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Morocco Home |
Most
of my journals are typed versions of postcards sent to friends and family
while I was travelling and a couple are group emails sent from internet
cafes. At the end of the trip I continued to write my journals on postcards
although I didn’t actually send them... This section is continuing
to expand as I receive my postcards back from everyone.
Saturday, January 10, 2004 Hello Everyone, Greetings from Fes, an Imperial city of Morocco. Today we
visited the Medina (old city)It is enormous, 800 acres, with over 10,000
small streets and over half a million people living inside. The streets
are narrow, like in the old city of Jerusalem and it is impossibley disorienting.
Each city or large town has a medina like this, but this one is by far
the largest we have seen. We (thankfully) hired a guide for our tour of
about 5 hours, which was wonderful. He was a great source of information
and a nice guy to boot. Some descriptive words: donkeys, mules, stalls,
narrow streets, green mosques, tiles, carved wood, crowds, leather dyes,
bronze. We have been travelling for the last couple days with a really
great couple from Canada, who are at the beginning of a four month trip
through africa and europe. Yesterday we came from Chefchaouen to here
via some amazing Roman ruins (Volubolis). We went for a great hike a couple
days ago and travelled many kilometers around the medina of Chefchaouen,
exploring, then getting wonderfully lost as we tried to find our hotel
again. There is so much more I could say but it will have to wait. Things are going really well. Travelling with John is great
and I am thankful to be here with a guy :). There certainly are hustlers
and all sorts of people trying to get money from westerners, but this
is not the core of our experience. Tomorrow we head south over the atlas
mountains, towards the desert, which is very exciting. It is fabulous
here. Love and hugs to all, and thanks to those who sent me emails...
I would love to hear from all of you next time I find myself at an internet
cafe :) Hello all my wonderful friends. Greetings from Morocco,
and from the Imperial city of Fes. My time in this magical country has
been full of joy, amazement, frustration and fun. Sipping mint tea at
an open café on the Uta el-Hammam Plaza in Chefchaouen, I watched
people pour into the doors of the Mosque as the call to evening prayer
rang out across the city. Hiking up a mountain hillside, we passed through
a field where several men were tilling the gray, dry soil with two donkeys,
a woman hung laundry and a young boy tended a heard of goats from his
perch on an over-hanging rock. Not knowing how we would reach Fes before
nightfall, we asked the driver to let us off the bus so we could wander
among the ancient Roman ruins of Colubolis as the sun was setting. Arriving
in Fes by shared taxi after dark, I struggled in broken French to get
a "Petit Taxi" to the Hostel where we are now staying. And today
we explored the Medina (old city) of Fes. Our guide, Azdine, let us skillfully
through the maze of narrow streets (cobbled paths, really). We looked
down over the massive leather dying area, where men stood up to their
thighs in giant vats of water colored with saffron (yellow), poppy (red),
indigo (blue), cedar (brown) and mint (green). Within five minutes after
entering the Medina we had no sense of orientation except for at least
one eye on our leader. Donkeys and mules, piled high with all kinds of
goods, pressed past us on the narrowest of aly-ways. I hope all is well
in New England and I will see you soon!
Hey there Seth! I’m writing you from a mountain where
we are resting before descending down to the small village and catching
a shared cab back to our hotel in Tinerhir. It was a steep climb to get
up here, and we had to step off the train several times to let women leading
mules and donkeys pass by. A young girl emerged from a hut just before
we reached the pass and offered directions for our descent. My french
is getting better! Of course, after the directions she asked if we wanted
to take a picture, presumably of her, but we declined because money is
often expected in return. We have met many nice people here but the most
frustrating part of the trip is that (almost) everyone has a hidden agenda
that involves getting our money. It makes it impossible to fully trust
someone because it’s only a matter of time before they find out enough
about you to mention that their brother (all Morocans are their brothers)
owns exactly the hotel you are looking for or wouldn’t you like to
follow them to the nicest, cheapest, most authentice, original carpet
shop. Oh the carpet shops! As soon as you set foot inside the door the
ritual begins: mint tea appears on a small tray and in ceremoniously mixed
and poured. After a few remarks the carpets are rolled out in front of
you one at a time, and the symbols, colors and material of each explained.
Today we enjoyed our tea and the lessons learned but did not give into
buying. Go Us!!! See you soon!
Dear Pam, David and Aaron,
After leaving Fes, we took a ten hour bus ride to Merzouga, at the edge of the Sahara desert. It was an amazingly beautiful place, but very frustrating because of the hassle for money and time by the people at the hostel we stayed at. Oh well... We spent a night in the desert under some amazing stars, watched sunrise and sunset and rode camels for just long enough to realize how uncomfortable they would be for more than a few hours! We then travelled up to Tinerhir, where we spent three nights.
