Marrakech, Morocco: A great place to leave

That sounds a bit harsh so let me first clarify. Marrakech is most often used as a jump-off point to various Moroccan excursions- the beach, the waterfalls, the mountains, or camel trips into the desert. As such, the city is full of tourists either on the way in or out of some North African adventure. And because of the tourism and the general commerce as the country's largest southernmost city, the denizens have used the influx of money to attempt to drag the city out of the 9th century. So what you have is a more cosmopolitan, less pedestrian friendly, slightly less labyrinthy version of Fes but with all the necessary modern accoutrements of a metropolis such as a proper train station complete with a McDonald's. But Marrakesh is cosmopolitan in the way Cairo is cosmopolitan, which is to say: it's not. That said, the ride in on the train it definitely feels more like what I expected out of Morocco.

The city itself isn't hateable, I just wouldn't ever advise going there unless you are using it as an aforementioned excursion jump-off point. It's still laybrinthy enough to be confusing, there are motorcycles everywhere on the pedestrian streets kicking dust and gas fumes in your face (if you're lucky enough not to be hit by them), the people harass the shit out of you to buy stuff, and it's expensive comparatively with the rest of the cities I visited in Morocco. For example, beef couscous was 70 dirham at a very unassuming looking place. It would have been 35-40 in Chefchaouen. And then the guy had the balls to demand a tip. Just because I'm not Moroccan we throw customs out the window? Come on Mustafa. Seriously though, that was his name, no raciso. In his defense the terrace had a nice view of the setting sun.

In any event there isn't much to see in the city proper. A few palaces and the Jewish quarter. Lots of shops. No places except foreign restaurants and hotels to get a beer. Bleh. I miss tapas. Anyway, one good thing is that you'll never get lost in Marrakech as every third Moroccan will, unsolicited, come up to you and say "main square, that way!" and point you toward the main square. Granted, the main square is nice but I think most Marrkechians would have all tourists roaming ceaseless laps around the square buying an infeasible amount of oranges.

I actually set out from the hostel specifically to get lost in Marrakech. After my inability to navigate anywhere in Essaouira I wanted to truly get lost and then have to find my way back. But damnit if the Marrakechians were there to foil me at every turn. At one point a guy came up to me and said the customary "main square, that way." And I replied that I didn't care and was just out walking. Then he says "tannery, you know, goat, camel, sheep, leather- that way." We were at a three-way fork in the road. He had described two of the paths. So I started down the third. And he said "no. nothing that way. Sahara that way." To which I naturally replied, "perfect. shukran (thank you)." and proceeded toward the desert. He stood there mumbling what I could only assume was something along the lines of "stupid f'king tourists!" It wasn't a complete loss though, I did find a great place to primp my coiffiture!

But yea, not much to see overall. I liked what (another) Mustafa indicated was the kasbah. I didn't have the time or patience to verify after he (like everyone else there) tried to shake me down for some cash. But I did snap this picture which I'm awfully fond of.

The last thing I'll leave you with is a photo of an interesting phenomenon across Morocco. During election season, there are so many parties and also I think the illiteracy rate is quite high, so the government goes around to main avenues and spray paints boxes with a designated number and a picture of the party that will correspond to the number on the ballot. That way people who want to vote for the party designated by a pair of sunglasses only needs to locate the number of said sunglasses on the wall and then cast their vote accordingly. It's actually quite an ingenious system to combat the illiteracy. Although, I'm not sure it quite does anything for the problem of voters not being educated about who they are voting for...

So, yea. Marrakech. A great place to leave. Which is precisely what I did the next morning aboard the Marrakech Express. Next stop, Casablanca. Wow, lots to say about this place before I even step off the train. But you, dear reader, will just have to wait until the next entry... whenever that shall be.

Essaouira, Morroco: Too good for consonants

No, I haven't died. I've just spent the past 5 days bumming around the Moroccan beach town of Essaouira, a town thankfully easier to pronounce than spell. I'll dive into some further details but first, here is a brief summary of a typical day in Essaouira: wake up (always a good start), coffee on rooftop terrace, follow friends to the beach (as I never figured out how to get out of the medina), eliminate capability for children by diving into the icy Atlantic water, regain bodily functions laying in the sun, proceed to "Mexican" restaurant for food, proceed to "bottler" to acquire booze, retire to roof top terrace to consume booze with the notable exception of the mandatory excursion for meat-pocket sandwiches.

