Ottsworld Travel Experiences » Morocco

Photo of the Week – Morocco

admin — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 04:36:04 +0000

Tough Stain – Fes Morocco

This isn’t what you think. This man is holding silk thread and is in the process of dying it a bright red color. I took this photo while I toured around the most miraculous medina in Morocco. Here’s my excerpt of my fist impressions:

The moment you entered the big arched gateway you inhaled the smell, taste and sound of the markets. We were surrounded by the sounds of people and music, we could smell the rich spices intermixed with the smell of olives, and your eyes were entranced by the rich colors and textures that surrounded you. I think I honestly walked for the first 20 minutes with a dumb stare on my face as I took it all in.

I loved Fes…a truly cultural experience – and a treasure trove of photography.

Photo of the Week – July 28, 2009

admin — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 15:30:48 +0000

As I travel through Mongolia this week, I decided to have a photo flashback! Two years ago I was traveling through Morocco – one of my favorite countries! I recently went back to edit some writing and photography about my time there. Enjoy this flashback of photos and check out one of the most popular stories from that trip!

The Disappearance of the Traveling Pants

Morocco Photography

Chefchaouen, Morocco (the Blue Town in the Mountains) – this town is magical and it’s bathed in blue! A must see if you travel through Morocco!

Chefchaouen Landscape

Blue Door

The Blue Alleyways

The Blue Market

Losing my Marbles – Hostage Crisis at an Airport Hotel

Sherry — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 10:07:53 +0000

Me, Rosaline, and Sherif at the Cairo airport

After nearly 11 months of travel, it finally happened – I finally reached the end of my rope. Thanks to Egypt Air and Royal Air Maroc Airlines – I nearly had a nervous breakdown that was colossal. I actually had visions of me ending up in a Moroccan jail, arrested by the airport police in Casablanca. This incident actually happened over a week ago – but it was such a sour, terrible experience that I couldn’t even bring myself to write about it until now. I had to step away and collect my thoughts a bit first…so here’s my story of 2 shitty airlines, an inept airport hotel, non-existent customer service, living in the same clothes for 3 days, shedding many tears, making 2 great friends, and experiencing the largest cultural difference that I have faced yet – this is the story of how I got from Morocco to Egypt.

I left Marrakech bound for a flight to Cairo Egypt. I was to arrive in Cairo on Sunday morning early which was perfect as my tour that I was to meet up with started on Sunday night. The Egypt tour group was to meet for dinner that night at our hotel and then early the next morning we were touring around Cairo – I was finally going to be able to see the Pyramids! I had booked my air ticket through Royal Air Maroc who flew me from Marrakech to Casablanca. I had a 4 hour layover in the Casablanca airport and then hopped an overnight flight from Casablanca to Cairo on a Royal Air Maroc flight operated by Egypt Air. Thankfully my bags had been checked through to Cairo so I didn’t have to lug anything around other than my carry-on which included my laptop, camera, passport holder and a book or two. I worked on catching up on my writing while sitting around at the airport, and I worked at spending my remaining dirhams since I wasn’t expecting to be back in Morocco anytime soon! In fact – I was rather proud of myself for spending every last dirham I had at the little café on 3 bottles of water, gum, and M&M’s. In fact, I was actually short by one dirham and the nice boy behind the counter at the café just let it ride. Perfect! I was ready to go to Egypt!

I boarded the plane, excited to have some downtime to simply listen to music and read and sleep. The plane wasn’t full so I had my whole row to myself…a great perk for an overnight flight! Things were looking great! We taxied out to the runway, and you could hear a weird noise – but I had my itunes on listening to the Digital Photography Show Podcast – perfectly happy in my geeky photography world. It appeared that we turned the corner and were about ready to take off down the runway – but we stopped instead. Little did I know that this signified the beginning of the end. We sat for about 10 minutes with the weird noise still ringing throughout the aircraft. Then the crew/captain came on the loudspeaker and said something in Arabic, and then repeated it in French. I wasn’t really too concerned as I watched the reactions of the passengers around me – they all seemed a little annoyed, but they just stayed seated and kept on reading – I decided that I would follow their lead.

About an hour later, I was starting to get annoyed and restless. We still hadn’t moved and it was now 1AM and I was getting tired. Soon we had another announcement – in Arabic and French and now everyone around me wasn’t ok…in fact – they seemed rather upset and started to get up and get their items out of the overhead. I still didn’t know what was going on – but I followed the crowd and removed my items and followed people off the plane in a sleepy haze. There were airport buses waiting for us and everyone got in a bus and were bussed back to the terminal. Obviously – this flight wasn’t going anywhere tonight…crap. It wasn’t the end of the world as I had an extra day in Cairo anyway before my tour started – so if I made it there later in the day – no problem. I liked my new laid back attitude…3rd world countries make you patient…and I felt like I had successfully stripped my high strung NY attitude and achieved patience successfully in Morocco. However, since I was tired, I was mildly annoyed with the whole situation.

As I got off the bus and followed the rest of the passengers back to the terminal I was rather fed up with the fact that I really had no idea what was going on. I was worried that I was going to be sleeping on the airport floor; and let me tell you, there’s nothing in the Casablanca airport besides one (yes one) electrical plugs, a few worthless shops, and smokers (you can smoke all over Morocco). The prospect of sleeping in the airport was not a good thought.

As we re-entered the terminal, there were some men passing out arrival/departure customs cards….now wait a minute…I was really confused now. I decided to start using my vocal chords at this point. As the guy handed me the card, I asked him if he spoke English. He motioned me over to the side to wait (for someone who spoke English to come talk to me presumably). I got fed up with waiting while everyone on the plane passed me, and finally butted in again and asked him if he could explain to me what was going one and why were they giving us customs cards again. He told me to follow everyone and that someone from the airline would be out to talk to us. He also mentioned something about sending us to a hotel. So I kept on following the crowd to customs, loosing my patience slowly. I filled out the card and we all queued up again and they basically voided our previous Morocco departure stamp in our passport and admitted us back into the country as if we never left. By this time it was now about 1:45AM, and my annoyance and sleepiness level increased another notch. I finally found someone again and whiningly asked them what was going on. They told me to wait and someone would explain.

Apparently the whininess of my English attracted some other English speakers because we all started to gather together…all 4 of us. We expressed confusion about the whole situation – no one knew what was going on, but everyone thought we were being sent to a hotel. As we were all commiserating together, one of the Australian women next to me, Rosaline, said something about the fact that her tour started tomorrow and she was worried about missing it. I said – “yeah, me too.” As we continued this miserable exchange, we came to realize that we were actually both booked on the same tour in Egypt with Intrepid! It was really a weird coincidence that we had both been in Morocco touring and now we were both heading to Egypt on the same day to start the same tour. Hell, we were probably slotted to be roommates in Egypt for all we knew – and here we met in the Casablanca airport at 2AM!

We did introductions and stayed together as we followed the crowd back out to the departure area and out of the airport to 2 big buses. Since we were talking, I don’t think that I was really thinking to much about what was really happening and that no one from the airline seemed to be present – instead, I just followed the crowd and talked to Rosaline about her Morocco trip. I have no idea who was leading us out to the buses, an airport employee of some sort, but no airline representative was to be seen – this should have been my first red flag…but I was tired, and missed this first clue. Maybe my dream of working as a ‘Charlie’s Angels’ private detective was really a little too lofty for me. I obviously wasn’t paying close attention.

Rosaline and I stayed by each other’s sides because we both needed to get to Cairo for the same reasons, and we both spoke English! We sat on one of the buses for a long time – another 20 minutes passed and the crowd really started to get cranky. No one was telling us any more than the fact that we were going to a hotel. At this point I also realized that I didn’t have my luggage…shit. Sure, I had my carry-on’s, but my luggage had been checked and was on the plane. When you are a world nomad like myself – your suitcase becomes the only thing you are responsible for – it is your life, your home, your identify sort of like a homeless person with their shopping cart. You lose that shopping cart and you are really screwed. Annoyance turned up one more notch. The thought of not having my suitcase by my side that night made me really, really jumpy.

As the crowd was getting rowdy on the bus, Rosaline and I started to get a bit more worried as we still had no idea why we were on the bus, where we were going, when we were coming back, if we’d every see our luggage again, or who was paying for our hotel. People were yelling around us in Arabic; we made the comment to each other that we didn’t understand what was going on. The worst is that you don’t know what happening and you don’t know if that’s due to the language barrier or if it’s because no one is providing any info to anyone. You start to assume that it’s the language barrier and believe that everyone else knows what’s going on. However, this lovely young Arabic man in the seat ahead of us turned around and explained to us in perfect English that we were being taken to a hotel and that no one had provided any additional information at this time. Rosaline and I thanked him and then looked at each other and mouthed that we needed to keep this translator around…we knew that he would be invaluable in this crazy escalating situation. Finally at 3AM the buses started moving and we went about 7 minutes to the Atlas Airport Hotel…my cell for the next 2 days.

As we entered the hotel, I knew this was not going to be a good situation – there were about 40 very angry people and 1 man at the front desk. The check-in procedure was painful – pulling teeth without novacane would have been more fun. Everyone attacked this man behind the counter for a room. Yelled at him, and crowded around. Even though I was dead tired – I didn’t feel like getting caught up in the craziness – instead I was pre-occupied with making a mental list of what items I had with me in my carry-on bags and what was in my luggage that was not with me. I think I was going through all of the worst-case scenarios in my head – what if I never saw my luggage again, etc. The only real necessity that I was missing for the night was a toothbrush and toothpaste – so it wasn’t the end of the world – in fact, I had my really important, expensive things with me – camera, lenses, laptop, ipod, cell phone, and passport/travel wallet. I even had a breath freshener spray…so the lack of a toothbrush wasn’t a big deal. However at that time I also realized that I had no Moroccan money anymore as I had gotten rid of it all. I wasn’t too thrilled about that – but I had assumed that the airline would take care of us and tomorrow we would leave sometime, no problem.

Rosaline, Sherif (our translator), and I sat in the lobby of the Atlas Airport Hotel while about 40 people duked it out at the front desk yelling and screaming at each other. I had found my inner-peace again, or maybe I was just exhausted, but I just sat there and waited – for another hour. Soon the line died down and I got up and eventually they gave us all keys to our own rooms, and we went to bed around 4:30AM…exhausted. I was mildly concerned that I really had no idea when we were leaving tomorrow but the front desk said they would call us in the morning with the information. Mind you…this was just the hotel staff telling us that – no airline representative was ever present – yet because we are human – we want to believe in people, so I fooled myself into thinking that the hotel staff must know what they are talking about. I’m sure that we’ll leave sometime tomorrow on another flight. Worst case scenario, we will be put on tomorrow night’s nightly flight to Cairo and I will be one day late. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t the end of the world either. If I was delayed exactly one day, that would mean that I would arrive in the early morning on Monday and I would hook up with my tour group on day one. The tour was scheduled to go see the Pyramids that first morning – the whole reason I was coming to Egypt – so I didn’t want to miss that! I fell asleep, a little uneasy with the whole situation, but exhaustion took over.

The next morning I awoke early, at 7:30 – due to the mild stress of the situation no doubt. I took a shower, tried to brush my teeth with my finger and my Listerine spray, and waited until 8AM to call the front desk to see what was going on. I had somehow thought that the front desk would for sure have some information for us by now. The airline should have a new plan and I wanted to know what it was so that I could go about making the necessary phone calls to Intrepid, my tour company, and let them know what was going on. I called the front desk, told them that I arrived last night on the late, cancelled flight and asked for an update. For the first time of many, they said “Sorry, Miss, we have not heard from the airline.” I was taken aback by this a bit, and asked when they expected to hear from them. They said that they should know more by 9AM. Ok, that’s wasn’t too far off, so I decided to ask the next big question on my mind…”will you be feeding us breakfast?”

Rosaline, Sherif, and I met in the lobby at 8:30, received our breakfast vouchers at the front desk and had breakfast. We got to know each other a little better over bread and butter (the typical breakfast in Morocco). Sherif was 21 years old, from Cairo. He was a tennis player – ranked 3rd in Egypt – and he had been in Morocco for a tournament. He had actually traveled all over the world playing tennis, which explains his flawless English skills. He told us about Cairo as we mentally started our tour through his information. After breakfast we went back out to the front desk and asked about the status of the cancelled flight and when we would be leaving. We got the same answer, “We have not heard from the airline.” I was visibly disappointed and Sherif stepped in and talked to them in Arabic. He didn’t get any further with the conversation unfortunately – but they told us that we should just be patient and the airline would call them when we were supposed to go.

I decided to stay calm, and do the next best thing – I asked them about internet access as I had seen a wireless router on the wall of the lobby. They had free internet…the one redeeming factor of the whole situation. I knew that if I could get online, I could get information. The web is my friend, and it ended up being my savior. I checked email, did some writing, while Rosaline and Sherif went back to bed. Sure, the hotel was very nice – just like your typical airport hotel – good, clean rooms, bad food, swimming pool, bar. However – we didn’t have our luggage, and I had no Moroccan money with me – so the pool just taunted us, as well as the bar.

