Day 159: Rick’s Cafe in Casablanca

Waking up in an apartment and not having to check out sometime between 10 AM and noon felt so… indulgent. It’s become the most random things that I appreciate the most on this trip. We slept in. Andrew made breakfast (toad in a hole) and I put on a movie while I transferred videos and edited photos. It felt like a “normal” Saturday. The kind we would have in Seoul before we left to travel around the world. We went out for coffee (and wifi) and then went out for a drink at Rick’s Café in Casablanca.

p.s. I have no idea why I look like an Oompa loompa in this picture. It was taken immediately after we sat down, so it’s not from the drink!

Rick’s Café in Casablanca, felt indulgent as well. We sat at the bar and enjoyed some Casablanca beer (trying not to think about how much the beer cost). Aside from being at a swank bar in gym shoes and a Northface fleece, no one made us feel like we didn’t belong and it felt like we were on holiday from our holiday. I grabbed Andrew’s camera to go upstairs to take pictures (and videos) of the place and was delighted when one of the servers offered to show me around. How sweet! He took me through nearly every room and pointed out where was a good place to take a picture and introduced me to other members of the wait-staff. I asked him if many Moroccans come or if it’s mostly tourists. I believe he said it was around half and half. I cracked a joke about being a tourist and he smiled, but said I was just as welcome. I appreciated his sincerity and how he didn’t look down on me for being a back-packer traipsing through the trendy venue.

Not long after I returned to Andrew at the bar, a middle-aged western woman sat down at the seat marked reserved and thanked the bartender by name when he delivered some water. Andrew had told me that the owner (an American at that) was usually around in the evenings. I wanted to say hello and tell her how much I appreciated the tour I had received. I leaned over and asked her if it was her place. She said yes and I gushed over how lovely it was and how nice her servers were to show me around. She smiled, one of those plastered kinds, and then walked away from the conversation.

No “I’m so glad you are enjoying yourself.” No “You sound American as well, where are you from?” No “Excuse me, I’m terribly busy at the moment.” Nothing. She just walked away and all of the warm fuzzy feelings I had for Rick’s Café and the entire wait-staff started to disappear. My holiday from my holiday ended. I was a backpacker in dirty gym-shoes and a NorthFace fleece again.

It’s a peculiar beast, this trip… Spending my entire life savings to travel around the world on a budget. Living out of a backpack, wearing the same clothes over and over again, when I have a closet full of clothes, shoes, and even bags waiting for me on the other side of the Atlantic. Believe me Rick’s Café lady, if I could, I would be in your café dressed to the nines, but I’m having trouble zipping up my backpack as it is.

I wanted to march back up to her and explain our-selves and shame her by telling her she was no better than the department store make-up ladies who refuse to pay attention to you because they don’t think you’re going to give them any commission. How it’s always been my dream to travel around the world and that we made her café part of this dream realized. How we had quit our jobs and had been traveling for nearly six months making this dream come true. How we’re on a $50 per day budget and spent nearly half of our budget for the day on two TWO beers at her bar. How up until meeting her, I felt like the expense was totally worth the experience.

I didn’t. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Instead, I whispered in the pianist’s ear how beautiful his playing was. I thanked all of the wait-staff as we walked out. I posed for pictures in front of the sign in the entryway. I tried to forget about the owner’s dismissive attitude. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she was busy, or maybe she was having a bad night… but she didn’t seem to have any problem schmoozing the bigger parties having dinner in the café. Unfortunately, she came across to us as one of those people who are only interested in others when they can benefit her in someway. Andrew teased me and said one day I would have my Pretty Woman moment with her.

Yes. The next time I find myself in Casablanca, I’ll be sure to have an armful of shopping bags or, say, a party of ten of my closest friends? and walk up to Ms. Kriger and say “Big mistake. Big. Huge.” and walk out.

Day 158: another broken down bus

We stood outside of the bus not five miles outside of Essaouria and I counted how many buses have broken down on us on this trip. One in Nepal, one in India, and now this one in Morocco? That’s it? It sure feels like there were more… But here we stood, on the side of the road facing another broken down bus.