Tough life. In seriousness, as my last day in Essaouira approached I had to strongly fight the urge to cancel the remainder of my travel "plans" for stint one and simply continue to exist in this wonderful place. It's warm, sunny, cheap, the people are fantastic, and as I mentioned there is a place to locate beer. I mean, that's pretty much all I need in life. And of course the meat-pocket sandwiches.

When I arrived in Essaouira after my 7 hour train ride and 3 hour bus ride I was, as you might imagine, a bit strung out. Especially since it had been a rough morning in the wake of the prior night's rounds of kings cup and f the dealer. I swear I've played more drinking games on this trip than in all of college. Anyway, when I walked into the hostel who did I immediately see but my friend Andrea from Madrid! And she had a whole crew, and they were heading out for food! Perfect!

As Morocco was once controlled by France not only do they speak French but you can easily find random French cuisine intermingled with the traditional Moroccan fare. Great examples are solid coffee, baguettes, and crepes, the latter of which the girls were seeking. I went with the typical meat-pocket sandwich which I essentially stole for 20 dirham (about 1.90 euro). When we got back to the hostel I checked out my bedding accommodations only to discover:

BOOM. Spongebob Squarepants bedsheets. Watch out ladies, I'm now basically irresistible. And apparently the (human) ladies of the hostel aren't the only ones to watch out for the enticing nature of the Spongebob bedsheets; when I awoke at 3am I discovered I had a bed companion- the hostel cat. Despite a brief argument over which side of the bed who was occupying, she nestled in next to me for the rest of the night. Just as an aside, there are an absurd amount of stray cats in Morocco. For the past week I had been wondering why I couldn't kick my runny nose then Andrea (I'm so stupid I can't even claim credit for the realization here) brought up that maybe I'm mildly allergic to cats. Well shit, I had totally forgotten. 

The next morning after saying goodbye to my feline friend, I proceeded upstairs for my morning coffee by Magic our hostel host. Magic is great- I think he probably only sleeps 3 hours a night and is consistently um... happy... from the local herbal industry. But he's always around if you need him and proved to be the savior Friday night with his stash of beer when we discovered, to our collective horror, that the booze shop was closed. 

Anyway enough about Magic and booze, let's talk about Essaouira. Friday morning Andrea, Jack and Sarah from Newcastle, and I went off in search of the fabled Jimi Hendrix Cafe. Allegedly the story is that he was inspired to write Castle Made of Sand while in Essaouira. In reality I think he didn't visit Essaouira until something like two years after the song was written. Anyway, we went looking for the cafe he ate at, only we missed the turn off and ended up on the main highway back to Marrakech. Crap! But we could see the little town where the cafe was located over the tree line. So, as any thirsty adventure seeking travelers would do, we cut through the bush in an attempt to get to the city.

The only problem was that there were many problems. First, we encountered what I believe (Jack and Sarah disagreed) to be a pot farm which was guarded by a pack of "vicious" dogs. The only one I could see looked like a dachshund but to be fair there were several other barks and growls emanating from the bushes. My solution was to grab sticks and press forward but I was outvoted and so we made our way around the encampment by way of a ridge littered with thorn bushes. 

We finally emerged and were then required to cross a stagnant river off-shooting from the sea next to a jackleg rubbish dump. We all made it across the rock path safely except Andrea whose foot touched the water. I commented that she likely had just contracted hep C. 

But no worry because we were on our way to the cafe proper! After passing through the dump, we took a right and low and behold there it was. We scuttled in and to our delight they served beer. As we relaxed and digested our food, beer, and adventure, we were greeted with another surprise, two donkeys engaged in a mating ritual. Frankly it looked more like a brawl than an intimate affair; the female's move of choice was to bash the male in the face with her hind legs until he would lose interest and begin to walk away. Then she would follow closely behind him until he again took notice, then back to the face bashing. I commented that she must be Spanish.

We then proceeded back to the hostel to waste away the evening. As described above, Magic saved our night and revelry and nonsense later it was morning. Day 2 brought about the first stationary trip to the beach. We also made the customary stop by the "Mexican" cafe, run by a British woman that features exactly zero Mexican products unless you consider chili con carne distinctly Mexican. They do have great cakes and a substantial burger. The beach was a beach- lots of sand and sun but the coldest water I've ever swam in apart from Deep Creek, MD. Seriously, what the hell Morocco?? I've been pining for a swim for a month and all I've got to show for it is a voice that's now three octaves higher. Bollocks!