Noon came around, my teeth were getting really icky now, and I was getting more and more concerned about the fact that we hadn’t heard any info. I went to the front desk again…still no info, but they gave me a lunch voucher. The 3 of us went to lunch again and now all we talked about was what was happening, or not happening with our flight. Sherif had talked to his parents in Cairo, and they said that the Egypt Air office at the Cairo airport said that the flight was delayed and that it would be leaving Casablanca shortly…ha. We went back to the front desk after lunch, well fed, but more annoyed than ever, and was much more forceful when asking for information. They kept on reassuring me that they had been calling the airport but they had no further information about our flight, they ensured us that they would contact us when they had any info.

Is your skin crawling yet….because this is when my skin started to crawl.

I was hot….I wanted information and I was tired of trying to get information via a hotel staff that really could care less about us. And I wanted to brush my teeth. I wanted to talk to someone at the airline…NOW. I got back online, and started looking up the websites for Eygpt Air, Royal Air Maroc, and the Casablanca Airport – I was just swinging in the air hoping to hit something. I started calling all of the numbers…international phone calls of course = expensive. I tried to use my cell phone, but decided that it would be way too expensive, so I used Skype on my computer and started making the phone calls through my laptop/internet for cheap. I dialed every number I could…however not a single number answered the phone. It was Sunday – and many of the offices were closed. Egypt Air only had one flight per day in conjunction with Royal Air Maroc that went out of the Casablanca airport – so they were only open at 9PM, and to make it more confusing – it was really a Royal Air Maroc flight operated by Egypt Air – so I honestly didn’t know who was responsible….but I kept on swinging.

I sent a note to the Egypt Air customer service email provided on their website – in vain…I’m still waiting for an answer a week later. I made the mistake of thinking that if they had something listed on their website – that it must be accurate. However, no phone number worked nor did the customer service email. In fact, the only phone number on the whole site that someone actually answered was the tech support number. Some poor guy in India had to listen to me rant – only to tell me that he couldn’t help me and that I needed to call customer service – I told him I couldn’t get a hole of customer service – so he gave me a new telephone number…but of course it didn’t work. It was now around 3PM – still no info at all. I finally went to the hotel gift shop and had to buy a toothbrush and toothpaste. However – you could only put purchases of 100+ dirham on your credit card – so I ended up buying toothpaste for Sherif and Rosaline too – so that I could at least make a purchase.

I tried to contact Intrepid to let them know that Rosaline and I were stranded in Casablanca and we weren’t sure when we were getting to the tour – but even they were closed on Sunday…I hate Sundays. I finally found a customer service phone number online for Royal Air Maroc and called it. Someone answered….hallelujah. As I tried to explain our situation (flight was cancelled, bussed to the hotel in the middle of the night, and now left here with absolutely no information about when we would be leaving), the customer service person put me on hold, came back after a few minutes and told me – “Miss, I’m sorry, but that’s an Egypt Air flight, you will need to call their office.” My brain was at it’s boiling point with this answer. I angrily explained back to this man that I tried to call the office for the last 2 hours, but no one answers – plus , my ticket was purchased through Royal Air Maroc – I am their customer and they need to be responsible in this situation too. I kept getting the same answer – they couldn’t do anything for me. I asked to be put on the flight tonight that left for Cairo (as I figured this would be my worst case scenario played out) – they looked at is and said, “Sorry, it’s full. You really need to talk to Egypt Air. We cannot do anything for you here.” Now I’m officially pissed.

My worst case scenario wasn’t the worst case. In fact – now I have no worst case scenario anymore because I have no idea what’s going on and who to blame. There are no flights to Egypt and no one from the frickin’ airline has contacted us, no one is answering their phone, and now I’m going to miss the Pyramids…and I still have no idea when I will arrive in Cairo. At this time, Rosaline comes up to my command station in the 2nd floor lobby, and says – I have bad news. The hotel staff just told me that we will be leaving tomorrow around 4PM.

My friends and colleagues in NY know how I get when I’m worked up. I was beyond worked up at this point. I wanted to pummel someone, I was angry, I was sad, I was emotional, I had lost all patience. I NEEDED to talk to someone from the airline – NOW. I needed to explain that they had to put me on that flight tonight – somehow, someway. I needed to get our of this damn airport hotel where they knew nothing and talk to someone.

The Royal Air Maroc Customer service person had suggested that I go directly to the airport and see if someone from Egypt Air was there that could help me, if not, they said to ask for the Chief of the Airport. I grabbed Rosaline, Sherif, and my backpack – and took the airport bus back to the airport around 6PM. I felt like a General going off to war…but I didn’t really know who the enemy was. I had decided that I wasn’t going to leave that airport unless I was on that night flight, or without an answer as to when exactly I was leaving, or a ticket on another airline that could get me to Cairo, or my luggage. I was going to take no prisoners – I was worked up, I wanted someone to speak to, I wanted someone to tell me what the hell was going on, I wanted someone to treat me like a customer, I wanted my luggage.

We arrived at the airport and went straight to the Egypt Air office…a little sign read – Closed Sundays…blow to the stomach. However, they had 3 phone numbers on the sign as an alternative. I had my cell phone and dialed all of the local Casablanca numbers – not one answered…another blow. We decided to go to the next responsible party…Royal Air Maroc – they were at least open and should be able to help us in some way. Little did I know that I was walking into a minefield of the rudest people I have ever met. These people were despicable. Our game-plan is to have Sherif be our voice since he can at least speak Arabic – they might be nicer to us that way. Sherif goes through an exchange with the Duty Manager at the Royal Air Maroc office. Even though I can’t understand it – I know it’s not going well. They basically tell us that it’s Egypt Air’s flight – they can’t help us. Yet – we show them our tickets that have the fact that we have Royal Air Maroc (RAM) tickets and the flight has two flight numbers – one for RAM and one for Egypt Air. They continue to give us the cold shoulder and send us to a different RAM office in a different part of the airport.

I feel angry.

We go there – it’s a ticket office – we talk to them. They tell us to go talk to the Duty Manager (who we just came from) and work it out with him. They also tell us that the flight tonight is full and our names aren’t on the passenger list. The final blow is that they tell us that they have no record of a flight going out tomorrow to Cairo around 4 or 6PM – the only flight is the standard 11PM flight – and our names aren’t on that either.

I feel invisible.

They tell us to contact Egypt Air – we are frustrated and yell back at them that Egypt Air is closed and no one answers their phone. We ask them to call Egypt Air for us on their phone – they refuse. They tell us to go back and talk to the Duty Manager…the evil man that we just came from. We ask them to come with us as we told them that the Duty Manager sent us here! They say no.

I feel helpless.

We go back to the duty manager, he sees us coming and goes into his office trying to avoid us. We go into his office and start the futile process again saying that the RAM ticket office told us they we were to come back here and they said that he should help us. At this point – I wasn’t even sure what help I needed…but I needed something. He came out of his office, he yelled at us more – basically making us feel like it was our fault that we were in this situation. I tried to speak to him logically about our situation and our lack of knowledge of next steps, and our need to get to Cairo, he turned around and walked away from me. We were left standing in the middle of the airport.

I felt like crying.
I did cry.

Sherif, young Sherif put his hand on my shoulder and said that it would be ok – not to worry.

Photo: The Royal Air Maroc office in the airport where I lost my marbles.
We went to the luggage area to see if we could at least pick up our luggage as without our luggage we were really a hostage. I couldn’t just re-book myself on another flight – there were no other flights going to Egypt. I could possibly buy a ticket to get me to Istanbul and them from Istanbul to Cairo…but there were a few problems with that. One, I would probably never see my luggage again, and two I would have to pay for it out of my own pocket. My father ingrained these principles of right, wrong, justice, and fairness in me. These principles grow deep within me. I love them and I hate them. I wasn’t going to pay for another ticket when one of these goddamn airlines were responsible for my travel to Egypt. The shitty part is that I didn’t know who was responsible. The luggage manager told us that we couldn’t get our luggage as it was still on the plane, locked up. Wonderful….my visions of putting on my bathing suit and jumping in the hotel pool to cool down my temper and attitude were ruined. Plus – now I’m more confused than ever – why is our plane still sitting out on the tarmac with our luggage in it – it has been nearly 24 hours. The luggage manager tells us to go back and talk to the ticket office.

I feel lost.

We go back to the RAM ticket office – we let Sherif do all the talking at this point – I’m on the brink of losing my mind – I can’t speak. I see mild-mannered Sherif starting to get upset with the conversation. I may not speak Arabic – but I’ve been traveling enough in foreign countries to interpret most conversations – and I know that this conversation isn’t going well. Another RAM manager comes over to us – yells at Sherif. Now, in all fairness – I’m not sure if he was yelling as the Arabic language is a very gruff language. It’s already loud and ‘in your face’ – so it is hard to tell if someone is angry with you or if they are just saying “have a nice day”. But in the mental state that I was in at this point – it seemed like yelling to me. Sherif gather up Rosaline and I (who were now blobs of depression about the whole situation) and told us that we were to go back to the Duty Manager at the RAM office. He said that the ticket office does agree that it’s RAM’s responsibility to help us, but the Duty Manager has to do that. For mental levity, I wonder what it costs to hire a private plane.

I feel empty.

I don’t want to go back to the Duty Manager…the callous man that left me crying in the middle of the airport. But I have surrendered to Sherif now – I’m letting him deal with it. It’s now about 8:30 PM – we have been walking back and forth in this airport now for 2 hours, making no headway, learning that we still have no flight, and we have no luggage. We are nowhere. Sherif talks to more people at RAM. I notice that mild mannered Sherif is now getting visibly upset while talking to the Manager. They are yelling, they are disagreeing. The Duty Manager refuses to speak anymore – they are in a stare down. I look around the airport, I imagine myself letting out a blood curdling scream…just to get attention, just to not feel invisible, just to let out all of the emotions that are dying to break out of my skin. I have this lucid vision of the police surrounding me, cuffing me, and taking me away to some Moroccan jail…all because no one will talk to us and tell us what flight we are on and when. I have officially reached the end of my rope.

I give up.

We go back to the hotel, get dinner voucher and sit and eat in silence…dejected, more confused than ever, feeling lost. I look around at the other stranded guests at the hotel. There are many. Why aren’t they mad, why aren’t they making a scene – the thought of this makes me even more angry. I realize there is a huge cultural difference here, but I can’t understand how they can just sit back and do nothing about this clusterfuck that we are in. Maybe they are just happy to be in a nice hotel with a pool, swimming in their underwear. Or maybe they know more than we know…maybe there is a conspiracy going on here. I am loosing my mind now. The front desk has no more information other than the fact that they will get a call tomorrow afternoon and then they will bus us to the airport for a flight. I wash my clothes in the bathroom sink.

I go to bed.

Photo: Pool that we were unable to use at the Atlas Hotel

The next day I wake up refreshed – a new fight in me. It’s Monday now – our tour group is looking at the Pyramids right now – we are still stuck in an airport hotel – with no information. We get our breakfast voucher. Rosaline and I make a plan – we will go to the airport again and the Egypt Air office should be open by now – we can talk to someone there and at least get the information as to if we are truly on a flight, when it leaves, and when it will arrive in Egypt. Since 2 nights have passed, we have missed the Pyramids, and we have a bigger problem – our tour group is leaving Cairo tonight and taking an overnight train south to the town Aswan. Therefore, we no longer need to even get to Cairo…we need to get to the town of Aswan so that we can meet up with our tour group there in route. It’s 8:30AM, before we leave for the airport in search of an Egypt Air representative, we ask the front desk girl for any addition information about our phantom flight. She says – oh – I heard that you are leaving at 11. What?

I am confused.

We arrive at the airport. The Egypt Air office is still closed. We talk to Information. They try to contact the numbers at Egypt Air – no one answers for them either. They cannot help us. We ask what the flights are that are going to Cairo today – they say there are two – one at 4:00, and one at 11:00 both by RAM. We go to the RAM counter – a new Duty Manager is there…he is nice, helpful, says that it’s not our fault. He looks up our names on the two flights. Our names aren’t on the flights. He said that there are no other flights listed. He said that we would need to talk to Egypt Air.

I am lost.

We go back to the hotel just in case there really is a bus at 11:00 taking us somewhere, anywhere…hell, maybe it’s driving us to Cairo. We are grasping at straws. We ask the front desk if there is a bus at 11:00, the girl says no – the bus will leave around 4PM to take us to the airport for a flight around 6PM. I tell her that we were just at the airport and that there is no flight at this time. She says, “Well, that’s what the agent told us – that’s all the information I have.” I immediately key in on ‘the agent’ Who is this agent? Who does he work for? What is his number? Is he the Wizard of Oz making the decisions – I need to talk to him!!! She has no contact info for him and does not know what airline he works for. I agitatedly ask her who is paying for the rooms. She says Royal Air Maroc.

I am pissed.