It was pulled over after a strong gas smell filled the back of the bus (where we were sitting). We climbed out. We waited. We were told to climb back on. We waited some more. Then another bus pulled up and we were told to get on the other bus. Eight hours or so later we pulled into a station in Casablanca.

We made our way back to our first couchsurfer hosts in Morocco- at least we made our way back to their apartment. We kinda fell in love with them our first weekend in Morocco. They made breakfast for us, allowed us to crash their dinner parties, and even took us around the black market. So as if that wasn’t enough straight up goodness- when we let them know we were coming back in town for two nights before our flight(s) down to Uganda, they let us stay in their place even though they had volunteered to go on a school field trip for the weekend.

Obviously, it should go without saying that we were disappointed we wouldn’t get to hang out with them some more before we left Morocco… But after the LONG day getting back into town, we were elated to have a place to crash. One that we were familiar with. One that had a bathroom that I didn’t have to put shoes on to go into… One that had a kitchen.

It was glorious. They were/are glorious. Sometimes it’s easy to get frustrated with the travel- with the cultural differences- with the cab drivers. But when we meet people like Catherine and Brian, it totally restores my faith in not only travel, but humanity as well. Now we just have to time it out correctly to run into them again in Europe this summer when we’ll all be galavanting around the same continent!

Day 157: Essaouria’s medina

Essaouira’s medina is pretty similar to the medina in Rabat. It’s nice, but it lacks the charm that the medina in Fes is so full of. Also, we began our day with possibly the worst breakfast we’ve had in all of the nearly six months we’ve been traveling. So… that certainly didn’t help matters. But after walking around the medina, we settled in for some soup and internet at a really lovely cafe on the edge of town, almost towards the port area. It made up for breakfast. As did being able to snap this picture of a man wearing a jalaba. Most Moroccan men wear these. It’s pretty much like being in a Star Wars movie when they walk around with them on.

When we got back to our couchsurfers’ place, another surfer had arrived for the evening and had just finished preparing dinner for us all! They all obliged me with my self timer during dinner.

Day 156: The port of Essaouira

I’ve become somewhat appreciative of uneventful transit days. Those that don’t involve a broken down bus on the side of the road, trying to hitch-hike in a foreign language, or worse; sitting in a confined space for hours on end with two excited teenagers. Thankfully, this was one of those days. We arrived in Essouira in the late afternoon and found our latest couch-surfers’ apartment with relative ease.

Essouira is a small town along the coast and after walking through so many medinas (old cities) I was elated over walking through the port of Essaouira, the shipyard, and through something of a fish market and even up along the wharf where we braced ourselves against the wind to watch the sea crash into the huge concrete jacks that were placed against the wall breaking the sea.

An “ultras” mural caught my eye on our way to the port. The Ultras are basically THE gang-bangers of Morocco. Although when you think of “gang-bangers” you might b surprised that the ultras are anything but thuggish in their appearance. They are all decked out in black-market athletic gear and are super into soccer. I found them amusing.

The port was right off the medina in town. It used to be the most important port between Africa, Europe, and the Americas, until bigger cities like Casablanca sprang up. I thought it was perfect and no one seemed to be bothered by us walking through it. The ship-yard held big fishing boats along with many many more of these smaller ones that the fishermen take out when the wind is blowing a certain way. I thought the blues were so beautiful.

We stood up on a huge wall breaking the sea from the shore and the shipyard. The wind was so strong that we had to brace ourselves quite a bit for fear of falling into the giant concrete jacks below.

Ok, so about this couch-surfing business. My cousin, Amy wondered if I just knew THAT many people around the world. I had to clarify, and perhaps you might be wondering the same. I know a few- due to teaching English abroad. My TEFL Worldwide class dispersed around the world after we graduated back in 2006 and many have stayed abroad. Various friends Korea have jumped countries to teach… And a few friends (or friends of friends) have moved abroad for various reasons… It’s a mixed blessing having your friends live around the world. Obviously great when you want to travel, but not so great when you wish they all lived in the same country!