That afternoon we walked by the ramparts and the fish market where I was suddenly struck with an immense sensation of horror and demanded to leave. Andrea and I then sunned ourselves by the rocks and breakers and then it was time to resume the nightly ritual of bottler, terrace, meat-pocket sandwich, terrace, bed. Oh, and I tried a Moroccan pizza which was awesome because the slices were so tiny I felt even more like a giant than I normally do in this country.

The third full day found us pretty much out of activities. We went to the beach, went to the bottler, and then Andrea and I said b.s. to any further activities and retired to the hammocks. OH! I forgot to mention the hammocks! Shame on me. Not only does the hostel have 2 wonderful hammocks (open to the sky) to relax away the troubles of the day, but you can also book them as a bed at night for 4 euro! How awesome is that? The best part is that there is a window right next to my bed that looks out on the hammocks- the perfect escape route to relaxation. 

The rest of my (sadly) last night in Essaouira was spent (as usual) on the terrace. Since most of our friends had departed, Andrea and I watched this British show called Black Books which was hilarious. I can't wait to see the rest of the episodes. As the sun went down over Essaouira I was stuck with an immense compulsion to extend my stay there indefinitely. Alas, this trip is about traveling and seeing the world as a nomad, not bedding down in one place; even if there is sun, sand, beer, and Spongebob sheets. In the morning, with the assistance of Andrea to find the station, I begrudgingly took my bus to Marrakech.

Thoughts from the Marrakesh Express

Well I’ve officially been traveling for four weeks as of today. In one way it seems like the time has flown by but I also feel like I’ve been traveling for years. Prolonged time on the road has a tendency to do that I suppose.

Anyway, the 8+ hour train ride from Fes to Marrakesh provided me with an excellent opportunity to do something I often forget I’m capable of: thinking. Since I have the time to kill it seems appropriate to jot (or I guess type) some recent ruminations bouncing around in the old noggin. I'm still a little leery of and anxious about posting my thoughts on myself for the world to see, but if I'm trying to give you, dear reader, a real picture of what's going on with me on this trip I suppose it's just as important if not more so than how rainy it is or how many beers I threw down. Anyway, this is just honestly what I was thinking about- hopefully it won't sound too conceited.

On the bus ride from Chefchaouen I wrote the following:

“It just occurred to me. How do you tell something like this to your friends and family in a way that they could fully understand? How do you explain what it was like or all the things you saw on a trip like this? How things changed you or moved you to laughter or tears? How you found out so much about yourself and then discovered how far you still have left to go?

I’m not sure you ever really can. This type of journey, it’s something that only the person taking it will ever truly understand, ever fully grasp the scope of. People that you meet along the way, those that travel with you, they’ll have some idea- but their journey is separate and unique too. And no one will ever fully understand their experiences in the way they won’t understand yours.

Thus it’s something intensely personal to the one who experienced it. It must be similar to the feelings of soldiers returning from war. There is no way for them to truly convey what it was like, what they did and what they saw, how it changed and affected them. The context, that experience just cannot be fully conveyed.

So for me, I think it will to a great extent always be a special secret. A unique treasure that only I will have access to. The same as any traveler has on their journey, no two alike. It makes me both sad and excited that the extent of this experience is inherent only to myself. And like the soldiers, this for me is a bit of a war; but my war is a spiritual, emotional, and intellectual war. An internal war. A war of myself and my journey in life. Only I will ever understand it because only I will have lived it.”

Today, as part of my journey/war/extended holiday/whatever you want to call it, I thought about one of my greatest fears: the fear of abandonment. Historically I haven’t been afraid of much. I’m not scared of snakes or spiders or sharks (although I find all of them creepy). I’m not afraid of ghosts or monsters or other such gobbelty-gook. I’m not afraid of vaguely menacing deities. I’m not afraid of death. But one fear that has permeated from somewhere deep in my subconscious is a fear of abandonment. The fear of being left behind- of someone, something, life in general- moving on without me.

It’s funny because until relatively recently I had never really noticed it, or at least never thought about it. But it has been ever prevalent, affecting my life for better or worse in countless ways, some trivial some profound. For example, I’ve (knock on wood) never missed a flight. The inconvenience and cost notwithstanding, I just hate the idea of being left behind. Similarly, I’ve struggled in situations where I feel I may one day be the one getting left behind: relationships, friendships, jobs, etc.  To compensate for the fear, my natural reaction is to be the one to abandon first. If I bail first, I won’t get that sinking feeling of loss, failure, etc.