I now have a mission – I will get to the bottom of this – I will. I go back to the second floor lobby and set up my command center again…laptop, Skype, cell phone…group of 4 people standing around me (the other English speakers) waiting for action. I was ready to lead my troops into battle again…but one that I had the upper hand in…in the digital world of the internet. I decide that I need to talk to someone from the western world…someone that understands customer service, someone that understands that you don’t just take a plane full of passengers and dump them in an airport hotel for 2 days and not EVER talk to them. I am armed with the internet and I’m swinging again. I find a Egypt Air phone number for a London office. Great – they are awake by this time in the morning – I will call them. After being transferred a couple of time, I finally get to a customer service number for Egypt Air in London. I am connected to Susan, a customer service rep. I tell her the story. She says, “What has the airline representative told you?” I said – there has been no airline representative…none…ever! She said that can’t be…but I tell her it’s the truth. She asks how many passengers are stranded here…I told her about 40 or so. She told me that they have offices in Casablanca that I should contact – I said yes, I know, but no one answers the 5 phone number that I have. She puts me on hold. She tries to call the Casablanca office – after 5 minutes she comes back…she couldn’t get a hold of them either. I say to her – “Look, I’ve got a group of passengers around me with no idea what is going on, we’ve been here for 2 days with no information, I beg you to help us.” She said, “Sherry, you don’t have to beg, we’ll work this out.”

I feel justified.

After being put on hold a number of times again – she takes my cell phone number and promises that she will call me back. I can hear her manager behind her – they both seem absolutely shocked and embarrassed that we are in this situation…the exact emotions that they should have. When I told her I missed the Pyramids, she felt my pain. She was on my side. I liked Susan…she was my angel.

I waited.

Susan called me back and told me that I would be getting a call from the Egypt Air Manager in Casablanca shortly. I trusted her, so I waited. At noon, the manager, Salem, contacted me – apologizing profusely, and providing me answers. They were waiting for a part to be shipped from some other country. It arrived today and they were repairing the plane now. He was expecting that we would leave around 6PM that night. He said that he would call me back at 1PM with an update. I told him that Rosaline and I now need to get to Aswan, he said that he’d take care of it.

Justice.

I am sure that Salem, the Casablanca manager, got in a huge amount of trouble of this – as he should have. Susan told me that she called the Egypt corporate office and explained things. I’m sure that Salem had someone rip him a new one from the corporate office. I bought myself a bottle of wine, to celebrate my small step forward, and to take the edge off, I cried more, I just wanted to be away from this stupid place, I wanted to be in Egypt, I wanted my luggage, I wanted to change clothes, I wanted this to be over. I think that once I got some action, I was able to release all of the emotion inside.

Redemption.

Salem called me back and said that me and the other passengers should go to the lobby now and that there would be a bus waiting to take us to the airport to be put on a 4PM flight. The mechanical fix was successful. He then asked me how I would like to pay for the Aswan tickets…

Anger.

What? Did I hear that correctly? I said, “Sir, I appreciate all of your assistance this afternoon. I’m sure that you can appreciate the situation that we are all in here, so I’m sorry if I get upset, but I am NOT paying for the Aswan tickets. It’s Egypt Air’s responsibility to get us to Aswan now. You cancelled our flight, left us at an airport hotel for 2 days with out any communication, I have now missed my tour, and Egypt Air is responsible for getting me to Aswan.” He told me that he would have to pay for them himself. I said, “I’m not looking for you to pay for them out of your own pocket, I’m expecting that Egypt Air pays for them. Do I need to call customer service and talk to them about it?” The magic words…he said that he’d call me back.

We got on the bus.

We arrived at the airport and I had a call from Salem again, he said that I was to look for Mr. Sukani at the Egypt Air office at the airport, he would have our Aswan tickets for us. Mr. Sukani doted on us…he made sure that we were ok and had everything we needed. This is how it should be.

Perfect.

Photo: Boarding the repaired plane

As I sat in the waiting area with Rosaline, and Sherif feeling justified finally – I called back Susan from customer service and thanked her profusely. I looked at my boarding pass and ticket to Aswan – I called Salem back and thanked him and told him that I appreciated his help. He said that he was glad to work things out, was sorry for the confusion, and that he hopes that I come back to visit Casablanca soon.

Yeah right…never.

We arrived in Aswan the next morning…exhausted from our 2 days of hell, 5 hour flight, 4 hour layover, and 1 hour flight. We met Sherif’s mother and father at the Cairo Airport – we gave them a big hug and told them that they raised a great man. We promised to come cheer him on in the US open and the Australian Open one day! We collapsed with our luggage in our room…the ordeal finally over.

Photo: All of us with our boarding passes…finally.

Prologue

There is good and bad out of this ordeal. Sure, I already knew that airline travel can suck. However, I learned a lot about myself, but I mainly learned about the cultural differences. There are cultures that sit back and accept things – and then there are cultures that demand results. I was happy that I was able to hold it together (even if it was by a thread) long enough to get results. I felt alive again – I felt resourceful. Rosaline and I will be able to see the Pyramids…we are actually ending the tour in Cairo so we have rearranged our tour schedule to see the Pyramids the last day in Egypt. The bad news is that I have to hop back on an Egypt Air flight to get out of the country….God help me.

Some information in this post provided by Private Plane Charters

Moroccan Rainbow – Final Thoughts

Sherry — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 15:49:35 +0000

Colorful tea set

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I’m sure you might be surprised that I didn’t use the obvious title choice for this Moroccan send-off post – Rockin’ the Kasbah… I did actually think about it, but that’s not what I think of when I examine my parting thoughts about Morocco. From the moment I started journeying around Morocco – I was struck by the color…brown. I kept imagining that if the world were a painting palette, Morocco would represent the brown splotch of paint. Photo: Brown Morocco Continuing the thought, New Zealand would be green, Greece would be blue, Thailand would be purple, and Italy would be red, Bali would be yellow, and Cambodia would be black. But as I spent more time in Morocco, acquainting myself with the cities, the culture, the food, the language – I realized that Morocco had much more depth than just brown. Sure, the landscapes and the Kasbahs had a brown hue, there were few trees, little water, and even the camels and donkeys were shades of brown; however, I started making other observations, colorful ones.

When I’m in a country for a long amount of time, I like to share my perspectives on it, the things that bewilder me, that make me laugh, that frustrate me – but things that capture my mind none the less. I’ve compiled my thoughts on Morocco by color – because that’s how my mind will remember Morocco.

Green: Mint abounds in Morocco – and the national drink is mint tea. We drank mint tea everywhere, in the dessert, in the mountains, in berber villages, in cafes – everywhere. There’s a whole ritual about the tea – when the pot of tea has finished brewing, they lace a number of juice-like glasses , and they pour the tea into the first glass. Then they promptly put the pot down, open the lid and pour the tea from the glass back into the pot. Every time, the first glass gets poured back into the glass. Never mind how hard it is to drink piping hot tea out of juice glasses…think about it – there’s really nothing to grip onto except for the rim of the glass – therefore, you have to drink your mint tea very carefully! The tea consists of a handful of fresh mint leaves for each glass, and about a ¼ cup of sugar per glass. I’m not joking – Moroccans LOVE sugar. It’s actually like drinking a mint syrup at times – I really couldn’t take it. If you ask for it with no sugar, the locals look at you as if you had two heads. Sure, I love frosted flakes – but in Morocco, I think they would add sugar to their frosted flakes! This does explain why Morocco has been some of the poorest dental hygiene that I’ve seen on my travels…I’m convinced it’s the tea! There’s lots of teeth that have gone missing in Morocco!

Orange: Morocco puts Florida to shame when it comes to orange juice. The OJ is truly amazing in this country – and it’s everywhere. Since there is very little alcohol in the country, I think they compensate with orange juice…it’s so good it could be alcohol! There are orange juice stands everywhere…kind of like Starbucks on every corner in Manhattan. When you order it, they pull out about 5 oranges, slice them and squeeze them right in front of you…pure and sweet. I would never normally order orange juice with my dinner, but in Morocco, I actually craved it. They had also turned this sweet colorful fruit into a wonderful dessert. Strangely, even though sugar was a big staple in the Moroccan diet, they didn’t really have any gooey, sugary desserts that they ate. Instead, the typical dessert was sliced oranges….with cinnamon sprinkled on top. This sounded absurd to me at first, but you really should give it a try – it’s delicious!

Yellow: Well, the obvious answer for yellow is the brightly burning sun. I never normally give much thought to the make up of the sun…I simply expect it to come up every morning and go down every night. However, while in Morocco – I gave a lot of thought to the sun, an infernal burning ball of gas. Most days it felt as if that ball of burning gas was two inches away from my forehead, flames licking the tip of my nose sapping energy out of me in order to gain more energy for itself. However, my most vivid memory of yellow was the soft, gold glow of the lights in the hammam that I attended in Essaouria. It reminded me of a dimly lit bar, warm, and glowing. It was the perfect place to site around naked and socialize, I can see why Moroccan women make it a part of their daily lives – it’s relaxing, and it’s a place where they can be themselves.

Red : In all of the markets, you would see stacks of pottery, that were conical and normally a deep redish color. The conical pieces came in all sizes, and they could also be found in every kitchen in the country. They were tanjines. Tanjines are the main dish in Morocco – you’ll find it on every menu at nice restaurants, in berber villages, at roadside shacks…everywhere. Tanjines could be chicken, fish, vegetable, whatever – they are all pretty tasty regardless. The word tanjine though is really referring to the style of cooking as opposed to the dish itself. Kind of like a stir-fry wok or a roaster – a tanjine is a two part piece of pottery – a plate, and a conical ‘hat’ that fits over the plate. The plate is placed on a flame, and the food is cooked inside…always producing a tender, yummy meal that was on every menu in the country.

Blue: I get a picture in my head for blue – and it’s not Chefchaouen (the blue painted town in the hills). I remember the bright blue skies – never a cloud in it, just blue sky as far as you could see. In the Sahara Desert, The cloudless, blue skies, in relation to the sand dunes were brilliant. Add to that the Berber robes that were worn – always the color of a bright blue. When I would see the Berber men dressed in their bright blue robes and headdress, it sort of reminded me of Genie in a Bottle, yet I don’t think any of them were granting wishes. However, they did stand out, making the Berbers always appear bright and happy.

Black : I’m not sure, but the it seemed like the next largest crop behind oranges was olives. Salty, dark, wrinkly olives. The olive stands were works of art – designed painstakingly each morning by the shop owner, trying to make a design of olives that would catch your eye and make you want to buy. It actually made the devious side of me come out – I longed to go pull an olive out from the bottom of the pile and see if the whole beautiful work of art would tumble – or would it stay in place.

Pink: Throughout Morocco everyone had some pink in their home…in the form of toilet paper. After 3 weeks, I think I only saw white colored toilet paper twice, once in the Sofitel hotel and again in my upscale Riad that I stayed at. White toilet paper was definitely reserved for the well off. The rest of the country used pink, signifying recycled toilet paper. Recycled from what? Well, there are some answers that you are just better off not knowing the answer to. The pink toilet paper was everywhere…that is when they had toilet paper. The rolls of pink – weren’t bad, they were just a little weird to me. New rolls barely had any paper on it – which really kept any potential excessive usage in check! There was never enough to go around, which necessitate us hording it from motel to motel. If you had looked in any one of our backpacks or bags, you would have found multiple rolls of pink toilet paper!

Photo: Me at top of the Atlas Gorge!
My 3 weeks in Morocco were memorable, and I enjoyed how the country grew on me during my stay. It was a rich, interesting culture, full of magnificent landscapes and terrain. During my stay, I feel like I was able to experience most of what Morocco had to offer! My favorite experiences were the unique ones – camping in the Sahara, going on an expedition to see goats in trees, and simply walking the medina in Fez. I doubt that Morocco has ever experience a rainbow…mainly because there’s never any moisture in the air or rain to reflect light off of. However, that doesn’t mean that it’s not a colorful country.

Disappearance of the Traveling Pants

admin — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 06:49:27 +0000

My favorite pants...where are they now??

While I was traveling in Essaouria, Morocco I had a funny experience with my traveling pants may they rest in peace.

During my travels with a limited wardrobe, you start to have your favorite travel clothes. Mine are a pair of cotton pants. I love these pants…they are the best…you’ve seen tons of pictures with me in these pants. They are a dark color (hide the dirt), they are baggy (great for my ever-expanding waistline and ass), they have pockets (wonderful for holding toilet paper, lens caps, and purel), and they can actually be dressed up and rather stylish looking if need be…I love these pants. I was devastated a few weeks ago when the zipper broke. There was no way I was giving up these pants though – so I started wearing them by safety pinning the zipper shut…yes – it looked ghetto, but it worked. I even got pretty good at undoing the safety pin quickly in times of desperate bathroom need!

In Essaouria, Morocco I decided to ask our local guide if he could take me to a tailor to get the zipper fixed. He took me to a local tailor in the medina and talked to the guy…perfect – I was to pick them up later that afternoon. However, when I went back that afternoon, the tailor tried to explain to me (he didn’t speak English – so the shop owner next door had to come do the translating) that he no longer had my favorite pants. Instead, he accidentally gave them to someone else.

Blank stare by me.

The repaired pants were in a black plastic bag. When another person came to pick up their repaired pants – the tailor accidentally gave him the wrong black plastic bag and the person left thinking they were his pants.
My mind was spinning, this really couldn’t be…not my favorite pants.
The tailor said that he knew the man, but had no way to get a hold of him. He thought that the man would surely bring back my pants the next day when he realized that he had the wrong ones.
Breath, breath, breath.