Highlights there included a great hike above the Todra Gorge, a two hour
long conversation with a young man who worked at one of the restaurants,
mostly in french, which was great practice, and dinner with a Berber woman
and her family and friend, the result of a visit earlier in the day to
buy a small carpet. We then spent a night in the Dades Gorge, where we slept
on the roof terrace of a large but empty hotel (there are very few tourists
here this time of year- don't know why - it's great!). The stars were
once again amazing although we required many blankets to protect us from
the cold. After a night in Ouazarzate and an evening visit to the Kasbah
(old fortress) This country continues to amaze me, although I am certainly
getting used to some things. I am taking the frequent and persistant invitations
to enter shops and buy [carpet, jewlery, bags, boxes, clothes, etc] with
a better sense of humor, laughing and talking back to the store owners.
My french is also MUCH improved and I am more comfortable communicating
in this language than I though Ok - I'm off to kick John's butt at a card game :)
January 20, 2004 Dear Howard, Elizabeth, Avery and Owen, I am writing you from a rooftop terrace overlooking the
Djemma el-Fna square at the center of the old city of Marrakech. Rows
and rows of food stalls fill the eastern side of the square, white table
cloths surrounded by rows of shish-kebobs, waiting to be grilled, or sheep-heads,
snails and other delicacies. All around the perimeter, other stalls sell
fresh squeezed OJ (30 cents) and nuts, dates and figs. In the remaining
space, street performers of all sorts: story tellers, jugglers, male belly-dancers,
snake charmers and herbalists gather crowds around them and musicians
bang drums and strum banjos. As I move between them the music shifts from
ear to ear as I approach the next group. January 21, 1:30pm. Auntie Goose
January 21, 2004 I am writing on the rooftop terrace of our hotel in Marakesh. The sun is warming my legs and feet and I am in short sleeves, a welcome feeling because I wear long shirts and pants outside the hotel in repsect for local tradition (not to mention to avoid more hassling). Two days ago our friends from last week, Matt and Jessie, appeared at the hotel. I was super happy to see them – it has been great to hang out with four people instead of just two, and especially great to spend time with another woman. Yesterday we decided to have some serious female bonding time and visit the neighborhood hamman, or bath-house. Of course, if we were oing to go, we’d better go all out and get the full treatment: bath with a massage. WE had no idea what we were getting into. We copied another woman entering at the same time and removed everything but our underwear and left our towels in the next room. The building was simple with tiled floors and dim light. In the next room, water taps were constantly flowing, filling brightly colored plastic buckets with hot and cold water. As we stood there wondering what our next move should be, two elderly women steered us into the next room and sat us down on the floor, then surrounded us with buckets of water. Several other women sat at the other end of the room, pouring water over themselves and scrubbing their feet with pumice stones. Jessie noticed that many of the women had hair strongly dyed with henna, which is hidden in public because many (especially the older) always wear head scarves. When the two women returned with the last buckets of water, they motioned for us to lie down and proceeded to scrub us firmly from head to toe with a very rough cloth. Back and front, up, down and everything in between received the same treatment, and then it was repeated more quickly with soap and giant tubs of water were dumped over our heads. While the room was not as hot as a sauna, the hot water and crubbing (massage???) had the same effect and we were both relaxed and warm inside and out for the rest of the evening. While we bathed, the boys found a marvelous ice cream shop and decided they would never in their life be scrubbed down by an old Morocan!
We arrived at this town on the Atlantic coast yesterday on a bus from Marakesh. As we drove west, away from the mountains, the land became greener, with evergreen trees scattered across increasingly lush fields. While still definitely Morocco, this place is different in so many ways from the south-east region we have been travelling through for over a week. The ocean crashes agains the Portugese ramparts below our hotel window and the smell of fish wafts from the port. The feeling of the town is also more European, influenced by the crowds of dread-locked surfers, both Morocan and from abroad. Groups of tourist pour in by bus on day trips from Marakesh, and even now, in the low season, the streets and cafes are dominated by foreigners. Ther eis little hassling here, compared to most other places we have been although we were approached at the bus station by several women offering accomodation. We learned long ago to stick to our decision through thick and thin and only accept directions or assistance until thoroughly lost. Our hotel here has a fabulous terrace overlooking the sea and the beach stretches for ten kilometers down the coast. The Port is a bustling place, especially in the afternoon, when the boats return from fishing. A huge fish auction takes place each day and you can buy them fresh and have them grilled in front of you and served with salad. A giant flock of seagulls circles above the fish-sellers, and last night they were sillouetted against the brilliant red of the setting sun. It is nice to be near the sea after the dry heat of the desert. My hair is regaining life and my sunburned lips are less painful. Today is half gone and we’re off to walk on the beach.
Well, here we are, heading north to Tangier to catch the
ferry. The sense of adventure was gone as soon as we left Essaouira yesterday
afternoon and the 4.5 hour bus ride to El-Jadida seemed to last forever.