While I understand the fear and its effect on me, I’ve never attempted to confront it. And because it’s a deep rooted psychological fear, I can’t, as Stella says, just use logic to figure out a solution (i.e. make myself suddenly no longer care) and be done. I need to find my way to the root cause, confront that, and find a way to work past it.

I’m not sure exactly what that root cause is, but I’m almost certain it stems from or is related to my general dissatisfaction with myself. Something that was born and raised into me. I’ve always wanted and needed to be better. Better grades, better at sports, better at everything. I’ve never been at peace or satisfied with myself or my life. Somewhere in there, in that development process is the reason for my fear of abandonment. That because somehow I’m not as good as I should be, I will thereby be swept aside.

So it’s this way of thinking about things and myself that I’m working on as I travel. And traveling and meeting new people has provided me an excellent outlet for working through these thoughts/feelings. When I was in Madrid and befriending all these new people, it was devastating when I had to say goodbye to new pals departing before me. But as I’ve kept traveling I’m learning to be able to enjoy the interactions and time together without triggering the negative emotions that would usually accompany the terminus of such time.

It’s still a work in process but I’m finally coming to appreciate things more for what they are and simply enjoy the experience. Stop wanting things my way, stop trying to control everything. As Stella would say, adopt a passive stance and let things come to me. Stop worrying about the endgame and just focus on the now.

Fes, Morocco: I'll give you friend price

On the way to join Vera in Cadiz I met a guy named Yuiry in the Sevilla bus station bathroom. Odd place to meet someone notwithstanding, I found out he was on his way to Morocco as well. We exchanged information in the hopes of joining forces at some point in Morocco. It never actually worked out as Vera, Laura and I were in Chefchaouen and he went on to Fes and was planning to go back to Tangier the day we were heading to Fes. So it seemed  reunion wasn't meant to be. But by Jupiter if we didn’t run into him in the bus station in Fes anyway! 

Talking about what Fes was like, his description for the medina was, “it’s crazy, it’s just like New York City but in like 800 AD.” Honestly, I couldn’t have said it better myself. When you step into the Fes medina, the largest pedestrian area in the world, hold on to your hat (and wallet) as you are traveling back in time. The medina itself is a labyrinth of narrow streets impossibly lined with shop after shop selling virtually everything you could possibly imagine. As I walked past stall after stall in a bit of sensory overload I couldn’t stop thinking of the line from Cowboy Bebop where Spike asks Rashid if he knows where he can find a bean shop and Rashid replies “And why not? You can find anything on Moroccan streets.”

The night we arrived we met a Californian named Adrian who offered to show us a good place to eat. One thing to beware of in Fes- when you enter the medina you enter as a mark. Nearly everyone in there is trying to get money from you in one way or another. Some work the shops, some try to get you to eat at their restaurant, some offer to guide you and then extort you (we’ll get to that later), and most commonly there are a host of kids who will try to lead you to their parents’ restaurant/tannery/store/etc with the expectation of a tip for their services.

We were trying to get to the Blue Gate where some of the better restaurants in the medina are located and somehow acquired an impromptu young guide who directed us not to the gate but to his family restaurant. Then, after we declined of course, he demanded a tip (in euros!) for his “services.” Just something to be aware of and expect when you visit Fes; not that it should prevent you from coming by any means. We eventually did find the Blue Gate and I finally got to try the Moroccan soup (harira), which may be my new favorite soup. I also had a kafta (meatball) and egg tagine which was similarly outstanding. Fully rested, the next morning we were ready to hit the medina in full force, but not before soaking in some great views from the terrace at the Funky Fes hostel.

Wandering through the medina we came across a man who offered to guide us to a tannery he worked for, stunningly at no cost. The tanneries are a very big part of the Fes medina and are a must visit if you find yourself there. The basic process is that the hair is shaved off the cow/goat/sheep/camel skin and the skin is then soaked in this tub of pigeon shit for hours or days depending on the material. Then, the skin is washed and soaked in the dying vats (by people using their feet) to absorb the color and ultimately washed and hung to dry. Then there are various other processes to smooth the leather before ultimately being used to make anything from jackets to wallets to bags.

