Marrakech Express and the Escape from Morocco

The plan was to catch the 7:45 train from Casablanca to Tangier. But I ended up having so much fun at Rick's and in Casa in general that I slept through the 7:45 train... and the 9:45 train. But I did make the 11:45 train!... that had no air conditioning! And it was about 90 degrees outside (and a sight hotter in our rolling tin can). And I, as the Czech say, had a monkey on my back- which is to say I was hungover. Actually, now that I think about it I've been doing a great deal of traveling while hungover on this trip. Which says one of two things about me: (a) I'm drinking too much (ha! ridiculous right?); or (b) I've got to stop going out the night before I leave a place (this, by comparison, seems much more reasonable).

That nonsense aside, back aboard the Marrakech Express it's hot and I'm sweating bullets. Sexy. Good thing the train ride is only... oh wait, five hours?!? Balls! After sweltering for several of said hours, I went to the back of the train and hotboxed myself with 4 chain smoking Moroccans just to get a bit of a breeze. From here I witnessed an odd phenomena. See if you can tell the difference between this photograph:

And this one:

That's right, on the main line from Casa to Tangier, there is a segment that has but one rail. Suddenly my apprehension over the heat began to give way to a fear of a head-on train collision in middle-Morocco. Back aboard the main cabin, someone had mercifully shattered a window on the train to get some air circulating. No no, I'm dead serious.

After sweating out all of the prior night's Moroccan wine, I felt pretty solid when I arrived in Tangier- although suffice it to say I've sufficiently fulfilled my goal of washing up in Tangier as I was essentially riding the high crest of a wave of perspiration. Not wanting to deal with the hassle of acquiring a cab, Mike and I made our way on foot to the port area.

And no, I'm not suddenly suffering from dissociative identity disorder- I met a Canuck named Mike in our mobile sauna to Tangier. Having just arrived in Morocco he did not yet possess the immense desire to get out of Morocco. Accordingly, he was planning to bum around the country for the next several weeks. I, on the other hand, had an essential and pressing need to board the ferry with all due haste. So we said goodbye at the terminal and I was on my way.

But like anything as simple as buying a ferry ticket, boarding a boat, and setting sail, in Morocco this couldn't be accomplished without two things: a hassle and a shakedown. The shakedown came thankfully upfront when I was charged some sort of "processing fee" for the ticket even though I booked it AT the terminal. Ok, fine, that's cool, just let me on the damn boat. Then, the attempted shakedowns continued to occur at the hands of every child and adult standing along the one mile stretch to the actual port terminal who, absent anything better to do, have decided to spend their afternoons heckling the one white guy to actually walk this distance. This, in itself, makes absolutely no sense because if I had money to give you, don't you think I would have taken a cab to avoid this entire series of unpleasantries? It's to be expected in Morocco, but that doesn't prevent me from wanting to grab them by the scruff of the neck and say "where is your pride man?!?"

The hassle came as, for one, my ticket said "this is not a ticket- please exchange at the time of travel for an actual ticket." That seems like it's going to be a problem. Despite asking several people about this apparent pitfall, every Moroccan I approached kept telling me I needed to simply "get your passport stamped." I began to get the feeling my question was not being properly addressed. Having my passport stamped, however, turned out to be a whole different adventure in itself as I was continually pointed in different (and incorrect) directions. Finally, someone sent me upstairs in the terminal where I needed to have my bag scanned before hitting passport control. Only the scanner was operating on Moroccan time, which is to say it was going to be operated whenever they felt like it. So me and about 25 other people stood around with the 5 Moroccans who were supposed to be directing this circus, staring at each other with great perplexity.

Finally, someone hit the button on the machine, I scanned the bag, and then proceeded to passport control to get my stamp. At this point I, again, asked about the ticket issue and was told to go on through. I then found a guy in a neon green vest whose job it was to direct us to the proper boat. I asked him the same question and he insisted that I was in good shape and proceeded to lead me to the boat. When we were 200 meters away, he stopped me and asked for some cash (another shakedown!). I stood there looking at him incredulously. Eventually I mustered a stammer- "dude... you work here. This is your job!" He replied "yeah, but only one coffee. a few euro." 

