BA, and it was fun to try to share our different legal systems and practices. Arianna is a psychologist who works with victims of sex crimes in the prosecutor’s office. It turns out that despite the country having a legal system more similar to, say, France, BA has its own and their process for charging and defending in criminal court is more similar to our custom.

The leaving process is the opening shuffle in reverse. I was taken to another camp to await a mysterious ride, since I was continuing on to Ouarzazate and then Marrakech, and my travel companions were not. The wait itself was not unreasonably long, the hard part was not knowing how long it would be. The choices were to sit in the hot sun with a slight breeze, or in the eating tent with shade and no breeze. For those who live here, the temperature was comfortable, so I don’t mean to make much of it. It just wasn’t comfortable for me and not knowing what would happen next, or when, definitely puts me out of my comfort zone. One of the reasons I like solo travel is the self-determination that comes with it. No such thing with a group tour, of course.

After hours of travel through seemingly arid land with rocks instead of soil, it is a feast for the eyes to come upon an oasis of green. I thought of my cousins’ date farm too as we passed through.

I find it interesting to observe the style of buildings, and the materials used. In the rocky mountains, the buildings were mostly made from the local stone, with incredible stone walls instead of fences. It was difficult to get photos as we whizzed by. In the lower areas, it appears that some kind of adobe or cob materials are used, and sometimes stucco’d or plastered as well. Then there are some buildings made from commercially produced blocks and bricks. We tried to ask our driver yesterday why all the large metal doors that front the street seem to be green. While he speaks some Spanish and a little English, it was hard to convey the question. I should mention here that the others that we were waiting for on my ride yesterday were Fernando and Arianna, who had gone to a different camp. In Fes, the presenting language used with tourists is French, but here Spanish seems to be the default.

We are off to Marrakech today, with a couple of stops along the way, no doubt. Then I shall sit still for a couple of days, do some laundry and work, and wander the streets for food at various intervals. I made a hotel reservation two days ago for a place there that seems to be nice and well located (but see above about that!) I’m not sure yet what I will do with my remaining time in Morocco, and I’m glad to leave it that way for the moment. I keep hearing how wonderful Chefchaouen is, and so I may take a train ride north again. Or I may not. There are several places south of Marrakech that I want to see. Were I a beach person, I would go to Agadir. For now, my only goal is Marrakech.

I’m off to the desert tomorrow- specifically the Sahara, which covers 3.5 million square miles, or about 1/10 of the African continent. Of course, I’m barely going to stick a toe in.

I started the day feeling a bit wrung out from lack of sleep, but knowing it was my last day here in Fes, I went forth anyway. Because the place I’m staying is in the souks itself, going anyplace means twists and turns on pedestrian paths running through, under and into the maze of buildings. There is no grid layout in play here, which means that there are surprises at nearly every turn. It also means you get lost a lot. I mapped out a path to one of the tanneries, and while Google Maps does struggle, especially when you sometimes are essentially traversing a tunnel- it usually came sort of right after some thought. Once you get close to the tanneries, the smell confirms it. But you still have to pick the right way, and there was no shortage of would-be guides hoping to misdirect you into a shop. I got lucky and arrived about the time a small tour was arriving, so I followed them at a discreet distance until it was clear where to go.

While the scene is striking and the colors eye-catching, I cannot imagine climbing around inside those vats as the workers were doing.

In the course of my wanderings, I came across more donkeys, of course.

Fes is home to what is reported to be the oldest university in the world. What’s more it was established and originally endowed by a woman. I really wanted to see it but one must be Muslim to enter it these days- almost any mosque, madrassa or other holy place in all of Morocco is simply off limits. I’ve peeked discreetly as I pass by mosques tucked in everywhere, but that is the extent of it. There are so many mosques that when the call to prayer starts, each starts just a second or two off from the others, and it quickly becomes a cacophony. It’s particularly notable at the first call to prayer when one is still asleep. This afternoon as I passed through the souks, I heard the call and shortly after saw a man with a vegetable stall who had knelt on a sack of sorts as his prayer rug, and was going about his prayers oblivious to us all.