My normal NYC reaction would have been to ‘go off’ on this person. I actually started to get visibly mad, and then reminded myself that I had to be patient…this wasn’t NY – this was Africa, in a little local medina. So I said, “inshallah” and told him I would be back the next evening in hopes of picking up my pants.
The next evening came and I went back to the shop. The tailor didn’t have a positive look on his face. However, he handed me a plastic bag, when I opened it, I saw a pair of pants that were the color of my favorite pants – but were clearly not my pants.

The traveling pants in Vietnam-see the locals love them too!

I said – “These aren’t my pants.” – clearly starting to get angry and frustrated again. The neighboring shop owner came back over to do the translation. He explained that the man had not brought my pants back yet and the tailor felt so bad about it that he actually went out and purchased me a new pair of pants that looked similar. Ok – now I was humbled. This tailor probably made very little money in his closet sized shop…the fact that he went out and purchased me a new pair of pants was actually very touching. I knew that he felt very badly – and me getting angry wasn’t going to solve anything. I looked at the pants, thanked him, but tried to explain that I would try to come back yet tomorrow and see if my pants were returned instead. Regardless, he made me take the pants he purchased with me. I looked at them, but I knew there was no way that they would fit…he thought I was a ‘small’…which is flattering I guess…but I’m definitely NOT a ‘small’! I took them knowing I would bring them back tomorrow.

Day 3, I arrived at the tailor, the neighbor shop owner comes over – no pants…crap. I thanked him for the other pants, and told him they are too small and returned them to him (in hopes that he may be able to get his money back or barter them for something else), and I leave…leaving my favorite pants in Morocco. There is a light at the end of this tunnel though…a small chance that my Intrepid leader will get them back over the next few days and be able to send them to me in Egypt…but I don’t have high hopes! Regardless, it was a good exercise in patience I suppose. Yet I’m still not too happy that some Moroccan man is wearing my favorite pair of pants right now!

There will be other pants….but I will never forget the originals!

Turning down the volume…Tangier, Essaouria, and Chefchaouen

Sherry — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 17:53:02 +0000

Fishing Boats

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View snapshots of Chbefchaouen and Tangier

View Photos of Essaouria

The last week of travel through Morocco was when I finally hit my groove…I had started to get really comfortable with ‘real’ travel again. When I first arrived in Morocco – I was rather tense, on guard, and untrusting. Marrakech was a crazy place full of grime, strange people, strange culture and religion – it was a shock to my system. However – after about 2 ½ weeks, you get used to it – you acclimate to the environment around you. The people don’t seem scary and dangerous anymore – instead they are intriguing and you work your best to try to get through that initial exterior shell so you can see their real personality. The local transportation doesn’t seem as puzzling, the markets don’t feel as threatening – your favorite phrase becomes la shukran (no thankyou). The grime doesn’t seem as grimey, The feeling of never being clean just becomes a part of life. But most of all, you become patient again. You realize how things work, you stop fighting it and go with the flow…you accept things.

The first two weeks of travel through Morocco was like listening to my ipod with the volume turned up…loud and grating to my ears and pysche, making me tense and jumpy. However in week 3 it’s now as if the volume has been slowly turned down to an acceptable level…things are now humming…and this is a good place to be internally. You’ve found your balance…you look out the oven-like bus and smile at your surroundings. Your bus breaks down in the middle of the journey…oh well – wet a bandana with some water and sit and wait – inshallah – knowing that yelling and getting worked up about it isn’t going to get the bus fixed any faster here…just be patient.

My last week of itinerary found me in 3 great towns – Chefchaouen, Tangier, and Essaouria – and finally back in Marrakech for one last night. Chefchaouen was a beatnik little town in the mountains – a place where you could simply relax at a little café, drink mint tea and sit and read all day. Chefchaouen was known for two things…the color blue, and the Moroccan kif capital (pot…in English). All of the buildings were painted various shades of blue, the doors were painted blue, the shutters were painted blue, some of the streets were even painted blue, the pots that held plants were painted blue – and if you sat long enough in a café, I think some old lady would have come around and painted you blue too! As for the kif…well…I honestly know nothing about it…but was offered it many times! I had enough drugs in me since I had come down with a nasty cold! I spent my days trying to rest, catch up on writing, and doing a few short hikes into the hills and around the town.

We had some cramped accommodations in Chefchaouen as there were 6 of us sharing one bathroom with semi-warm water and a shower (over the toilet as usual) that barely dripped water out of it. I had a cold – but 3 of my fellow travelers and bathroom sharers were seriously sick…the ‘I really need a bathroom sick’ – so the shared space was interesting to say the least! The hotel did have a really nice little terrace though – you could watch the sunset over the blue hued buildings surrounded by the mountains…very relaxing. Our terrace was so nice that we all decided to do a little picnic for the sunset. We set out in the medina to gather nibblies…olives, goat cheese, bread, pastia (chicken pastries), nuts, M&M’s and of course wine. All were very easy to find and were actually super cheap (a pint of olives for $1…a bargain!), however, the booze seemed to elude us as usual in Morocco. We asked at a few shops if there was a store to buy wine in town – but most people said that they didn’t know of any…damn, dry country!!

However, we were determined. We finally came across a man at a little bar/café and asked him if he had wine for sale. He said that he did not, but if we wanted to buy alcohol we could go down the hill, around the corner, look for the Marco Polo Travel Agency sign, go to the second door past the travel agency and knock on it…there…we could find our booze. Cool…I felt immediately transported back into the Prohibition 1920’s…if I only had a flapper dress! As we followed the man’s directions exactly – we joked around about needing to know a secret knock…we really didn’t know if this guy was full of shit or not…but we all were hoping that this was the real thing!

Sure enough…we arrived at the second door, and gingerly knocked on it. A middle age man cracked the door a bit and stared at us. Karina asked if he sold wine in her best French – he looked us up and down and opened the door…we were in…no flapper dress required!! We made our wine and beer choices happily and walked back up the hill to our terrace spot for a laid back evening. Finding booze in Morocco is always a challenge – but this was definitely the most clandestine we ever had to be!

Next, we took a local bus to Tangier – yet another hot, motion sickening bus ride…the worst one yet (See Barf Bag Post). I used to think that one of the most painful ways to die would be to drown or to get caught in a fire…I’m starting to think that being trapped in a hot vehicle is going to make it to the top of that list…maybe I should think of happier things…moving on…

Photo: Tuna man at the fish market! HUGE tuna!
We arrived in Tangier, the main port of Morocco, Africa’s gateway to Europe! Being the gateway to Europe also means many other things…it means that it’s also the gateway for the drug trade to Europe, as well as the gateway for illegal immigration into Europe. Think Mexico to America = Tangier to Europe. Now, that creates an interesting mix of people in Tangier. You’ve got the vacationing, affluent Europeans that want to take a close by trip to Africa, and you’ve got the seedy underbelly of drug and people trafficking. This may scare some people off, but I must admit, I kind of liked it there! For one thing…it was the first place to offer us some ethnic cuisine options, like tapas! In addition – the seedy side meant that you could find booze much easier than knocking on a secret door. The first thing we did was check into our hotel, shower the bus stench off of us, and go out for sangria and tapas…joy. We topped it off by going to an Italian restaurant – one with air conditioning!

The next day we went on a little road trip to the beach. It was my first Moroccan beach. This normally doesn’t seem like a big deal…a beach…but this was really an interesting outing. For the past 2 weeks I have been fascinated by the women of Morocco. More specifically, the Muslim women. Their lives are so very different than mine. You don’t see many of them out, when you do they are covered head to toe. I have sat in cafes full of 30 men…but not one single woman…it’s a weird feeling for me. I would love to learn more about the women’s lives, how they live, their thoughts on things, and especially what they think about us…western women – but you never really get a feel for that, because they are invisible. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that extreme, women do get out and I’m sure they live a very good, happy life, but it’s just so different than myself, a female solo traveler, we are on opposite ends of the spectrum. So I was curious to see how many women were at the beach and what they were wearing.

As a traveler in a Muslim country, I have been totally respecting the dress code…covered shoulders and knees, loose fitting clothing. However, the beach is one place that the dress code doesn’t really apply…supposedly. As western tourists – we showed up to the beach, set up camp, and preceded to strip our layers of clothes off down to our swimming suits. For the first time- I was actually very self conscious of my flesh…you feel rather naked all of a sudden. We enjoyed the ocean breeze, watched the men flock around us (trying to be nonchalant about it of course), put on heavy, heavy sunscreen and had some good beach time.

However – I was well aware of my surroundings. I scanned around me to watch the various women on the beach. Any women over the age of 15 was about 50% more covered up than I was. Some had swimsuits…but they looked as if they came from the 1950’s…covered your ass and hips in a rather unflattering way. The majority of women were still in their full pants and long shirts as well as a head scarf. I have to believe this wasn’t for sun protection…this was just a cultural thing. Sitting at the beach covered up is really foreign to me…it made me hot just looking at them! However, some women would pull up their pants past their knees and sun the lower part of their legs. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but wonder what these women though of me lying next to them in my bikini…did they think that I was trashy, different, interesting, or just sinful? I will never know. After our beach time we wandered the medina and made our way back to Tangier for a beautiful sunset at the northwestern most point of Africa, Cap Spartel. I was amused at the fact that I had now been to the southern most point, and the northwestern most point of Africa…as well as the highest point…not bad for such a big continent…I covered the main geographical points of interest!

The next day we did a little walking tour of Tangier to the Kasbah, and some of the major sites. My favorite was our trip through the fish and meat market. The markets were pretty active…and not one female in them…it was definitely a man’s world. The smell was terrible…the only way to cope is to breath through the mouth…and even that doesn’t completely work! On top of things, I wasn’t really prepared to be walking through the market…wearing flip flops is NOT advised. Oh well, once you are in, you are in…flip flops and all – you suck it up, breath through your mouth, try to avoid the big puddles of animal remains, and keep going. I’ve been to many markets during this 10 month journey…and I love it when I see something new in a market. I was all of a sudden stunned when I went past the butchers and saw a huge cow head sitting on the counter. I was actually taken aback. It wasn’t just a simple cow head – instead all of the skin/hair had been singed off of it – so it was a skinless/hairless huge cow head staring back at me. Eewwwww.

We boarded an overnight train to Marrakech that night. This was my first train journey in Morocco – and it was waaayyyy better then my previous bus journeys! The sleeper cars were air conditioned… Humdulilah! Plus, they were fairly clean, and they provided a sheet and pillow…not too shabby. We had prepared for the train ride by buying a bottle of vodka…and sat up until midnight just hanging out in the bunks drinking vodka and sprite – great sleep medication for the train! We arrived in sweltering Marrakech that morning and immediately grabbed some fresh orange juice and hopped on a bus to Essaouria – a 3 hour journey.

Essaouria was a charming little beachfront town…and it had a different climate than the rest of Morocco that I had visited…it was livable for humans! It’s the windy city of Morocco – which made it a popular destination for wind surfers from around the world. It also was about 30 degrees cooler than Marrakech…which probably made it about 70…time to pull out my long sleeve clothing! It really was a great break from the heat. The town was charming, full of tourists, but still charming. This also meant that it had a bit of a night life – which was also a welcome site! We did a walking tour of the town, the next morning that provided us a trip into the medina…but this medina was different….it was built by the French. This may not mean much to you…but this meant that the medina was built on a grid meaning that you didn’t have to pay any young children to find your way out of the maze…you could actually do it yourself.

However – this grid did present problems for the Mosques. Mosques must face Mecca – which is normally pretty easy since there is no rhyme or reason to the streets. However, when you put a mosque on a grid and that street doesn’t point to Mecca – you now have a problem. They solved this problem by building the door frame at an angle!

I had been in Morocco for 20 days and I still hadn’t experienced one of the most cultural of Moroccan experiences yet…the hammam. A hammam is basically a public bath house – a place to come and socialize and get clean. Basically they are dark, hot sauna’s…and if you travel to Morocco or Turkey…this is a must-do! The hammam’s are organized by gender, so we wet to a women’s hammam in the medina. It was startling to me that we were walking through the streets of the medina passing women in their full dress and head scarves, and then we entered the hammam down this little set of steps, turned the corner, and there was a woman standing in her underwear. Talk about night and day! Like the beach experience – the hammam really intrigued me. Women who are completely covered up in public, came to a public bathhouse to bath in their undies.

Photo: Woman on cannon…I love this shot…I would love to know what she’s thinking
We chose the deluxe hammam treatment…which basically meant that you had your own personal woman in undies that washed you. These washing women were hearty…middle aged, boobs sagging, belly hanging, but they scrubbed 20 days of grime off of me! First you strip down to your undies and are led into a dark, tiled, humid room…the kind that you find it hard to breathe in. There was one little window that provided fresh air – the size of a greeting card. The lights glowed yellow like a dimly lit romantic restaurant…the kind that it’s too dark to even read the menu. There were sinks at the other end of the room with 3 basins – one with HOT water, one with cold water, and one medium temperature water. The woman provides you a little mat and motioned for you to lay down. She filled up a huge bucket and came over and abruptly dumped it on you…welcome to the hammam experience. This dumping and scrubbing continued for about 20 minutes. They scrubbed everywhere, you basically laid there like a fish out of water…helpless and they moved you around and continued to pour buckets of hot water over you, and scrub you down with soap and a loofa mit!