I was stunned. I finally snapped to my senses and replied "Ok, if I get on this boat and the hell out of Morocco without further problems I'll mail you enough for a coffee. But if this is the wrong boat or there is an issue with this ticket and I have to walk all the way back to the ticket office or go through security again, I will kill you with my bare hands." It appeared my message was received as he retreated at a quick march. His response, however, did not bode well for my chances of being able to board the ferry.

By the time I had made my way to the actual boat I was so done with Morocco that I was ready to swim the channel if they gave me any grief- which of course they did. The guy at the security gate says, upon examining my ticket, "you need a different ticket." Using one of my favorite tactics from my professional days, I looked him dead in the eyes and said "no, I don't." It was a bit like that scene from Star Wars The Phantom Menace when Watto explains to Qui Gon that Republic credits will not, in fact, do fine. And equally like that scene, my insistence that, no, I had the proper ticket and was boarding the boat, eventually won the day.

When I finally boarded the damn ferry, between the sauna train, the several mile hike to the port, and the debacle getting through security, I was extraordinarily parched. I walked straight up to the bar and ordered a water and was told it would be 1.50 euro. I was also informed that they didn't accept dirham or credit cards, and I decided at that exact moment, if I reached in my pocket and didn't find 1.50 euro I was just going to chug the water as quickly as I could and tell the guy at the counter that I'd return it in an hour or so when I had to pee. Thankfully I had exactly 1.60 euro on me and avoided what would have likely been an international incident.

After that, the rest of the ferry ride was more or less uneventful and as I walked out of passport control in Tarifa a gigantic wave of relief washed over me. It got even better as the hostel I was staying in had a washer and dryer so after almost 4 weeks since my last wash, I was finally able to do laundry! The next morning I had a brief walk around Tarifa where I snapped a couple shots and then boarded my bus for Gibraltar. For relaxing times, I plan to make it Gibraltar times.

Casablanca, Morocco: Here's looking at you kid

Casablanca. Wow, where do I begin? So before we get started, just a warning, there is going to be a lot of typing in the beginning. I have so many thoughts rattling around in my head, so many notes taken on the road and while there... it feels like a whole novel worth of material for a two day stay in a relatively urban city gracing the coast of northwest Africa. Anyway, if that's not your cup of tea, skim down to the pictures.

But I think, as with most romantics and film buffs, Casablanca will always hold a special place in my heart. Perhaps even in the sub-cockle region. To me, Casablanca never really meant anything as a tangible destination for the longest time. Sure, I loved the film and considered the entire story, screenplay, cinematography, directing, and editing to be among (if not) the finest I'd ever seen, but it had no personal impact. That was, of course, until I met my my most recent ex-girlfriend.

Since many a reader of this blog (assuming there is more than one) may not know the story of us, allow me to provide a "brief" summary. I met my ex in China. Well, no that's not entirely true. I saw her several weeks before that. She was sitting in class wearing a totally nondescript brown hoodie. But I have to admit attire aside I was a bit smitten. I had signed up for the China trip (which gave us two classes worth of credit) when I was an intern with Deloitte in NY. It was only the second time I would have left the country (after Mexico) but I had always wanted to do a study abroad so I figured, screw it, if not now, then when?

So I ponied up, paid the amounts and flushed myself through the process of securing a passport to guarantee my trip to China. Without delving into too much detail (that probably deserves a book of its own), the two of us hit it off immediately in China. As noted, I had seen her in class but I had yet to talk to her- I was somewhat pensive/shy without the liberating effect of alcohol in these my early and formative years. Yet, despite my natural apprehension, the most dissuading element in pursuing this young woman was the glittering rock adorning her finger- one over from the pinky. That's right, she was married.

