'It is only 9 hours by foot. Very close.'
This was the response I got from our guide in the middle of the Moroccan Sahara when I asked how close the border to Algeria was. Yes yes, very close. Oh to be a Nomad Moroccan and to not only measure by foot distance, but to think that a 9-hour walk is a reasonably close distance. This basically describes how things move in Morocco. People seem unconcerned by hassles that Americans might consider unbearable. Scorching temperatures with no air-conditioning, insane traffic, no real system of lines - just people pushing toward the front. Consider for example, our three-day two-night excursion from Marrakech into the Atlas mountains and the Sahara.
After spending a somewhat sleepless night in Marrakech without air-conditioning (Steph slept just fine. sigh.) We woke at 7am to a quick cup of coffee, a piece of bread with jam and then jumped into a van on a tour of the areas surrounding Marrakech. And by surrounding, I mean within a 10-hour drive. I wonder how far that is by foot? On the way to the desert we stopped at several places, the most memorable being a Casbah (read: fortress), which to me seemed to be akin to a sandcastle straight out of a movie. Funny thing, it kind of was. It was the 2000-year-old Casbah where the movies Gladiator and Alexander (among others) were filmed. We walked through the narrow streets on our way to the hilltop in the middle of the Casbah, and our guide explained about all of the families that had once lived there, and why certain buildings were here and there. I passed posters of Russell Crowe and Colin Farrell, and I declined a chance to see the 'artifacts' from Gladiator for 5 extra dihrams. It reminded me a little of a trip to Scotland I took several years ago with some of my best friends. On that trip we visited the William Wallace monument only to find a statue of Mel Gibson at its base. Hollywood really has quite the influence.
After the Casbah we were back into the van, back an endlessly repeating Moroccan soundtrack, back to winding narrow roads with too many close calls to count, back to weak air-conditioning. Our two guides for the trip, Ziri and Rasheed, were somewhat hapless, but they tried hard. Or at least one of them did. Ziri was a very nice man from a small village outside of Marrakech. His given name was Al Abdul, meaning 'believes in God,' but he changed it to Ziri, because he didn't. He told us of an occasion during Ramadan where he drank water in the middle of the day (during Ramadan it is illegal for all Moroccan citizens to eat or drink from 4am to 10pm. Even water. Even when it is 110 degrees outside.) and was arrested. Luckily he was able to bribe the police into letting him go, or it would have meant a six-month prison sentence. Yikes.
The highlight of the trip for me was a side trip via camel into the Sahara desert. Having never been to a real desert before I was very excited to feel the sand between my toes and feel the enormity of the Sahara. I was not disappointed. We were only in a small tiny corner of it and it seemed as though we were in the middle of an ocean of sand. On a camel. I must note here, that riding a camel is not the same as riding a horse. My butt bones were never this sore from riding horses. After getting to our camp an hour and a half by camel from the main road, we were given time to sandboard (think snowboarding but with less control and a small collection of camel poo at the bottom of the hill) while dinner was being prepared.
While waiting for dinner I let the rational part of my brain take over, and started to think about all of the food poisoning we could get from a meal that was cooked in the middle of the desert. Had it all of the food been properly refrigerated on its trek to our table? Were the Nomad cooks cross-contaminating? Had our plates and silverware been properly sanitized? Ridiculous. After spending most of my life thinking about the 'temperature danger zone', I have a hard time turning it off. But as soon as the food arrived in all of its glory (we hadn't eaten in nearly eight hours) I forgot everything, and even managed to ignore the small insect that crawled out of my salad, onto my fork and up onto my hand while I was eating. The meal was amazing. Moroccan salad followed by chicken and vegetable tagine and casaba melon for dessert. It was hands down the best meal we had in Morocco.
The next morning we woke before sunrise to jump back on our camels (my butt was almost unbearably sore) and head back to our van to take us home. About an hour into the ride our guide stopped us on the top of a sand dune so we could all watch the sun come up on the horizon. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
After a quick breakfast and shower to wash the sand off, we headed to the bus station to begin our journey to Fes, a city 8 hours North. Fate thought otherwise, and there were no busses. "No matter," said Ziri and Rasheed, "we will just go to the next city and you take a bus from there." Next city = no bus. Try the next city. No bus. In the fourth city we tried two bus stations with no luck. Then we inquired about a taxi. Not unless we wanted to pay 10 times the normal price. Apparently with Ramadan around the corner (it starts tomorrow) everyone in Morocco is trying to get home. So every bus in the entire country is full and no taxi driver is interested in leaving town unless we seriously made it worth his while. So back to Marrakech we went, for another night of haggling. Luckily, the hostel owner felt so bad about us not being able to get to Fes as he promised when he sold us the excursion that he upgraded our room to one with real working a/c. Amazing. I slept like a baby. Maybe even a slightly chilly baby. But a baby, nonetheless.
So now, after spending the day sending off couch requests and securing lodging for our next two weeks, we are on an 11-hour overnight train to Tangier, where we will hop on a ferry to Spain. The land of Sangria and Pork. Just in time to avoid Ramadan. Nobody wants to go to jail for drinking water, especially two white girls from California. The train left the station one hour late, and so far has stopped twice in the middle of nowhere, once completely shutting off its engines (and the a/c) for several minutes. Steph and I both just sat and crossed our fingers that the engine would start back up again. Hopefully it will stay 11-hours and not turn into a 16-hour trip from hell. Though I guess if we were Moroccans we would be unconcerned.