As you may imagine the process is a bit odorous but most of the tanneries are nice enough to give you a fresh spring of mint to keep under your nose. That being said, it looked like a tremendously difficult and tiring job and one I’m very thankful not to have. Next we visited a carpet making shop where they displayed the great variety of Moroccan carpet (in styles, complexities, and of course prices).

For lunch Adrian and I stopped into this literal hole in the wall where a guy was grilling up some form of meat and serving it in a bread pocket. Hell yes, I’ll take one of those! It was actually outstanding and I’m hoping I can track some more of these grilled meat pockets down before I leave Morocco.

We wandered the medina a bit more before coming across another man offering us a free tour. Only this time, we were not so lucky to avoid the demand for a ridiculous fee. Our “guide” took us to another tannery by way of what could only be described as a scrap yard. After viewing our second tannery of the day he took us up to a hill behind the scrap yard where we could hike to the old city wall and take some great photos of the city.

On the way back out through the junkyard, however, it was time for the shakedown. We were suddenly introduced to a new man deemed the “guardian” who informed us we needed to pay him 50 dirhams each to leave the scrap yard. My first instinct was to tell him to “fuck off” and start walking the opposite direction. I was bigger than both of them, fairly fast, and carrying a knife- I figured if push came to shove I could take them. Thankfully, Adrian’s cooler head prevailed and he negotiated a 60 dirham total fee for the “guardian” to be paid by the “guide.” Once we were safely out of the scrap yard, Adrian gave the “guide” an earful and we declined to give him more than what he had fronted for us. Feeling slighted we made our way back up toward the Blue Gate again passing by a number of shops.

At the gate we discussed our misadventure over coffee and then decided to take a taxi back to the hostel, our medina excursion complete. It was resoundingly decided that apart from dinner what the group needed most at this point was a drink. Well ladies and gents, Mike Steele to the rescue. Providing my sole contribution to the collective Morocco planning effort, I tracked down where we could buy some booze in Fes. Pro tip: if you’re in Morocco you can usually find it in French/international restaurants or tourist hotels and there are also shops that sell it but you have to negotiate your way out of the medina.

After eating at likely the sketchiest restaurant in Fes (the guy didn’t have half the menu available and had to run to other stores to procure most of what we ordered), we found the liquor store and absconded back to the hostel with our glorious bounty. The rest of the night was spent playing card games on the terrace and secretly drinking our booze as it is technically illegal to drink in public and was heavily frowned on by the hostel.

At the end of the night it was time to say goodbye to two great travel companions Vera and Laura and a new friend in Adrian. Thanks for the great time guys- you will be missed! The next day called for an early train and long journey to Essouira to join a friend from Madrid by the beach. Score one for sun, sand, and surf (I hope)!

Bonus photo: butcher shop displaying the whole head of a camel.

Chefchaouen, Morocco: Funky Cold Medina

We got into Chefchaouen (and yes it took me our entire time there to learn how to pronounce it) around 7pm. The bus "station" is at the far end of the town and down the hill so it was quite a bit of a hike up to the medina (city center). We didn't have a place booked and it was raining so we hoped to locate lodging rather quickly. After a confusing climb through winding uphill streets we found the place we had heard of but they were tragically completo (fully booked). Walking back toward the center one of the locals swooped in offering to guide us around if we would consider buying hashish from him. Since we had no idea where to go I told him I would consider it. 

He led us around to a number of places and finally we were able to find one, Hostel Andaluz, that had a nice room upstairs with our "own" terrace overlooking the city. Cost was 60 dirhams each per night (about 5.50 euro). Other than the cold at night, it was a delightful place to stay and the man owning it was incredibly kind. 

Before we finished fully checking in, Mohammad our impromptu guide asked that I follow him. I informed him that I was really not interested in hashish but if he knew where we could score some beer/wine/vodka that would be fantastic. He led me on what turned out to be a 30 minute wild goose chase around the city trying to locate the one woman who apparently sells alcohol in Chefchaouen. I must say I felt a bit like Raoul Duke in Fear and Loathing running around town attempting to build a collection. Finally he took me back to the hostel (sans alcohol) and the girls and I set out for some hot food and the infamous mint tea (boiling sugar water steeped in mint, Pittsburghers think Tom Tucker without the carbonation).