Once they had sufficiently removed all of the dead skin with the loofa, they then put a mud pack all over you and left you in the humid room for about 20 more minutes..to bake. While baking…your mind kind of wanders. All you can hear is the splashing of water, the sound of wet footsteps, it’s a weird out of body experience. Since 4 women from my group all went together – we sat around in our undies, and mud packed bodies, and talked. After all, this is what the hammam experience is about for women…socializing. It is historically the on place that women in this culture could come and talk to each other – so they would sit in the hammams for long periods and have a hen party. After baking in the mud and socializing it was time for the final wash down and massage. More buckets of water dumped all over – including the process of pulling out your undies and pouring water inside of them, as if you were 5 years old again. It was a strange experience, but one that I thoroughly enjoyed – I was certainly cleaner than I had ever been in Morocco!

They even provided us with a fluffy, big towel at the end…a true perk considering every towel I had ever been given in Morocco was the size of a hand towel and about as soft as sand paper. The best part of the whole experience though was walking outside for the first gasp of fresh, cool air again. It was like stepping out of an oven…it felt good to take nice deep breaths and have the cool wind hit your super clean body!

That night was our last night together as a travel group – so we went out and celebrated with tanjines, couscous, wine, and vodka. We even were treated to a birthday cake as we were celebrating Rob’s 21st birthday…oh to be so youthful again. We finished the night at a hip little Riad club dancing the night away, drinking our bootleg vodka out of water bottles until 3AM as if I were 21 again! The next morning we all said our goodbyes and headed back to Marrakech on our last local bus ride. In true form, the bus broke down and we were left sitting in the sweltering heat of the bus until they found the correct part in the next town…patience.

For my last night in Morocco, I decided to treat myself…I stayed one night at a high-end Riad with a proper shower, air conditioning, a pool, fluffy white towels, and a great big bed. A riad is basically an old-style Moroccan home…a small entryway, that opens up into a large courtyard with rooms situated off the courtyard. Many riads are being remodeled into hotels these days. There’s nothing better than earning these little rewards that you give yourself.

After 21 days in Morocco – I earned this…and it felt great. In fact, this lovely little riad was an oasis for me – it allowed me to recharge before I was heading off to the next backpacking journey through Egypt. The best part is that I had the whole riad to myself…I was the only guest there that night even though it had about 6 rooms to rent out. People pay thousands of dollars to reserve an entire riad for themselves…I lucked into it and only had to pay $100 for my room. I sat out and ate by the pool one of the best home cooked Moroccan meals I’ve had…all by myself…it was bliss. I was content to simply stay inside the walls of the riad, leaving the craziness of Marrakech behind and turning my AC to a chilly 21 degrees Celsius…soaking up every bit of freon I could before heading back out into Arabia for 2 more weeks. After 21 days baking in the heat, I was treated to the best sendoff Morocco could give me; on my taxi ride to the airport…it started to rain…yes, rain. It was a very small amount of rain…but it was rain none the less. The volume in Morocco was officially turned off.

Goats in Trees!

Sherry — Sat, 14 Jul 2007 12:53:18 +0000

Goats climbing an Argan tree

View Morocco Photography

View snapshots of goats climbing in trees

Since I really didn’t have a book about Morocco, I was learning things as I was experiencing them, as well as learning about things through my other travel partners that had ample books on Morocco. After the first week, someone in my group mentioned in passing something about the Moroccan goats that climb trees.

“What?, What did you just say?”
“In southern Morocco there are goats that climb trees to eat the fruit. Wouldn’t that be cool to see?” They proceeded to show me a picture in their travel book of about 14 goats hanging out high in the branches of a tree.
“ and I was astonished that the rest of the people in my group weren’t as utterly amazed about this as I was. They all kind of looked at me, surprised that I was this worked up about the topic and said, ”I don’t know how they get up there, I never really thought about it. Maybe they just walk up the tree.”
“What??? They can’t just walk up, they don’t have opposable thumbs…how do they grip onto a branch?”

This was the beginning of my pilgrimage to see this ‘wonder of the animal kingdom’. I couldn’t get it out of my mind…like the time I heard that the Russian Cat Circus was performing in Tribeca…I HAD to go and see these crazy Russian housecats perform tricks! I was obsessed with the goats, my brain would sit and chew on it and I just couldn’t come up with any feasible explanation on how they climbed the trees. Sure, mountain goats are definitely nimble…but climbing a mountain and climbing a tree seems totally different to me….I mean…how do they get up the treetrunk to the first branches? I sort of rallied everyone’s interest in the goats and they too started questioning the goats in trees. I talked about it all the time – and we all came up with a number of theories on how the goats got up in the trees.

I thought that they were maybe like reindeer, flew up in the trees somehow. Rob thought that maybe the goats just grew on the trees and when they matured enough, they just fell out of the tree and started walking on the ground…king of like childbirth of sorts. Janelle thought that they took a running jump. Sara thought that they hopped up in the trees and from branch to branch. Someone also threw out the possibility of retractable, special hoofs that would enable them to grip the tree better, and then of course there was the Spiderman theory…sticky stuff on their hoofs. None of them seemed to make sense…but we had no better explanations.

Apparently the goats climbed specific trees, Argan trees, mainly found in the southern part of Morocco. They are a thorny evergreen variety that grow in drough-ridden areas…they are hearty. The Argan trees have fruits on them that the goats like to eat – actually, I think the goats are driven up into the trees in order to find food to graze on since it is so dry in these areas, the true definition of adaptation! People actually use these fruits to make oils that are very healthy and nutty tasting. Plus they make lotions, and other cosmetic products out of the argan oil. Many of the local women have formed a cooperative to manufacture the oil by hand…a painstaking but prosperous job for women in the country.

For some reason I kept on having the vision of a Monty Python movie in my head…The Quest for the Holy Grail. It seemed like some little goofy cartoon that they would use in such a movie…Goats in the trees and then have them fall out and start walking around. Maybe I should talk to John Cleese about this.

The only problem with the goats in trees is that on our 21 day tour of Morocco, we weren’t heading to the south where the goats supposedly hung out in trees. We seemed to go everywhere else in Morocco and experience every bit of culture…but the goats weren’t on our itinerary…damn. I really was hot on the idea of seeing these goats – it was my singular focus – I would pay large sums of dirham to someone that could take me to them! Karina did mention that the closest we’d be to that part of Morocco was when we were in Essaouria. She went on to say that she would ask around and see if there was anyway that someone would take me to Agadir to see the goats. I was so excited at this prospect…I had to see these amazing goats!

When we arrived in Essaouria, Karina contacted one of the local guides that they use to see if she could get any info on the goats. In a matter-of-fact manner he said “Yes, you can see the goats – they are around this area too, about 25 km away” I was jumping for joy as if I were 5 years old and I had just woken up Christmas morning and saw my Barbie Dream House sitting under the Christmas tree! Since I had talked about the goats throughout our trip, I had peaked everyone else’s interest too…and they also wanted to come see the amazing goats. I asked the guide if we were guaranteed to see goats….and I got the answer, “Inshallah”…Arabic for ‘If God wants it’…a popular saying among Moroccans – throw it at the end of any sentence and you will feel like a local.

Hmmm – the inshallah answer dashed some of my hopes – what if God wasn’t on my side for this pilgrimage…instead I may be wandering in the dessert for 40 days looking for goats with a taxi driver. However, I still felt like I should gamble and take the pilgrimage – Moses did…so why shouldn’t I.

We all agreed to hire a grand taxi to drive us out to the areas where you can spot the goats – we were to leave at 9:30. However, that night we had a call from the man that organized it telling us that a 9:30 departure would be too late as it will be too hot at that time and our odds of seeing goats in the trees would be decreased….we should leave at 8:30 instead to increase our odds, inshallah. It did give me hope though as I was assured that the taxi driver knew what he was doing when pilgrimaging for goats. At least he was more educated than me!

Photo: The cramped grand taxi ride early in the morning!
I armed myself with all of my cameras and lenses that morning, and all 6 of us took off at 8:30 cramming into a little 4 door old Mercedes grand taxi. It was a painful, cramped ride, but I was willing to live through the fact that my right butt cheek had fell asleep and it was sweltering already at 8:30…it would all be worth it to see the miraculous goats. I felt like Dorthy heading off in search of Oz and the Wizard…heck….she saw flying monkeys, that didn’t seem so different from goats in trees if you ask me.

As we made it deeper into the country we turned down roads lined with Argan trees and we started to peel our eyes…searching for goats. We saw donkeys standing by trees, we saw camels hanging out in bushes, and we saw goats on the ground…but none in the trees. After about 15 minutes down one road, the driver turned around as he said it was too windy here for the goats to be in the trees. Once again I was impressed with the taxi driver’s knowledge…that certainly had to be a good sign, inshallah. Who knew that the goats were so finicky about the weather.

After another 15 minutes we saw plenty of goats, just none in the trees. I was starting to feel like I had lead everyone on a wild goose chase…we were sardines in the grand taxi, we were sweaty and hot, and none of had eaten breakfast…and there were no goats. Just when I was giving up hope…we rounded a corner and saw a goat herder with a big group of goats, they were huddling around the bushes, and a big tree in the center of a field. I scanned the tree quickly and then I saw it…a white furry shape in the tree, then a black furry shape in the tree, and then another, and another….goats in trees!!! It was a miracle! We all screamed in excitement and the taxi driver pulled over and quickly got out of our clown car to cross the road and get a closer look.

Photo: Goat getting airborne
I was outfitted like the paparazzi, I had my telephoto lens and tried to get as close as I possibly could without scaring them out of the tree – I honestly weren’t sure how jumpy they were (no pun intended). We stayed there watching the goats for about 20 minutes – I took about 60 pictures. We watched them climb up, climb down, jump from branch to branch, and loose their footing…but none fell out of the tree. They were nimble! . It was easy to see how they got in the tree initially, a child could do it. They simply climbed up the trunk of the Argan tree which was normally low to the ground. However, the young, agile ones would climb high up into the small branches and eat the fruit as if it were a tightrope…they were fearless… and hungry I guess. Lord knows that I can understand what hunger will drive you to do…just ask any of my close friends! They would actually leap…getting their front or back legs airborne…it was quite a site. I tried to look closely with the telephoto lens at their hoofs, they didn’t appear to have any special hoofs, and I certainly didn’t see any thumbs! We stood there watching the goats as the goat herder and some other locals were watching us. They were probably as about amazed at seeing us there with our cameras as we were to see goats in trees.

The herder had to move the goats along so we thanked him (I’m sure he was confused as to why) and we all crammed back into the grand taxi to head back to Essaouria. I was so excited about our find that I was giddy all day. My trip felt complete now, and it would be one of my highlights of the 21 days I spent in Morocco. My pilgrimage was a success – next, I may part the Red Sea!
Humdulilah! (Arabic meaning Praise God!)

The Grand Puba of Morocco – Fez

Sherry — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 14:15:09 +0000

Man working in dying vats in Fez

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View snapshots of Fez

Prior to 10 months ago, the only time I had anyone utter the word fez was on the TV show Happy Days. I’m sure that you all remember Mr. Cunningham and his Grand Puba group – as a member of the Grand Puba, he had to wear a fez hat which depicted his membership into the group. That image of the red hat and the tassel had stuck in my head for my lifetime…one of my few experiences with the exotic Arabian culture to date.

The second time I ever heard the word fez was at my going away party last year. One of my friends gave me a book about 1000 places to see before you die and everyone at the party was browsing through it. My friend, Todd, stopped at the entry for Fez. He excitedly asked me if I was going to Fez on this around the world adventure. Visions of Mr. C came to mind and a confused look came across my face. I had no idea what or where Fez was – but I was pretty certain that it wasn’t in Milwaukee! He said that he had heard about Fez and that it was one of the best places to visit, a very authentic and mystical town. I still had no idea what country it was even in – so I just nodded and said “who knows where I’ll end up, but if I end up in Fez, I’ll let you know.” The next morning in my hung over state, I grabbed the book and looked up Fez to read about it…it was in Morocco.

Photo: The famous Fez hat
For some reason that conversation stuck with me throughout my travels…maybe it was the Mr. C image, or maybe it was the exotic sounding name, or maybe it was Todd’s enthusiasm about the place – whatever it was, I felt like I needed to see it. When I decided to change my plans and travel through Morocco, I knew that I had to make it to Fez. I chose a tour route that led me through Fez for a few days as I felt that it would be one of the highlights of Morocco.

The draw to Fez is that it is the most in tact medieval city of the Arab world. It is suspended in time somewhere between the modern world and the Middle Ages. Modern World: electricity; Middle Ages: everything else in Fez. Here are the numbers: there are about 800,000 people living in the medina, 9,500 streets, aprox. 250 mosques, 10,000 donkeys, and about 100,000 satellite dishes. These are unofficial numbers of course – but they are my best guess.