When we don’t know someone, we turn to couchsurfing.org. If you don’t know it, it’s going to sound a little bit crazy. It’s basically a social network which allows travelers to network and share free accommodation around the world. So, when we headed to Morocco, we searched for hosts in each city we were planning on visiting and if they had space for two, positive references, and a somewhat fast response rate. Then, we would send them a message asking if they were available to host us for a night or two.

We’ve hosted once before we left Seoul- a Canadian studying at Cambridge on his way back to England from New Zealand. Since we’ve left Korea, we’ve surfed in Kuala Lumpur, Jerusalem, Casablanca, and now Essouira. To be honest- it’s not always the most comfortable- homeboy in KL lived in what I would call a Muslim bachelor pad… But it’s always been interesting and it’s a really great way to meet people (we might not otherwise) living in some of the countries we’re visiting.

Our hosts in Essouira were two young Americans (19) and were absolutely adorable. We stayed up fairly late chatting about our experiences in Korea and their experiences hitch-hiking around the states. It’s really incredible to show up on someone’s doorstep without having met them previously and be welcomed inside for the night. Whenever any of our hosts say that they think what we’re doing is amazing, I always feel the need to tell them that I’m not sure if we could do it without them; without couch-surfing. We haven’t done it as often as we could, but I know we’ll be doing it more and more in the months to come!

Day 155: More of Marrakech

It seems to do anything, or get anywhere in Marrakech, you pretty much need to cross through Jemaa el-Fna (the main square) to get where you’re going. Fortunately, we didn’t have to linger long, and were able to cross a corner of it to follow a small street (full of twists and turns and moments where we thought we were lost) to Marrakech Museum, then to another (much more impressive) Islamic school. After these, we thought we would wander, but got lured into a Moroccan pharmacy, which led to being lured to the tanneries of Marrakech. We agreed, because we were told there would be an auction. There wasn’t. We upset a couple more volunteer “guides” before we crossed back through town to see more of Marrakech at night. Although, that certainly didn’t last long, especially after we walked onto the square and immediately heard a fellow tourist get reprimanded for taking a photo that she insisted she didn’t take.

The museum was like visiting someone’s private art collection in a restored palace. Which, maybe that was exactly their goal. I was much more impressed with the old Islamic school we wandered through.

I’ve been intrigued by these herb shops that we saw EVERYWHERE in Marrakech. I didn’t really know what to make of them- were they cooking spices? medicinal? We finally got pulled into one and found out that they are both. It was actually really interesting to be in and fun to try all of the different kinds of herbs. I didn’t get the sachets for breathing well (seems it would be incredibly beneficial when you have a cold) and I wish I would have. Instead, we got some tea to go with the Moroccan tea pot I wanted to get before we left.

I was thrilled with our visit in the Herboiste, thinking we didn’t get ripped off, it was a pleasant exchange, we learned something, I got some pictures, Andrew got some videos, the Herboiste got a sale… and then they suggested we go to the tanneries for the auction. I didn’t necessarily need to see another set of tanneries- but I was curious what a Moroccan auction was like. Immediately some dude they knew- or they didn’t know sprang out from nowhere to lead us. Off we went. He traded us off to another man who took us around a very barren set of tanneries. And then predictably led us into a leather goods shop.

So when I shop around in foreign countries- I never really know if it’s a reasonable price at the first quote. So, I typically shop around. I price check everywhere and then walk away. Walking away is the best way to get the price down as low as they will go before I even start bargaining. In Chefchaouen, a popular leather purse design was going for about 150 durams. When I asked this dude, it was 700. I laughed. like out-loud in his face “No effing way, dude” kinda way. Because if you’re going to mark it up that much- well, that’s just rude! I signaled for Andrew to leave. We both walked out. I didn’t even respond to the shopkeeper how much the bag should have cost because I didn’t even want to consider buying it from him after he initially marked it up so much. On our way out, BOTH guides were waiting for a tip. Presumably so because they weren’t going to earn any commission from the ridiculously overpriced leather purse I didn’t buy.