This was the response I got from our guide in the middle of the Moroccan Sahara when I asked how close the border to Algeria was. Yes yes, very close. Oh to be a Nomad Moroccan and to not only measure by foot distance, but to think that a 9-hour walk is a reasonably close distance. This basically describes how things move in Morocco. People seem unconcerned by hassles that Americans might consider unbearable. Scorching temperatures with no air-conditioning, insane traffic, no real system of lines - just people pushing toward the front. Consider for example, our three-day two-night excursion from Marrakech into the Atlas mountains and the Sahara.
After spending a somewhat sleepless night in Marrakech without air-conditioning (Steph slept just fine. sigh.) We woke at 7am to a quick cup of coffee, a piece of bread with jam and then jumped into a van on a tour of the areas surrounding Marrakech. And by surrounding, I mean within a 10-hour drive. I wonder how far that is by foot? On the way to the desert we stopped at several places, the most memorable being a Casbah (read: fortress), which to me seemed to be akin to a sandcastle straight out of a movie. Funny thing, it kind of was. It was the 2000-year-old Casbah where the movies Gladiator and Alexander (among others) were filmed. We walked through the narrow streets on our way to the hilltop in the middle of the Casbah, and our guide explained about all of the families that had once lived there, and why certain buildings were here and there. I passed posters of Russell Crowe and Colin Farrell, and I declined a chance to see the 'artifacts' from Gladiator for 5 extra dihrams. It reminded me a little of a trip to Scotland I took several years ago with some of my best friends. On that trip we visited the William Wallace monument only to find a statue of Mel Gibson at its base. Hollywood really has quite the influence.
After the Casbah we were back into the van, back an endlessly repeating Moroccan soundtrack, back to winding narrow roads with too many close calls to count, back to weak air-conditioning. Our two guides for the trip, Ziri and Rasheed, were somewhat hapless, but they tried hard. Or at least one of them did. Ziri was a very nice man from a small village outside of Marrakech. His given name was Al Abdul, meaning 'believes in God,' but he changed it to Ziri, because he didn't. He told us of an occasion during Ramadan where he drank water in the middle of the day (during Ramadan it is illegal for all Moroccan citizens to eat or drink from 4am to 10pm. Even water. Even when it is 110 degrees outside.) and was arrested. Luckily he was able to bribe the police into letting him go, or it would have meant a six-month prison sentence. Yikes.
The highlight of the trip for me was a side trip via camel into the Sahara desert. Having never been to a real desert before I was very excited to feel the sand between my toes and feel the enormity of the Sahara. I was not disappointed. We were only in a small tiny corner of it and it seemed as though we were in the middle of an ocean of sand. On a camel. I must note here, that riding a camel is not the same as riding a horse. My butt bones were never this sore from riding horses. After getting to our camp an hour and a half by camel from the main road, we were given time to sandboard (think snowboarding but with less control and a small collection of camel poo at the bottom of the hill) while dinner was being prepared.
While waiting for dinner I let the rational part of my brain take over, and started to think about all of the food poisoning we could get from a meal that was cooked in the middle of the desert. Had it all of the food been properly refrigerated on its trek to our table? Were the Nomad cooks cross-contaminating? Had our plates and silverware been properly sanitized? Ridiculous. After spending most of my life thinking about the 'temperature danger zone', I have a hard time turning it off. But as soon as the food arrived in all of its glory (we hadn't eaten in nearly eight hours) I forgot everything, and even managed to ignore the small insect that crawled out of my salad, onto my fork and up onto my hand while I was eating. The meal was amazing. Moroccan salad followed by chicken and vegetable tagine and casaba melon for dessert. It was hands down the best meal we had in Morocco.
The next morning we woke before sunrise to jump back on our camels (my butt was almost unbearably sore) and head back to our van to take us home. About an hour into the ride our guide stopped us on the top of a sand dune so we could all watch the sun come up on the horizon. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
After a quick breakfast and shower to wash the sand off, we headed to the bus station to begin our journey to Fes, a city 8 hours North. Fate thought otherwise, and there were no busses. "No matter," said Ziri and Rasheed, "we will just go to the next city and you take a bus from there." Next city = no bus. Try the next city. No bus. In the fourth city we tried two bus stations with no luck. Then we inquired about a taxi. Not unless we wanted to pay 10 times the normal price. Apparently with Ramadan around the corner (it starts tomorrow) everyone in Morocco is trying to get home. So every bus in the entire country is full and no taxi driver is interested in leaving town unless we seriously made it worth his while. So back to Marrakech we went, for another night of haggling. Luckily, the hostel owner felt so bad about us not being able to get to Fes as he promised when he sold us the excursion that he upgraded our room to one with real working a/c. Amazing. I slept like a baby. Maybe even a slightly chilly baby. But a baby, nonetheless.
So now, after spending the day sending off couch requests and securing lodging for our next two weeks, we are on an 11-hour overnight train to Tangier, where we will hop on a ferry to Spain. The land of Sangria and Pork. Just in time to avoid Ramadan. Nobody wants to go to jail for drinking water, especially two white girls from California. The train left the station one hour late, and so far has stopped twice in the middle of nowhere, once completely shutting off its engines (and the a/c) for several minutes. Steph and I both just sat and crossed our fingers that the engine would start back up again. Hopefully it will stay 11-hours and not turn into a 16-hour trip from hell. Though I guess if we were Moroccans we would be unconcerned.
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