Our one full day in Essaouira was one of the best of our trip. After sleeping
in until ten, we headed to a café for breakfast: pasteries and
café au lait. As we were lounging in the outside seating, the two
Aussie girls that we met in Ouazarzate came walking across the square,
easy to spot in their distinctive bright red Kathmandu jackets. We have
now met almost every travelling friend at least twice (everyone whom we
had more than a short conversation with): Matt and Jessie, Bastiaan and
Francoise, Ethyl, Michael and Kathy, Sian and Michelle. After breakfast and another glass of orange juice and some
ice cream with Sian, Michelle and Ethyl, we walked down the beach toward
the dunes at Cap Sim. Surf shops faced the water, full of lounging youth
and brightly colored surf boards and wind surfing sails. As we continued
along the sand, we were approached by two guys on camels and three on
horses, offering rides down the beach. John had never ridden a horse and
I was excited to do it again so we bargained our way down to the 200 dirham
for an hour. It is a lot of money by Morocan standards but the horses
were healthy and well treated compared to ALL the other animals we have
seen here so I didn’t mind supporting them. It was so nice to ride
again (I haven’t for many years). After a few minutes of walking I urged "Texas"
into a trop to catch up with our guide, who spoke little English but could
put up with my sloppy French. After a kilometer or so on the sand we climbed
a dune and enter an area with scatter bushes. We crossed a small creek
and visited the first Chateau built in the country and the hotel where
Jimmy Hendrix stayed once upon a time. On the way back we crossed the
estuary where the creek enters the sea, lifting our feet as the horses
reached water up to their chests. We climbed another dune and I pulled
my horse’s head around to face the sea. The white rooftops and walls
ofEssaouira reflected the sunlight back in my eyes, making me blink. After descending to the beach, I stalled another minute,
enjoying the ride, then urged Texas into a canter to catch up with John
and Abdul, the guide. As I approached, Adbul yelled and took off down
the beach at a full gallop and it didn’t take much urging to join
him. That is certainly the fastest I have ever gone on a horse. The wind
was whipping my hair around and the sand was a blur. When we pulled to
a stop by the camels and other horses I looked over at John. He was grinning
but looking relieved to be relatively stationary again. When the owner/manager approached we complimented him on
the horses and on the trip. AI said how much I appreciated the good health
and treatment of the animals. "They are not castrated," he said,
and invited me to examine their genitals as proof. For stallions they
were especially gentle. "It was his first ride ever," I told
the owner, who looked surprised and smiled. John looked proud, but the
next day his back was sore! On the way back up the beach we stopped to watch some local
kids playing soccer on the sand. We sat on a brick wall and, after a few
minutes, began to keep score for them, holding up our fingers and cheering
each time a goal was made. After 15 minutes, John jumped off the wall
and joined their game. The youngest kid left the "field" to
make room for him to play two-on-two. As they played, several small boys
joined me on the wall, posing for pictures and delighting in the immediate
gratification if digital technology. The youngest boy was accidentely pushed into the sand as
they posed and he began to cry. One of the older boys (brother?) left
the game and brushed him off, but his eyes remained teary so I lifted
him back onto the wall and offered him the last of my water, which he
finished with a grin. A passing cookie-seller yielded several macaroons,
which quickly disappeared as well. Within half and hour John was sweating and tired from the
effort of keeping up with barefoot boys in his hiking boots on the soft
sand. We waved good-bye and headed to the souq for some last minute souvenirs.
After watching another fabulous sunset and wandering the port we went
with Sian and Michelle to get dinner. As we sat at our table next to the
open window, one of the soccer players walked by with an older woman (his
mother?), waved and smiled. The woman looked curious and waved cautiously
as well and they went on their way. We went for desert at a local pastry shop and outside the door I did a double-take. We are used to seeing women and children begging by now, but this pair was too familiar. Two hours ago he was running on the beach, chasing a flat, plastic soccer ball and now he was curled under the edge of ratty blaket beside a woman’s outstretched hand. It is hard to tell here whether the money is really needed but either way it was an uncomfortable sight. It didn’t seem right to give them monoey, and all of a sudden John took off down the street, calling back that he was going to buy him a new soccer ball. The mission was successful and I can only imagine the pride the next day when the beach game continued.
Although I was already focused on heading home and the land didn’t hold my attention, I continued to be fascinated by Moroccan people. The bus is a fabulous shelter for observation, free from the constant attention we received on the streets. Although we planned to take mainly the government-run CTM buses, in the end we never set foot in one. The private buses were almost as fast, more frequent and vastly more interesting. They stop along the road to pick up people who flag them down with a wave and toss bags of goods, chickets and the occassional sheep into the luggage compartment or onto the roof. Private buses also make frequent stops at small towns, where people-watching is prime. Every few hours the engine is shut off for half an hour or so and passenger buy lunch at a café and catch up with the locals. |