I didn’t have much- Andrew didn’t have anything. I fished around in my pocket and handed it to one of the guides. He looked at me like I was crazy. And because there was no auction, because the shop-keeper marked his price up sooo high, because BOTH guides were standing there demanding money for services I didn’t ask for, I grabbed the coins back. “Fine, if you don’t want it, then I do!” And we walked off, me apologizing to Andrew for dragging him to a non-existent tannery. At least it didn’t cost us anything…

Shopping for Moroccan tiles and tea-sets on the other hand, cost a thing or two…

Day 154: Marrakech

Marrakech was considerably more touristy than the previous Moroccan cities and towns we visited. The kind of touristy when you know they must have dropped a small fortune to be there. Lots of European vacationers. Lots of older couples. Lots of money. We walked through Jemaa el-Fnaa in the morning and had an entirely different experience than we had at night. Circles were formed around snake charmers, fortune tellers, monkey handlers, and even a magician.

It sounds exotic, but it felt anything but. It felt dirty. Snakes were often laying on hot stones, monkeys were dressed up with cuffs they held onto to as if to try to keep it off of their necks. Everyone asked for money. You want a picture? You have to pay. You want your fortune read, henna on your hands, the opportunity to hold an imprisoned monkey? You have to pay. The magician was friendly enough to invite me to do some of his tricks myself, but I was clueless, and more likely the butt of his jokes in lieu of being a fabulous assistant. Which, maybe, in his eyes, made me a fabulous assistant. That is, until he handed over his stage to the man missing a leg to ask for his own share of money.

We walked around the square (Jemaa el-Fnaa), the mosque, the El Badi Palace and then went back to the square for dinner at the stalls. My favorite part of the day was probably listening to the storks chatter on the walls of the El Badi Palace. I’m not usually one for bird watching, but I could have watched these giant birds all day long. There were huge nests on the walls and they were so loud, it sounded like someone was taking a more colorful sounding jack-hammer to the walls of the ruins.

Day 153: Jemaa el-Fnaa by night

Our train from Fes to Marrakech was a bit of a nightmare. Lesson learned: never underestimate a quiet teenager sitting alone in an empty cabin. Because, if she’s waiting for a friend… You. are. doomed. Not only were they nonstop chattering (LOUDLY) until they got off in Casa- but the whole train was packed and we couldn’t escape.

It was so packed, that when I tried to go to the bathroom- after lit’rally climbing over people in the hall, three teenage boys were crammed into the bathroom sitting on the sink, stall, etc. They invited me in enthusiastically. I glared and got “lucky” with a poopy, yet teen-free facility in the next car. We left Fes around noon, and didn’t arrive into Marrakech until after ten at night. We weren’t as energetic as this video portrays us to be, rather the above is a collection of our few nights meandering around the square.

I think nights on the square have to be a pickpocket’s paradise, but it’s also considerably less shady than being in the vicinity of those setting up shop by day (more on that soon). There were groups of musicians and dancers competing for crowds and noise levels everywhere. At first, it was really neat to walk into. But then as soon as you tried to take a picture, someone would run up to you and demand a tip. It didn’t matter if you took a picture at all, or if they were even in it. They always thought they were and deserved a tip for their hard work of being in the background of a photo you took in a public square. It really ruined my experience on the square. By our second night going out in it, I didn’t even want to stay I was so annoyed at everyone asking for money, my hand to draw henna on, my belly to fill it with stall food… As wonderful as the assault on my senses was in Fes, it was done so because the city was just an old city going about its business- oblivious to me being witness to it. Here, in Marrakech, the assault was an unfortunate backlash of what tourism can do to a perfectly lovely (I’m guessing) travel destination.

Day 152: Fes and its tanneries

Another favorite day of the trip. Andrew and I walked around through the medina, getting lost a lot, and then finding our way again. Fes, at least in the medina, is what I pictured when I thought of ‘Morocco.’ I could spend days walking through the medina. It was close quartered, chickens tied to cages in the middle of the walkway, horses hauling bottles of water through the old town, and everyone buying or selling something. Sometimes, especially after five months of travel, if my five senses aren’t being under a full blown attack, it’s not the experience I’m looking for. Fes assaulted my senses. It was not always pleasant, but it was wonderful, and exactly what I was craving from Morocco.