Photo: The Doors to the Palace…the original Golden Arches!
We arrived in Fez after an 11 hour minivan ride through the Moroccan countryside. This was a doozy of a road trip – it was well over 100 degrees out and air conditioning that could be only used for short bursts of time in order to not overheat the car, brakes that overheated, and just a long, long journey. The longest time I’ve spent in a car since living back in the Midwest when I used to be too poor to take a plane! We arrived in Fez in the evening and our lodging was in the new city – a little more modern with internet cafes, bars, and a McDonalds…yes, a McDonalds. I have to admit – one of the things that I am really starting to miss is a good American burger. I’ve tried ordering a few and they are never the same. So when I heard there was a McDonalds in Fez, I knew that I could quench my craving. Yes, yes, yes – I’m sure many of you are appalled by this – as McDonalds is not necessarily the epitome of American burger. However, until you’ve set foot in my shoes, traveled for 10 months around the world, eating out every night of the week, being at the mercy of the local cuisine night after night, not being able to EVER drink water from a tap, then you can judge my eating choices! I sat down to my Big Mac and fries and orange juice and enjoyed every last bite…it was ecstasy. Ok – so there’s nothing medieval about a Big Mac; however, the real adventure started the next morning when our local guide, Hakima, greeted us bright and early. She was to take us on a day through Fez – the old city. It included a Medina tour, shopping and bargaining in the souks, visits to the pottery manufacturer, leather tannery, carpet maker, and lunch.

Photo: Phone home…satelites dishes in the medina
First we went to a great panoramic point high above the old Medina to get an overview of the maze that we were about to enter. The first thing I noticed as we stood on a high hill looking over the medina was the number of satellite dishes on the buildings. Strange things catch my eye sometimes, and I had never really seen so many dishes occupying so little space – each beaconing in the same direction…as if they were calling ET to come home. Each building has no less than 8 satellite dishes on the roof. Photo: Woman painting pottery At this point, the old medina felt more extraterrestrial than medieval to me. However, I guess the satellite dishes didn’t surprise me too much as most of the world’s undeveloped, poorest cities and towns even have satellites. It’s how the majority of the 3rd world is able to view the world around them these days. It is likely that all of the Fassis (people of Fez) are watching old episodes of Happy Days and are getting a good laugh out of Mr. C’s Fez hat! After I got past the dishes, I could focus on the thousands of buildings that were displayed in front of me. It was huge and a bit disorienting. If you really focused your eye, you would see all of these towers sticking up amongst the buildings – the 250 some mosques that were intermixed in the medina. You could also see puffs of dark smoke coming from certain areas which indicated that pottery was being fired there…which is where we headed to next. We went to go see the intricate art of pottery making and mosaics. We saw how everything was made by hand – in painstaking detail. Each mosaic piece was cut by hammer and chisel and then pieced together as if it were a giant jigsaw puzzle. This was one of the few places that employed women. Some women intermixed with the men in the painting area – but this was a relatively new development. The majority of the pottery work was difficult manual labor, so the only place tat the women were allowed to work was on the more artistic side of the creation.

Photo: Stacks of colorful shoes in the medina
Before entering the medina, Hakima first warned us about the usual pickpockets and urged us to stay together the best we could, and to not be discouraged by the begging children that would be following us around. Since the medina was still really a functioning medina for locals, we would stick out rather blatantly…7 Caucasians, toting camera and backpacks – of course we were going to stick out! She also warned us to listen for the word “Ballack!” meaning “watch out/move out of the way” which we would hear when the numerous donkey carts were trying to get around the medina. The medina did not hold any motorized vehicles due to the narrow, curvaious streets and alleys. The only mode of transportation was donkeys and carts. Basically, we learned that we needed to keep on our toes.

Photo: Man holding silk thread to be dyed shortly
The moment you entered the big arched gateway you inhaled the smell, taste and sound of the markets. We were surrounded by the sounds of people and music, we could smell the rich spices intermixed with the smell of olives, and your eyes were entranced by the rich colors and textures that surrounded you. I think I honestly walked for the first 20 minutes with a dumb stare on my face as I took it all in. We entered through an area of food/produce/butchers markets – which is always a site. The shops themselves were normally very small – no bigger than a bathroom and they were all connected with no space in between the buildings. The only space to walk was the narrow ‘road’ which we were sharing with a multitude of locals and donkeys. Many of the shops specialized in just one thing to keep things simple. There was a garlic shop, across from a tomato shop. Imagine if you owned a store the size of a closet and only sold garlic…only garlic…for your whole life. Personally – I would go crazy…but that’s life in the medina. The men that sold olives were also artists. They would slowly put together these elaborate olive displays intermixing patterns with the various colored olives. Seriously, these men should be running the olive department at Fairway…the olive displays were so pretty that you really didn’t want to buy any olives for fear of ruining the display!

Photo: Goats with a splitting headache…ok, I couldn’t resist!
Goat and camel heads hung from big hooks on the corners of shops. Many of the goat heads were split open to indicate that the brain had been taken out and was probably being sold somewhere on the nearby table. The rest of the head was sold for the tongue, and additional meat that could be found on it. Like most cultures, they use all parts of the animals. Next to the goat heads hung long stretchy stomachs for sale. They were a gray/brown dull color with a ton of texture – not very appetizing to me, but to each his own. Full cow and goat carcasses hung from big butcher hooks outside – on display out in the hot sun. All of the carcasses proudly had the testicles still attached and displayed so that you knew that you were buying male meat. In this culture, people only ate meat from male animals, as the females were only meant for breeding; therefore, the testicles needed to be displayed so that you knew what you were getting! God forbid if they slip some inferior female meat in your purchase! We also learned that the shutters and buildings are painted blue because the color blue is thought to keep flies away. I’m not too sure how well that was working at the butchers…as the hanging carcasses seemed like the giant fly tape that used to hang in our garage at home!

In the medina, there were special sections for sharpeners (scissors, knives, etc), bowl makers, dyers, tailors, jewelry makers, rug makers…every kind of trade you could imagine. The work was never easy…it was hard work to be done with the hands. The rugs were made by hand, the large brass bowls were pounded from flat metal into a bowl shape before our eyes, the silk thread was dyed from it’s virginal white to every color imaginable…it was as if you had stepped back to the middle ages. There were even community ovens. Throughout the streets you would see these young boys, about 6 years old, carrying a wooden platter with bread dough on it. They were taking the dough to the community oven to be baked. Most of the locals did not have an oven in their homes, so they all shared one in the neighborhood. The kids were responsible for taking it to the baker and picking it up.

Photo: Leather dying vats…a highlight of my tour!
I had been anxiously anticipating seeing the leathers dying vats in Fez. Earlier in the year I went to a photo exhibition and saw a photo of people working in the leather vats and I had always wanted to go see it with my own eyes. Finally, we arrived at the famous vats of Fez. We went into a leather store that was situated with a great aerial view of the vats. It was the middle of the day – hot, hot, hot – the smell around this area was distinct – animal flesh. We were given sprigs of mint to smell to try to get our senses used to the foul odor. The vats were out in the direct sun…and were organized for leather dying and wool dying. The white stone vats were for wool and the brown stone vats were for leather. When you looked down at them it looked like a little honeycomb of activity…circular vats and men buzzing all around them. The vats were filled with colors made from natural materials such as plants and spices and large leather pieces were submersed and soaked in the dyes. These vats were big – and this was a hands-on job. The men would cover their bodies with Vaseline in order to keep the color from dying their skin, and then they get in the vats to properly soak the leather – imagine Lucy and Ethel in the vat of grapes…now you get the picture. This was not easy work – in fact – I think it ranks right up there with jobs I never want to do! I was mesmerized by their work though – I could have watched them all day. While the rest of my group shopped for leather jackets, purses, and slippers – I put on my telephoto lens and shot about 50 photos of the dyers glistening in the hot sun.

After a delicious lunch with the locals we stopped at one of the many carpet shops next. Buying carpets in this part of the world is like buying a car – it is a production and a game – not to be missed. The carpets are beautiful and definitely one of the major commodities of this area, so it’s well worth a stop to browse. Yet, there really is no concept of browsing as we know it. It’s not like Ikea with racks of hanging rugs to patiently browse through at your leisure. Instead, it’s a well-oiled selling machine – one in which you are befriended, welcomed into a home, sit down and have some tea, see how the carpets are hand made, get educated on the various types of carpets and quality, and then after about 45 minutes of this friendly banter in which you now formed some kind of bond with the person – they get down to business and ask…”So, who’s interested in buying a carpet today?” You are immediately startled out of your social world into the high finance world of carpets! If you say “well, I think I’m interested.” Then prepare yourself for another hour or so of selling, bargaining, and dropping a lot of money (all well worth it if you really were looking for an authentic handmade carpet).

They take you off in a little room of carpets to interrogate you…oops…I mean ‘work with you’ on a more individual basis, and they parade out tons of carpets in front of you trying to narrow down exactly what you are looking for. I decided to only be an observer of the process this time – there were others in our group that were buyers. The carpets were absolutely stunning, however didn’t really fit my décor – so I enjoyed being a spectator and watching other people spend money!

Most of the shopping experiences were like this in some shape or form. You want to buy authentic clothing, material, wood working, furniture, silk, jewelry – they all sit you down and befriend you first, do a little demonstration and then find out if you are interested – it’s a pretty good sales tactic! The whole day was rather educational and I managed to somehow hold on to most of my money – mainly for the pure reason that I refuse to carry any additional weight in my already heavy luggage!

Photo: Me getting some medicinal treatment…
We also made a stop at a herbal medicine man’s shop. He sat us down and showed us all of the various herbal remedies that the locals use as well as the natural makeup and soaps that are used. At the end of his demonstration he asked if anyone had any questions. Without really thinking I asked what he recommended for dry eyes. My eyes have been quite a mess lately – the dry, dusty, sandy conditions of Morocco aren’t what the optometrist ordered! My eyes have struggled in these conditions. The ‘medicine man’ quickly said – yes, I have just the thing, and pulled down this bottle of clear liquid and told me to come over to the bench and lay down. Without even thinking I obliged and laid down on the bench and let him start to pour this liquid into that my eyes. At that moment I realized that I was letting some Moroccan guy that I just met pour a unknown liquid into my eyeballs…maybe not the best idea in the world. To my delight, when I opened my eyes again I could see the world around me still – and my eyes felt good, it was rather soothing. After the fact he told me that it was rose water and it was used to sooth dry, tired eyes.

It was a very long day in the medina. We picked up some fresh fruit for dinner and finally left the medina around 9PM…and the place was still filled with life. The rest of my stay in Fez was more low key. The next night we went out for a sophisticated dinner to say our farewell to the lively city. We had drinks at the Sofitel Hotel which overlooked the medina. It was fun to be in a proper hotel again…doormen, cushy seats, great views…a far cry from my hotel room with the shower over the toilet! We had drinks at sunset and listened to the 250 mosques all do their ‘call to prayer’ at the same time that night. It was a beautiful echoing sound that slowly traveled through and above the medina. Finally that night we had a Moroccan feast at an old restored riad (house) turned hotel. The food was outstanding and the atmosphere warm. I have successfully replaced my old Fez image of Mr. C in his Grand Puba hat with a new image the city of Fez. Both are a step back in time, but only one is the real thing.

Pass The Barf Bag Please; Wonderings On a Bus

Sherry — Sun, 08 Jul 2007 10:19:09 +0000

I’m feeling a bit reflective. I haven’t felt that way for a while…or maybe it’s just been in my head and I haven’t let it out in a while. I’m on a bus in Morocco traveling between Cefchaouan and Tangier…a 4 hr bus ride from hell. It’s hot; extremely hot, the air conditioning isn’t working, we are on winding mountain passes, the bus is making odd noises, the sun is shining brightly through the windows as if it were superman with xray vision burning a hole in the flimsy curtain fabric. I’ve been in a constant state of sweat all day, I smell bad. I’m wearing pants that I haven’t washed for 2 weeks, rode a camel in, and the zipper broke a week ago so they are held together by a safety pin. There are people puking around me. Admist all of this travel turmoil, I feel reflective.

How the hell did I go from a high end apartment in Manhattan, a posh lifestyle, to this? Actually there are tons of thoughts floating through my head as I listen to my “mellow” playlist on my ipod trying to tell my stomach to just hang in there. I’ve already taken Dramamine, but it hasn’t decided if it wants to work yet inside my tummy. I’m not really sure if this typing is helping or hurting the motion sickness.

I think about my family, I wonder if they miss me at all. At times I do feel rather lonely out here, wondering what people are doing, if they think about me or even know where I’m at. I think about my mom and dad, I wonder if they will ever decide to come visit me on this adventure. I think about the fact that they have supported my crazy ideas and am grateful for that. I think about going home, and what that will be like again – taking that ride from the airport back into Manhattan. I think about sleeping in my own bed, seeing my apartment for the first time. I think about the Arabic family next to me knowing that this is just a few weeks of my life, but this is their life…this is normal to them. I wonder how much this bus trip cost them, I wonder if they are in as much pain as I am – and then realize they must be since they are vomiting from motion sickness.

I think about past loves, the ones that broke my heart. I wonder what they are doing. I wonder if I will ever meet anyone that I can feel comfortable with, that will ever understand me –or is that just a silly dream? I mean really, who could understand why I’m riding a hot, vomit –filled bus and living out of a backpack for 10 months now. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had stayed with some of them, or if I had tried harder to make it work, or I had simply said “please, don’t go”. I wonder if I will really be able to love and trust again – if I ever really did love or trust? I think about the last time I saw him.