Not wanting to overtly do anything to break up a marriage, I tried not to make any deliberate moves. That said, by sheer chance and the rule of numbers we did ultimately get to talking, and as I said we hit it off. Despite our best efforts, and against our better judgement, a passionate and yet tragic romance ensued. I would be remiss if I didn't say I loved her immensely during our time together. And for many many years after I bore the guilt (deserved or not) of what happened with her marriage.

But right from the beginning our attraction suffered from an ill fate. I recognized the all-too-familiar arrangement immediately from the film I had seen ages ago. And so I recommended Casablanca to her. It instantly became our movie as we projected ourselves into the characters. She was Ilsa, imbedded in a relationship for which she had immense respect but wherein her heart did not truly lie. I was Rick, a man who was fortunate enough for a brief period with this person, happened to snare her heart; but the combination of the two simply wasn't meant to be. Ilsa was due to leave Casablanca to continue to inspire Victor Laszlo.

But in our lives, the truth didn't quite follow fiction. In this real life example, Ilsa ended up in New York, and the two of us began a new life. And I'd be a liar if I said that for a brief period it wasn't good. In fact, it was great. We talked about long-term life together and all the trappings that would entail. And she said that the one place she wanted to go for a honeymoon, if she ever did again, was Casablanca, Morocco. Ah-HA! So here you, lucky sleuths, have it- the purpose for this whole immense (non-picturey) drivel. I don't really like to tell this story- I'm not sure why, perhaps it makes me seem more human- a thought that I abhor. I prefer to exist enigmatic... but I guess I shouldn't have started this damn thing if I intended to keep up that facade. Que sera sera.

But anyway, as all great romances go, the fantasy always stands up heartier than the reality. And in this case the reality I came to discover was that after years of well intended yet misplaced affection, emotion, and trust, we were in fact not meant for each other. What was once a glorious fantasy had become a melancholy nightmare. And, as oft happens, our great romance turned into a wilted and somber tale. And we left New York separately but still confused as to what role either of us would play in the other's life. A confusion that you might notice in prior entries of this "blog" continues to present itself. I'd now say that our relationship borders on mildly adversarial at best and downright cutthroat at worst. Such, I suppose, is the way good romances go.

The simplistic irony of the story in itself is not lost upon me. Rick and Ilsa had conspired to leave Casablanca together but were unable achieve it. We departed on a life together but were never able to be together in Casablanca. Reading this "blog" some might come to the conclusion that I was leaving NY to run away from the relationship and that life. And while that thought process is certainly not without merit, in this case I can honestly say with certainty- that it was not the case. I was simply at a juncture in my life, a rut in all regards, and it was time to go forth and experience new things- see the world. That said, I'd be remiss if I didn't admit that without my experiences with her I wouldn't be the man I am today. So in that regard, even though things didn't work out and we've irrevocably gone our separate ways, I still owe her a great deal of recognition for my development as a person. 

All of that sorted history put forth, not a single scrap of it diminishes in any portion the significance of me visiting Casablanca without her. From the second I stepped off the train my mind was on her to some extent. On what could have been. On what was wasted away. On what, if we were different people and the times were changed, could possibly have been. But at the end of all such ruminations, it was just me. Standing on a dusty scorched platform by myself, wondering exactly what to do now.

So, as anyone in my position would do, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and pressed on. And what I came to realize, stunningly, was that the moments I would experience in Casablanca, which seemed so destined for us, were in fact moments that in our present stages of life neither of us could have enjoyed together. Certainly not to the extent that what we had hoped. I could have perhaps enjoyed them with others I have met in my years, but the greatest irony of our self-prescribed destinies in this place was simply that despite everything, those seminal moments were forever unattainable for us because of everything that has transpired since those early moments. 

But... that old saga now told, dear reader (and thanks for hanging in there!), let's get to it! In appreciation of the past week of consistent sun, and with a tip of the cap to the ex, I decided it best to walk from the train station to the hotel. I had mapped it out and felt fairly confident about where I was going. But, before I get going into the whereabouts of the hotel I should note the following: this was the first time I had utilized Starwood points during my travels. Notwithstanding that I had around 100,000 points to throw away, I felt that the only way to truly experience the world and the cities I wanted to was to immerse myself in the local abodes and people. It's hard to do that hiding behind one's hundred-euro rooms, even if you can score them for free.