Walking through the medina was an elevated experience compared to the medinas of Rabat and Chefchaouen. We were two of the few tourists in the city- as we were told Ryan Air and a few others have discontinued their routes to Fes. Which is a shame, especially considering after a day, it had already become my favorite city in Morocco.

After seeing a few pictures of the tanneries, I warned Andrew that I really wanted to visit them. We read that you should be prepared to accept a child’s offer to take you to the tanneries in exchange for a little tip. Instead, an old man started guiding us there- not exactly by choice, either. Andrew and I were in our own little world wandering through the maze, enjoying getting lost trying to find where the tanneries were! I also get a little flustered when someone offers to help only to ask for a tip after. I know, I’ve mentioned this before, but what’s wrong with offering to help in exchange for a small fee right off the bat? I will happily pay!

Instead, we were lead through a leather shop (big surprise) to the view from the rooftop. I didn’t think any of the leather goods were well made (especially compared to the gorgeous leather bag that I passed up in Chefchaouen the day before) and wouldn’t buy from one of the shops right on the tanneries anyway- hello mark-up! Commission for the dude who walked us there, commission for the owner, commission for the dude who handed us mint on the stairs on the way up… No. Way.

We admired the view, I took a ton of pictures, and then we walked out and handed the man who led us there a small amount of change. Perhaps too small- but we didn’t have anything else on us! He grumbled. I wanted to take our tip back. It was at least enough for a bowl of soup and some bread to go with! We apologized, tried to explain that we didn’t ask for his help, and eventually turned and walked away.

Problem: I really wanted to go to the other side of the tanneries where it looked like it had a more interesting view. I hemmed. I hauled. We walked away from the tanneries before turning back around. Bigger problem: Now we really didn’t have anything in our pockets for a tip. We knew where we were going, and it wasn’t far to double back to find it, but of course, another old dude appeared in hopes of a lofty commission or a heavy handed tip.

Doubling back was worth it. The view was much better and I think the pictures I got were much better too! We lingered. It was peaceful. The older man who led us there wasn’t lurking right behind us as we looked on. I even pretended to debate camel vs. lamb footstools. (In case you’re interested, lambskin is WAY softer. Go for camel leather if you want a sturdy travel bag though!) We walked out, thanked everyone, and then we were faced with our “guide” wanting a tip. We pulled our pockets out so he could see how empty they were. He demanded what we gave our first guide, we told him, and he sighed. We apologized again, and he didn’t seem nearly as upset about the ordeal as our previous “guide” was.

On our way back through, we stumbled upon a medersa; an old religious school. Again, the ceramic tiling was beautiful. I want all of it. We stayed longer than we might otherwise have because it was starting to rain, and there was a little cover in the medersa.

We walked out of the medina and tried to go up to these arches overlooking the medina. It was pretty windy. Then it started to rain. We made it about halfway and ducked into a shop to try to wait it out over some tea a la menthe. (Yum) We walked back out and made it another quarter of the way when it started to cold rain on us again. The view from where we were wasn’t even so great. We walked back through the medina, got more Moroccans to wish Mochi a happy birthday, had the BEST soup from a street stall and went back to our fancy hostel for a hot bath!

Day 151: Fes at dusk

After an afternoon on the bus from Chefchaouen, we arrived in Fes at dusk. Andrew had directions that specifically said: “Do not get out of your petit taxi unless you are in front of the hotel.” I didn’t know this. I thought the name Andrew gave me, to tell our driver, was the name of the area of the medina where we were going to walk through. (Cars aren’t allowed – can’t fit – inside the medina walls, where our hotel was located) I was busy practicing French, assuring our driver that we would walk to our hotel from where he dropped us off. Meanwhile, Andrew was thinking I told him the name of the hotel we were supposed to get out in front of… It was a bi-lingual mess, that we (I?) somehow managed to get ourselves into.

We walked through the maze of the medina in Fes, asked for directions, walked the wrong way (I thought he said turn right, when he actually said walk straight) then doubled back until we finally found the hotel that we were supposed to originally get dropped off at, but not where we were to stay. Our hotel was around two corners from that hotel. See? See how it could be confusing?

We found it. We were delighted when we discovered that the “hostel” was nearly empty and we could have our choice from three different non-dorm rooms! One even had a bathtub! No outside windows, but a clean bathtub! Guess which one we chose?