I think about my future. I wonder if I will try to really follow some of my ideas, or if I will give up and end up in the same rat race. I wonder if I did the right thing….but that’s a fleeting thought as I KNOW I did the right thing. I think about what it’s like to follow your gut. I wonder if I will have enough money to do what I want. I wonder if I will have enough perseverance, enough patience, enough knowledge – or will I be lazy? Will I be able to self start? What does life hold? Will I be able to embrace the ride? I think about how scary it is to think about working again – and not knowing what that will look like. I think about breathing through my mouth and not my nose.

I think about friends. I wonder how they have changed. I wonder if they think of me. I wonder if our friendships will be the same when I get back. I wonder how I will ever, EVER be able to repay some of them for the kindness and assistance they have provided me while traveling. I wonder about the friends that I rarely hear from, but used to be some of my closest friends I had. I wonder why that is, why we have drifted so. I think about some of them that have moved on and started families – who have moved into a traditional life. I wonder if they ever go out anymore and get silly drunk and go dancing until 6AM. I wonder what they will tell their kids about their past single life.

I think about my cat. I wonder if she will still remember my voice…find something familiar in it when I walk in Linda’s door and say ”Hi kit kat!” – or will she run and hide…or more likely…will she bite me and hiss? I remember the last time I held her in my lap, petting her, my tears dripping down on her fur and me telling her that I would always remember her and that I wasn’t leaving her forever. I think of her as my only real piece of responsibility in my life, the only thing that (used to) love me unconditionally. Yet, I wonder if I will take her back, or leave her with Linda. I wonder if I can really let her go.

I think about my belongings…my clothes, my shoes, my jackets, my jewelry…my stuff. I think about my ratty, smelly suitcase and I envision burning it when I get home. I wonder how elated I will feel when I got through my boxes that have been in storage. Or will I realize that I can live without that stuff. I think about the fact that this bus is constantly jerking around corners and wonder when it will ever stop. I wonder why we didn’t pay the extra money and just have a private driver.

I think about my adventures to come. I worry about the challenges ahead – especially India. I wonder if I will be tough enough to survive volunteering in India. I wonder if I will feel like I made a difference in this world. I wonder what I will look like in a Sari. I wonder how it will feel to give back. I wonder if I will love it or hate it. I wonder why in the hell this air conditioning doesn’t work!

I think about how much I’ve aged these last 10 months. I think about how bad I look, but then every time I see myself in a picture I realize that I don’t look as bad as my mind has me believe. I think about how your mind is such a powerful thing…and how it can play dirty tricks on you. I think about the last time I had a real shower in which I felt really, really clean. I think about the thrill of a fluffy towel. I wonder why I haven’t met any love interests on this grand adventure. I wonder if I’m just not open to it. I think about the last time I felt sexy…I can’t even remember when that was…which is about as disturbing as the sound of the person vomiting in the seats behind me.

I think about the real travelers…the people I have met that are 10 times tougher than me. The woman I met in Morocco who is working with the peace corps for 2 years on her own in a remote village – and she’s 22 yrs old…she tough…I’m a wimp. I think about Karina, my Intrepid tour leader, who is about 10 yrs younger than me, but I look up to. I think about her apparent ease in dealing with difficult situations, her ease in different cultures, her patience…it is commendable. I wish I could have a bit of what she has. Plus, she doesn’t seem to get car sick at all….another reason to be envious. I think about how this bus is just an oven of puke.

I think about my brother who I’ve only heard from twice on this adventure. I wonder why we have grown apart so much. I wonder if I should have contacted him more. I wonder if his kids will remember me, if they even know what I’m doing out here – or even care. I wonder about all of my nieces, what their lives will be like as adult women, what choices they will make. I wonder if I will have had any influence on them. I wonder if any of them will take care of me in my old, senile age! I wonder what challenges they will face in the world as smart, independent women. I wonder if I should have taken another Dramamine.

I think about being tough…I think about how it doesn’t matter if anyone thinks about me, misses me, remembers me…I just have to be tough…because in the end, it all comes down to me…and no one else. I think about the fact that Karina just asked me for a barf bag (I seem to be the holder of the barf bags on this trip) – not for her – but for the little girl sitting next to Kate on the bus.

I think about the roadtrips that I used to take with my family when I was a kid. I think about how my family used to make fun of me when I would get carsick…they always thought I was weak…and I was, I was a mamma’s girl; afraid to leave her, afraid to go downstairs alone, afraid to stay overnight at a friends house all night, afraid to eat asparagus, afraid of bugs, afraid of snakes, afraid of leaving for college, afraid of being alone.

I think about the fact that this writing is helping my motion sickness…at least it’s taking my mind off the jerking bus, until I just wrote this sentence and became aware of it again.

I wonder if my friends are just being kind about my writing and photography. Are they doing what friends are supposed to be doing…being kind? I wonder how many other millions of people out there are doing what I’m doing. I wonder if I have talent. I wonder why we as human beings doubt ourselves so much. I wonder if any of those people that I have photographed understand how very beautiful they are. I wonder what they think of Americans. I wonder if they know how they have changed my life.

I wonder if I have made a difference in anyone’s life. I wonder if I have made a mark on this world. I wonder why Tangier seems to be so f’ing far from Cefchaouan.

I think about all of my friends who have recently had life changes – got married or had/having kids. I think about social norms. I wonder how all of those things have seemed to escape me. I wonder if they really escaped me or did I push them away. I think about people who have children…and wonder what that would be like. I wonder why the hell the brakes on this bus are so god damn bad!!!!!

Most of all, I wonder what people will think when they read this. This glimpse into my motion sick, sweaty, smelly, tired, mind…but at least I didn’t lose my lunch.

Sand In Every Orifice – The Sahara

Sherry — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 15:04:39 +0000

Sahara Desert

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View snapshots of the Sarhara Desert

We had been driving for about 4 hours when we turned off the bumpy road onto the flat expanse of desert. You could see for miles. There were no roads, just a few tire tracks and a bunch of signs sticking in the sand advertising various hotels that were nowhere to be seen. I was anxious – similar to the feeling I had when I first turned into a game park in Kenya for my first safari. I was entering a world in which I had only previously seen on television and movies. A world that I never thought I would experience in my lifetime. A world that was unthinkable to me. I knew immediately this was going to be an adventure unlike any I had experienced before. We were going into the Sahara Desert via camels for the night to camp. I had never really seen a desert before…at least not one with camels! Sure, I had made the drive from San Diego to Las Vegas before, but it didn’t prepare me for what I was about to see. This was remote. I was so excited I was giddy and my body tingled…much like when I first arrived in Hanoi or when I set my first step in St. Mark’s square – in awe of the moment.

Our truck proceeded very slowly along the bumpy trail of tire tracks. The driver had to continuously move the steering wheel so that we wouldn’t get stuck in the sand. It reminded me of Bo Duke driving the General Lee in the Dukes of Hazzard – moving the steering wheel back and forth to make it look as if he was really driving a car instead of a prop. Every so often the tire tracks would split of into a ‘Y’ shape and we would choose a side and continue driving deeper into the desert. I could start to see the dunes, glowing orange/red in low sun. Every so often we would pass a random camel, wandering around grazing…on what, I have no idea. It honestly looked like no life existed out here. Pretty soon off in the distance you could see a little building or two and another little sign that seemed to be dwarfed by the vast landscape. Eventually we pulled up to our starting point hotel and first set foot on the fine sand. I’ve been on many beaches around the world, however I’ve never experience sand like this. It was so fine like a dust that immediately coated you and everything you were carrying. So imperceptible that you didn’t really realize it was there until you ran a hand over your arm and felt the layer of sand coating your skin. Apparently, they’ve found sand from the Sahara as far away as Greenland on the icebergs.

We left our large suitcases at the hotel and took just a small pack with the things we would need for the night. That basically consisted of water, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a long sleeve shirt, a sleep sheet, and my cameras wrapped in bags to try to protect them from the sand. I actually decided to leave my telephoto lens behind at the hotel as I didn’t even want to be temped to change lenses in this environment. The sand particles were so small that there would be no way that I would be able to keep my sensor clean.

We met our guide Mubarek all dressed in blue as most of the people in this part of the Sahara wore. The bright blue was a stunning contrast to the orange sand dunes. I was told that they wore blue because it was a bright color that was easy to spot but it didn’t absorb as much sun and heat as black. Mubarek provided us with bright colored turbans and taught us to tie them in order to protect our faces from the sun and the sand. I also dawned my sunglasses since my eyes were already burning from the dry conditions. I had left my vanity behind somewhere on the un-air conditioned local bus ride a few days ago….I knew I looked ridiculous…but I honestly didn’t care. After all, I was about to ride a camel!

Mubarek led us out to our camel train and started to explain how we were to get on and off the camels. The camels were all tied together in a long train so that we didn’t have any control of the reins and they just followed each other ensuring that we didn’t have to think! I do find it amusing that in the last year I haven’t driven a car, but I have been on a camel! I chose a good looking camel…seemed well tempered, and not too smelly. The camels were relatively easy to get on as they sit down on the ground so that you can mount them, but the real trick is to hold on tight and lean back when they stand up – else you may end up doing a header in the sand. Once my camel was standing, I was a bit amazed at how high up you really were, and how uncomfortable they were. Granted, I wasn’t expecting a cush ride, but I immediately knew that I would be saddle sore the next day!

The camel train took off into the dunes. We rode for about an hour and got deeper and deeper into the sand dunes. You could see the fine sand blowing off the tops of the dunes, reminding me I was experiencing an ever-changing, ever-moving landscape. Technically – I wasn’t on solid ground. Add that to the fact that the camel ride was rather jerky, and the sun was quickly disappearing – it made it nearly impossible to get a clear photography shot. I never knew it was so hard to hold a DSLR camera (big, heavy lens and body) in one hand while trying to adjust the shutter and aperture with that same hand and keep things steady. My other hand was out of commission as I had to hold on to the ‘saddle’ of the camel else I would end up in the sand! The camels had no fear, they would walk on the edge of a dune, just plodding away. Finally, in the distance you could see some black tents and a small bit of green grass – our home for the night.

We arrived at our camp as the sun went under – yet the temperature seemed to stay the same…hot. In the other direction the moon was rising…a full moon tonight! Once we set down our packs, Karina immediately challenged us to run up to the top of the dune that was surrounding us – she said that there would be a great view. Sure- it looked easy enough. After about 30 seconds of walking up in the deep sand feeling as if I was getting nowhere – I realized that this was going to be a long, long journey to the top. It was very challenging as you had no point of reference to determine just how high the dune was. It looked as if it was only about 150 feet – however it was probably about 10 times that distance! After resting in the sand for a bit for about the third time, most of the group bailed out as we realized that we were only about halfway up the dune. By this time though I was covered in sand, gasping for air, and I was determined. I changed my tactic to crawling on all fours…which seemed much more effective!

Rob, Sara, and I eventually made it to the top – and it was dark by the time we made it there! We were able to see the view somewhat, but the feeling of accomplishment was all I needed. When I tried to take a couple of photos, the flash went off and you could see the millions of tiny sand particles in the air floating around us. They were undetectable to the human eye, but the flash lit them up in the photo. It was amazing to think that all of these tiny particles were in the air around us! None of the pictures really turned out due to the lack of light, however we were able to enjoy our run down the dune back to our camp…much easier than going up! It’s a fun feeling to run down a dune without any fear of hitting anything or landing on anything dangerous – the worst that could happen is that you would end up rolling down in the soft sand…no problem.

That night Mubarek made us a chicken tanjine for dinner and provided melon for dessert. I was impressed with his ability to cook up a delicious meal in the desert. We all agreed that is was way too hot to sleep in the tents where there was little air flow so we all decided to sleep out on the mats outside under the full moon. Little did I know that the real adventure began when we fell asleep around 11PM. It was still rather hot when I fell asleep but there was a pleasant breeze blowing. I did get inside my sleep sheet more to mentally protect myself from the bugs than to keep warm. For those of you who don’t know what a sleep sheet is, it’s the best item in my suitcase! It’s a very thin, silk sleeping bag sheet that you can use when you are in questionable hotels, or for camping for some extra layer of warmth, etc. I love my sleep sheet!!! That night, the only sounds you could really hear was the camels snorting, and farting in the distance. At 2AM I was awakened by a loud wind and the sound of sand hitting the mat surrounding me as well as my sleep sheet. The wind had really picked up and I realized that my sleep sheet was covered in a fine layer sand as was everything else around me! I noticed that I had accidentally left open my backpack, which was now covered in a layer of sand…crap. I tried to turn around and forget about it but every so often you would get these big gusts of wind and sand that would blow directly into your face! It was still warm, so the tent still wasn’t really an option. I ended up putting the sleep sheet over my head and trying to use it as a little cocoon to protect myself from the sand! I woke up at least 3 more times during the night covered in more sand. At one point I got up and actually took some pictures of the full moon. With the moonlight the whole desert was lit up brightly…as if you had a night light on in your bedroom. Amazingly, I somehow slept until about 5AM and then gave up the pointless attempt at any further sleep and dug myself and my stuff out of the sand layers and decided to get up and take pictures. By about 5:30 everyone had woken up as the sun was quickly coming up, lighting up the sky, and heating up the sand.