But, considering my only time there (and this will likely be my only time) was supposed to be a "honeymoon" of sorts, I decided to liquidate a small heap of Starwood points and book a room at the Sheraton Casablanca. I chose this particular property over the more lush Le Meridien specifically because the Sheraton has... my Allah, a pool. So once I had located this oasis, it pretty much dominated my time in Casablanca.

But before I begin describing my time in Casablanca, let me make a few notes. One, no one in Casablanca calls it that. It's simply Casa. Second, for those of you fans of the film and the exotic allure of Morocco: Casa is not your place. It's a proper modern city. I quite liked it, but most people on their way through Morocco find it distasteful because I suppose it doesn't feel very "Moroccan." That said, there are an immense amount of public works currently being undertaken which I imagine, when complete, will make Casa a "lovely place to holiday." Damn, my English is getting so British!

I think clearly the most touristic thing to see in Casa is the mosque. Supposedly one of the largest in Africa if not the world, it stands imposingly on a cliff facing the Atlantic. Unfortunately at the time I went it was not open for a tour, however, merely from walking around it I was tremendously impressed enough that an interior tour could have done very little to bolster my already lofty opinion. In fact, I'd say with the exception of maybe the Pink Mosque in Malaysia and the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, it was the singularly most impressive Muslim edifice I've had the pleasure of seeing.

After viewing the mosque, I roamed around eventually locating the prize of Casa in my mind, Rick's Cafe. Fans of the film will be thrilled by this place. Opened by an (obviously) American who was a  (not so obviously) former diplomat, the Cafe attempts to conjure up the essence of the film and 1940's French Morocco. I think the sentimentalist in me wishes it was called Rick's Café Américain, but that didn't diminish the overall allure. I decided to save the experience for the next (my last) night in Casa.

Since my accommodations were relatively expensive compared to the rest of my time in Morocco, I decided to procure some groceries and eat cheaply the first night. Luckily there was a supermarket nearby that had not only cheap sandwich materials but also carried... booze! Whoo-hoo! So long dry Morocco! So, with a fistful of dirhams, I acquired what I consider the Casablanca survival kit:

The next morning I, for the first time since leaving the States, went to the gym! It was so good to put in a serious run and life some heavy things and set them down. My workday being complete, it was then time to proceed to the pool for an afternoon of sunning and enjoying Casablanca beers.

I took a dip in the pool after a bit only to discover it was freezing! So, being all sunned out, I retired to the shade of the bar for the remainder of the afternoon where I pounded out the Essaouira blog entry.

After soaking up rays and putting in some good time on the blog, etc., it was time for a shave. So, midway through the shave, my first in over a month, I stumbled upon a great idea. I shaved precisely one half of my face and left the other half bearded. Which Mike do you prefer?

After the shave (which took approximately 45 minutes), it was time to head to Rick's. I must say, I really wasn't prepared for how great Rick's was. The food was phenomenal, perhaps the best I've had since leaving NY, and the atmosphere was fantastic. There is, per requisite, live piano music, and appropriately every so often "As Time Goes By" rings out. I'd again be lying if I didn't say I felt a bit of a sting every time those infamous chords were struck.

But that part of my life is long behind me. And great food, wine, and atmosphere aside, I found myself at Rick's as a party of one. And as such, I enjoyed the sounds of Dooley Wilson as Rick once did, by himself, wistful yet immutably separated from the meaning behind the songs he once loved so much.

Log-jamma-jamma!

I haven't bailed on the "blog." Been stuck with poor internet, poor timing, and poor ability to write. But I've got about 5 entries ready to go so I'm going to start pushing them through from the date I more or less finished them (edits aside).

So when will then be now?

Soon...

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.