In the morning it was raining (as usual) but we soldiered on and hiked to this abandoned mosque on the top of a hill where we could get a great view of Chefchaouen. As you may have already noticed, Chefchaouen is famous for its blue painted houses. Wandering through the streets after our hike provided some great shots including one I nabbed of some goats being herded up stairs. 

As we were a bit hungry, we stopped into this restaurant which we came to discover was owned by a transplanted Italian man who called himself Gi-gi. He said he generally splits his time between India and Chefchaouen. His restaurant was decorated by dozens of paintings and drawings (including all of the menus) that he had made himself. He invited us to sit with him and have a smoke from his pipe which looked like a massive cigar. 

After hanging with Gi-gi and chatting about various topics, the zeitgiest of which being the oppression of women in all major religions and "fucking bastards" in general, we made our way back to the hostel for a rest. An hour or so later the girls emerged declaring they had decided on a solution to pass the day: locating a place to drink. Well ladies, you've come to the right man. So we set out again, this time in search of booze, and happened upon a western-style hotel that had *gasp* a bar! The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking Special Flag beer or cheap (but not inexpensive) gin and playing the Yugoslav drinking game. For dinner we ate on the top floor of a restaurant where we were invited to share shisha with a group of Moroccan guys. The food was good, view was fantastic. An aside, I found it very ironic that there was a giant Johnnie Walker banner used as a tarp in a city where scoring alcohol is nearly impossible.

In the morning, the first of May, we awoke to a new sensation- sunlight and warmth! And as we emerged from our dreary April-evening hibernation, we were greeted to a cacophony of singing from the villagers high up on the hill. The songs of the festival drifted down, mingling with the lingering smell of smoke from fires long since burnt, lending a feeling of ritualistic emergence to the morning. Like a butterfly springing forth from a chrysalis, we were reborn from the  days of cold and rain in the morning sun. The view, no, the atmosphere was fantastic. Indescribable unless you were one of us lucky three to witness it.

And with the sun comes of course the opportunity to absorb it and metabolize some vitamin D. Moroccan Mike bonus photo: tickets to the gun show ladies? It should be noted my hair was three days unwashed. Morocco, yes.

Tangier & Tetouan, Morocco: In Transit

We booked passage on the noon ferry bound for Tangier. In my mind taking the ferry from Spain into Morocco seemed so exotic and daring. Truth be told, it was confusing and expensive. Thirty-five euro for an hour voyage seems a bit high. I don’t think all of the transportation throughout my entire stay in Morocco will total 35 euro. The ship was very nice but the directions from the staff were very poor. For example, no one told us we needed to clear customs and get our passports stamped ON the ship prior to landing (an omission that would prove problematic).

Despite its docile appearance from the coastline of Tarifa the night before, it should also be noted that the sea between Tarifa and Tangier is pretty rough. We weren’t 15 minutes into the voyage before the first people starting throwing up. By the end, nearly everywhere you looked someone’s head was in a plastic bag. My companions Vera and Laura (who decided to accompany us) were similarly ill, however, like the champions they are they held it together.

When we landed in Tangier it was just as we had left Spain- cold and rainy. Are you noticing a theme here? We attempted to leave the boat but were lambasted for not having our passports stamped. Luckly the man at the customs back aboard the boat was nice enough to stamp them for us but not before administering a lecture on our timeliness. Such is life traveling in foreign lands.

Outside the port we took a taxi up to the bus station and the driver tried everything short of actually kidnapping us to get us to agree to pay him to drive us to our next destination: Chefchaouen. The girls were persistent though and we made it to the bus station to discover it would only cost around 50 dirham (less than 5 euro) each to get there by bus. By contrast the driver wanted 45 euro. Score one for public transit.

The only downside was that we had to stop over in Tetouan for two hours. Which actually wasn’t so bad as we were hoping to get lunch anyway. The most notable thing to me about our brief time in Tangier was the sheer amount of vegetation in/around the city. It was especially noticeable on the drive out of the city where there was lush vegetation and even pine forests covering the landscape. I guess I had just always assumed from the films that Morocco was cities in a giant dusty desert. This is why you shouldn't assume things:

Along the way I kept noticing what appeared to be Jawas from the Star Wars films roaming around. Upon closer inspection it turned out that these were no mere Jawas, these were bonafide Obi-Wan Kenobis! Apparently when it rains in Morocco the men don these full length cloaks reminiscent of the ones worn in the classic sci-fi films, and when aggregated form a- dare I say- flock of Obi-Wan Kenobis! Morocco: highest per-capita rate of Jedi Knights on Earth.