Around 6:15 AM we took off again on our camel train back to ‘civilization’. The colors were beautiful and the sun was strong, and my legs were sore from the prior evening’s ride! We had to make a stop half way through the trek as Karina’s thongs fell off her camel so her and Mubarik walked back to find them. I was happy for this diversion as it allowed me to take some photos that were not so movement challenged! I was actually very sad for this experience to end despite the lack of sleep, and smelly camels! Not only would I have a ton of blurry pictures to remember the time, but I would also be carrying the miniscule grains of sand in my backpack and camera cases for years to come!

Culural Trekking in Morocco

admin — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 06:31:42 +0000

Berber Woman with her Donkey

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View snapshots of Morocco - the first week

We spent our first week in Morocco mainly enjoying the country side. We had a couple of days in Marrakech to look around the medina (old neighborhood) and the souks – it was nice, but not a place I would go back to. I have mainly enjoyed getting out of the bigger cities with crowds of people and having to be on edge from the pickpockets. We went to a small town in the High Atlas Mountains called Imlil. The town was small – one road, many donkeys. This was a popular starting point for trekkers who wanted to climb Northern Africa’s tallest peak – Jebel Toubkai at 4167 meters. I’m sure it surprises all of you to find out that I didn’t climb this peak! Instead, I did some good hikes with the group into Berber villages.

Berbers are essentially the hill tribes of Morocco. Some live in mud houses, some live in caves, and some even have normal houses – the Berbers take all forms…as you would expect of any hill tribe people – they are hearty. They were also a great reminder on why you should wear sunscreen everyday! The countryside was stunning and the hikes were challenging – mainly because it was HOT, there were no trees, and once again…no clouds. You learn to appreciate every little bit of shade you can get in this country! Our guest house in Imlil was basic and cute. Like most hotels/homes it had a big gathering area with long couches and bunches of cushions to simply lounge around on. We ate dinner there, prepared by the young boys that worked there and then they came out and asked us if we wanted to hear some Berber music. In my head I was imagining them turning on this great chill music that would fill the lounge area and create the perfect mood – so we agreed to the music offer. Instead, the 3 teenage boys came out with 2 pots, and one frying pan; they sat down and started drumming away on the pots and pans and singing!

We left Imlil and headed towards the Quarzazate in the middle Atlas Mountains. The bus trip was long and hot, but when we arrived in Quarzazate our leader, Karina, took us to the local grocery store and there is was, behind the counter…alcohol! Most of Morocco is a dry country – but there are a few places that you can purchase booze – when you find those places, you stock up! Unfortunately this added to my already heavy luggage, but it was worth it! That night we went and toured the Atlas Movie Studios where they had filmed parts of The Gladiator, Kundun, Alexander the Great, and Lawrence of Arabia. Basically – if you are producing a movie and you need a place to shoot a desolate, desert scene or an ancient kasbah – you come to Atlas Studios. The tour was ok, very simple – walk around the old sets and hear some stories. Not quite like Universal Studios with King Kong…but it was entertaining.

We then went on to see the famous Kasbah of Ait Benhaddou – a World Heritage Site. It was a fun climb to the top of the Kasbah for sunset. We then were treated to a cooking demonstration by a Action Couscous. I honestly don’t know his real name…he just went by Action Couscous – and he was as entertaining as his name. Photo: Kasbah of Ait Benhaddou Apparently, like many of the locals around there that were fluent in English, he had been an extra in many of the movies filmed around there; he was a star of sorts…I guess. He would speak in movie terms and generally would crack us up. The Moroccan people are hard to crack…but when you do get by the rather stand-offish façade, you realize that they are extremely friendly and funny. The hard part is getting through the shell. I don’t think Action Couscous had a shell. In the end, we drank our wine (that we carried with us from the grocery store), learned how to make chicken tanjine and chicken couscous and had some good laughs.

Photo: Berber Baby
We next took off for the Todra Gorge. I really didn’t know what to expect from this, but as I stepped out of the Grand Taxi and looked up – I was surrounded by high cliffs that glowed orange in the late day sun. It was stunning. It was also rather remote. Our hotel didn’t have electricity except for a few hours in the night. There was one internet café in town, Karina pointed it out to me as we drove by in the taxi…”It’s just up the riverbed and to the left”. Ahhh – this would be interesting…I had never been to an internet café in a riverbed before. The real beauty of this area was the excellent hiking trails around the gorge. In the early morning we took off on a 5 hr hike with spectacular views of the gorge. We were entertained by the calls of the goats in the mountains…sounding like crying kids. We would try to rest under any little shady spot we could as we climbed high to the tope of the gorge. This often meant huddling behind a large rock – where it was about 15 degrees cooler than the exposed mountainside. Looking back at the valley behind us made all the sweating worth it – a grand landscape.

We stopped at a little Berber family’s tent/cave and had some wild thyme/mint tea. Mint Tea is the national drink in Morocco; however, Moroccans LOVE their sugar, so it’s mint tea with about 3 tables spoons of sugar in it…what’s not to love. The Berber life in the mountains was certainly a rough one. Photo: Palmerie in the gorge They kept goats, wove rugs to sell, lived in tents in the summer and in caves in the winter and always slept on the ground – there was no furniture – only rugs…the rugs served at a couch and bed. As we descended back into the gorge, we had a spectacular view of the Palmeries on the valley floor. Basically, your whole surroundings were rock and dirt, and then at the valley floor there was this swath of pure green. The whole Todra Gorge area had diverted the water from the Wadi Todra (river) into little viaducts and had planted lush green fields of vegetables and herbs surrounded by tons of palm trees. It was a true oasis in the desolate landscape. The contrasting colors were astounding.

After our hike, we celebrated by taking our bottles of booze to a nearby hotel that had a pool and lounged by the pool the rest of the day! However, you had to lounge in the shade as the direct sun was just too much to take. The bottle of vodka that we bought went quickly as we stayed there for dinner that night and enjoyed the Berber drumming music and songs (with proper drums this time). We danced, we played musical chairs, we finished all of the booze we were carrying with us and we somehow got involved in a huge pool party in which everyone was thrown into the pool fully dressed! I did manage to stay dry by holding on to the bongo drums…whew. As my backpacker crew drove back to our hotel that night dripping wet, we all agreed – our first week in Morocco had exceeded all of our expectations!

Photo: Me on top of the gorge…great hiking!

It’s a Dry Heat and a Dry Country – Morocco

Sherry — Wed, 04 Jul 2007 13:49:16 +0000

Getting henna art done high in the Atlas Mountains

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View snapshots of Morocco - the first week

For the last week in addition to my 50 lbs of luggage, I’ve been toting around eye drops, lip balm, and alcohol – welcome to Morocco. It’s dry here…the orange ground begging for water, the sun burning brightly every day. My eyes are thirsting for liquid as are my lips and my skin. The sun beats down on us every day as it climbs into the high 90’s F. You have a constant, unquenchable thirst…for something cold…very cold. I honestly haven’t seen a single cloud in the sky since I arrived here. There must be some ban on clouds in Morocco…they get stopped at the border of Algeria and get turned away because they don’t have their proper papers to enter the country.

In addition to this dry heat, it is a Muslim country, which basically means that it’s a dry country – no alcohol. I don’t think this really sunk in until about the 3rd day when I was sweating profusely, was frustrated with the haggling in the souks (markets), tired of being gawked at by men, and more than anything I desperately wanted a cold beer to simply take the edge off. All I could get in Marrakech was a cold Orange Juice…no vodka…just orange juice. There were no less than 30 stands selling orange juice in the medina of Marrakech. Only OJ, nothing else, just OJ; I guess they don’t believe in diversification here! Granted – it was one of the best glasses of orange juice that I’ve ever had – but still not quite the same as a beer. However, you just learn to go with the flow in Morocco.

Photo: Snails in the souk in Marrakech
I left the comforts of Europe behind – and now I’m trying to get my head back into traveling in very foreign cultures again. I have entered a new, unknown culture to me. It’s one of the largest and one of the most different – I have entered Arabia. I’ve only really seen Arabic culture through Disney movies, The Ten Commandments, and Lawrence of Arabia – and none of these movies are very accurate!

There are so many new things to take in: the language, the food, the religion, the view of women in society, and the dress. I’ve really had no exposure to this before….nothing. On top of that, I’ve done very little research on the country or the culture prior to arriving here – so I feel like I’m driving at night without headlights – cautiously moving forward slowly.

Knowing that I would be culturally challenged to travel through Morocco on my own, I decided to once again use the excellent travel services of Intrepid Travel who I toured through Vietnam with. I’m doing a similar mode of travel with them, backpacking with a group essentially. Intrepid provides/books all the lodging and transportation and assigns a group leader that is familiar with the country – the rest is up to you. I’m traveling with a group of 5 other people – 2 from Australia, 2 from England, and 1 other American – plus our leader, Karina. Intrepid arranges basic accommodations (i.e. – lucky if we get hot water and really lucky if we get air conditioning), and take local transportation throughout the country. It’s a great way to travel through a Muslim country as a female solo traveler. I love being adventurous in my travels – but I wasn’t ready to take on Morocco on my own. We have 21 days to travel through Morocco and hit many of the main cities and get to experience a great deal of the countryside via long bus rides!

Photo: Koranic School in Marrakech
When I boarded the plane in Barcelona to Marrakech I got my first challenge. All of the airline instructions/announcements were in Arabic first, and then repeated in French. I waited for a bit expecting the English translation to come next…but it was just dead air…damn, I wish I would have paid more attention in my High School French class. This was really one of the first countries that I had been to where English was not really the second language. In fact – I’m not even real sure if it was 3rd or 4th or 5th as Spanish and the native Berber language all competed for spots after French. Of course as soon as I stepped off the plane hearing the foreign languages, immediately my Italian language study flooded my head…great – a lot of good that would do me now.

Marrakech was a quite an awakening when I arrived late at night – the streets were filled with people – mainly men and you could hear drumming coming loudly from the famous square, Place Djemaa el-Fna. The Djemaa el-Fna (don’t even ask me how to pronounce this!) is actually a World Heritage Site. A place where everyone gathers at night to eat from the food vendors, watch the snake charmers, enjoy the acrobats, listen to story tellers, fish for coke bottles – the list can go on and on. Our hotel was a very simple place, but it’s location was stellar – only a few meters off the Djemaa el-Fna.

Photo: Berber “blue” Man in Todra Gorge
Transportation has probably been the biggest adventure here so far. First off – there are the crazy taxis..a.k.a Grand Taxi’s. The concept of Grand Taxi’s is that there is a standard fare…say $150 dirham. If you are the only person in the car, you must pay the whole $150 – however the more people you can fit into the car (whether you know them or not) the price goes down per person. This then causes the taxi to stop and pick up others along the way – reminiscent of the NY metro strike a few years ago when the taxis had to switch to ‘car pool’ style.

Upon first look, these taxis look like old, dilapidated Mercedes from the 1970’s. They honestly look like they won’t make it more than a mile down the road – but somehow they can carry about 6 people, and their luggage up mountain passes – it’s really a miracle. The drivers are very friendly….to everyone else on the road. As we rode in a Grand Taxi up to the Atlas Mountains, our taxi driver waved to no less than a thousand people on the drive. It was as if he was in a Ford pick-up in the middle of Nebraska, waving to everyone that he passed – drivers, walkers, bikers, shop owners, and I think maybe even a few goats. I was amused by his hospitality on the road.

The Grand Taxi’s were normally quite tricked out. They sported fur dashes that were ratty and faded from the sun, various medallions swinging from the rear view mirror, a rhinestone cell phone holder, a meter that never worked, and one – yes one, window opener handle. You would hop in a grand taxi and immediately be baking in the oven-like back seat with the windows closed. Your first instinct was to roll down your window to get some air flow in there before you passed out – however your hopes were quickly dashed when you realized that there was a screw where the window handle was supposed to be. In vain, you would immediately try to fiddle with the screw seeing if you could get it to move the window down just by twisting it somehow…it wasn’t going to budge for you! This is about the time all of those stories about people dieing from heat exhaustion locked in their cars in the summer sun come to mind. There were no window handles anywhere to be seen. Karina finally clued us in to the fact that there is one handle in the car normally – and it’s with the driver. If you ask for it, he will give it to you. You then go about rapidly screwing it on the stubby screw and rolling down the window while gasping for air! You pass around the handle for the others in the car as if it were a hooka pipe until finally you get enough air flow in the car!

Photo: Woman sleeping in the museum Marrakech
Our other mode of transportation has been public buses. You know you are roughing it when you are riding with the locals. Air conditioning was a perk…not a given. Driving across the desert country-side in a big, old bus, no way to open the windows, with no clouds in the sky, no air conditioning, crying babies, wearing pants that covered your knees and shirts that covered your shoulders, and no way to open the windows…well…it might have been some of the worst transportation I’ve encountered yet – and probably my most memorable.

I felt like we were all a bunch of turkeys just roasting in this big oven. You felt as if you were going to suffocate in the 90 degree bus. I tried to simply take my mind off the unbearable heat and watch movies that I had on my ipod. It was rather surreal to be watching a Hollywood blockbuster as you were sweating uncontrollably, surrounded my Moroccan locals who probably didn’t have electricity let alone an ipod. However, watching Maggie Gylenhall shoot up drugs in the movie SherryBaby at least took my mind off the misery that I was experiencing at the time! Strangely enough, I enjoyed the experience. It was enlightening traveling with the locals, roughing it and sweating off the pounds of pasta that Italy left on me. I would have it no other way.

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