In Tetouan our primary objective was to acquire dirham (Moroccan currency). We finally located the one working ATM in all of Morocco, but when Laura put in her card the machine rudely decided to eat it. Obviously it would have been a fool’s errand for me to attempt the same so we were now stuck with the little dirham Vera had plus our leftover euros from Tarifa.

A very nice Moroccan guy witnessed our plight and invited us to his gym (yes there is a gym in Tetouan and a nice one to boot) for a free coffee.  We had our excellent coffee and he showed us around the gym which gave us a chance to collect ourselves. He also gave us a tip for where to grab a good snack for lunch. Vera ordered a tea and the silver teapot came out with this cute little guy to protect your hand from being burned by the handle. We were fascinated by it.

Finally it was time to board the bus to Chefchaouen but not before discovering that the bathrooms in Morocco are like… Japan?? Just the hole in the ground (see flickr). Our bus ride up the mountain was a little over an hour and provided us with some outstanding views. I must say I am stunned by the landscape of Morocco.

Cadiz & Tarifa, Spain: A Farewell

I awoke at the prescribed time of 10am, thankfully aware of where I was this time, and shook off the previous night's Feria festivities with a hot shower. I was aiming to catch an 11:30 bus from the Plaza de Armas to Cadiz as I had been instructed by the hostel. Skeptical of their advice I checked the times on my phone only to discover the bus was at 11 and not 11:30. Egads! A mad dash out of the hostel ensued in which my beloved towel (per the Hitchhiker's Guide the most useful travel article) was sadly left behind.

I hurried down to the bus station arriving at around 10:45 only to discover, to my great horror, that the station I had been directed to was in fact not the right one! I made another mad dash for the bus, scuttled across town, and arrived at the correct bus station precisely in time to see my bus pull out of the parking lot and head for Cadiz... without me. Since I was planning to meet Vera in Cadiz at 12:30 and had already told her so, my next task was to wander the streets aimlessly until I could find a free wireless signal to send her an update of my plight. Long story short, I found one, sent the email, got the ticket, and was on my way to Cadiz, albeit 2 hours later than I had wanted.

Just as promised Vera was waiting for me at the bus station when I arrived in Cadiz. This is one the great things about travel- you can meet someone randomly somewhere, have a 10 minute conversation about what you're doing, then a week later you're traveling with them to Morocco. Why would I ever want to go back to work again?? Since we had about 2.5 hours to kill before our bus to Tarifa, we wandered around the coast and old town of Cadiz chatting and taking in the much appreciated respite from the rain.

The bus to Tarifa departed around 4:30 and was a short 2 hour trip. When we stepped off the bus, the delightful weather of Cadiz was immediately (and appropriately) blown from our memory as we were confronted with a severe rainstorm and driving winds. As any intrepid travelers would do, we battened down the hatches and set forth in search of a hostel. Our first two attempts were unsucessful unless you are defining success by getting soaking wet, in which case we were excelling. Finally, a nice man at one of the failed hostel attempts made a call and found us a room at the Hotel Africa; aptly named considering it had a great view of Africa from the upstairs terrace where the rain finally broke for a few minutes.

After getting out of our wet clothes and checking emails, we came to discover that we were suddenly famished. While on the terrace we joined forces with Marty whom Vera had met in Cadiz and Laura who had come that day from the UK via Gibraltar. The four of us set out with two objectives: (1) see the coast of Africa; and (2) find a place that served hot soup to combat the cold windy atmosphere. Lucky for us we were successful on both fronts and got a great view across the sea at Africa from the old wall.

Then it was on in search of a place to get our grub on and came upon a great café boasting a seafood soup. Bingo. Four soups all around and in addition I tried the tortilla de camarones (shrimp tortilla) which is apparently a specialty there. It was also tasty- reminded me a bit of the Chinese scallion pancake.

After dinner, Marty taught us how to play an Argentinean card game called Truco. It’s fairly complex and involves a set of cards that has the suits: swords, clubs (as in an actual club), coins, and cups.  It also involves utilizing facial expressions as well as a side game where you add up the face values and try to bluff your way to additional points. After that game I taught them the Yugoslav card game and then it was time to get some rest. Big day venturing into Africa tomorrow.