We walked around the medina and even outside of the walls where we stumbled upon a huge kind of flea market? I looked at a few pairs of used shoes, but didn’t find any in my size that I liked.

Day 150: More of Chefchaouen

Our second day in Chefchaouen was more of the same. We had tea overlooking the town square and then got lost in the maze of blue before enjoying a few minutes at the waterfall outside of the medina walls until I got the finger- as in the “no no no” finger as I was taking pictures of some locals around the falls. I like stealing shots of people in the moment, but not when they don’t want me to. I tucked my camera under my arm and we made our way back through the maze to find dinner- a very cheap ‘chicken and cheese sandwich’ that was more like a stuffed pita full of side salads and fries from what seemed to be a very popular little take-away cafe with the locals. It was delicious. We had more tea. I took more pictures. We ran into the same touts and said “No thanks!” again and again, until it got dark and I got cold, again.

Day 149: Chefchaouen

Andrew led us back to the train station to see if we could get any information about the bus station. We couldn’t. He called the bus company and handed the phone over to me to see if I could decipher the French on the other end. I could, at first, but when she began responding to my question, homegirl spoke in rapid fire French that it was difficult to hear over the noisy traffic on the street outside of the station. We decided to take the train to Tétouan and then the bus to Chefchaouen. This might not have been the best idea, but we were able to leave Fes earlier… with hopes we could arrive in the small, pretty, blue town in the mountains earlier! By the time we got there it was nearing dusk… but it still made for a lovely, yet not tout-free walk around the medina until it was dark, and I was cold.

I was a bit excited to visit Chefchaouen. I thought it would be relaxing and atmospheric and a brief respite from the tourist heavy areas we were about to hit in Fes and Marrakech. But, not so much. Chefchaouen was atmospheric and perfect for pictures… But (and I realize, you might find this hard to believe) but I don’t need, nor do I want to go into every shop that I walk past. I brushed one man off rather early, cutting him off with a smile and a polite, “No Thanks!”

Some shopkeepers are persistent. Some will follow you and/or walk and talk with you as you walk farther and farther away. Some smile back and let you go. This one asked where I was from. Which- is also not new to me. We have become rather used to this tactic as well. We holler where we are from as we walk away, even as kindly as possible, shouting out “Nice to meet you too! Good luck tonight!” not wanting to stop. The minute you stop… you’re done for.

“American?” The same shopkeeper asked. I nodded.

“Why are you walking so fast? You are here to learn from me, and I am here to learn from you…” He was right. And in a way, he was calling me out.

“We’re just walking around tonight, not shopping.” I replied. He smiled. He did seem genuinely nice. He asked where we were from in America. He said he was friends with those who worked in the American embassy. He pulled two business cards out of his wallet for me to see. We talked for a few minutes outside of his shop before I made a move to catch up with Andrew.

“Come, have some whiskey with me and my wife!” He said, inviting me in for some mint tea. And I got a little frustrated inside. I AM here (in Morocco at the moment) to learn from the people and the culture here. But not when it involves a false invitation- drinking tea in his shop while he lays out everything he is trying to sell. I wanted to grumble at him a bit about it. If he’s going to call me out on not stopping to learn from him I wanted to call him out on not being able to leave his sales pitch out of teaching me.

Instead, I smiled, thanked him, and insisted I needed to find my ‘husband.’

Day 148: La Tour Hassan

La Tour Hassan is the tall red sandstone tower, a minaret that was supposed to be the largest minaret in the world, with what was supposed to be the largest mosque in the world. Unfortunately, the Sultan in charge died in the middle of construction, and the minaret only reached half of its intended height. There are 200 columns also unfinished, yet providing a really wonderful area to sit and talk or, my favorite; people watch.

On the other side of the square of half finished columns, the mausoleum of Mohammed V contains not only his tomb, but those of his two sons, King Hassan II and Prince Abdallah. My favorite part of the mausoleum were the guards that stood outside every door and inside every corner of the mausoleum. I walked out of the dim interior to a blinding sun above and nearly walked into a column outside. The guard at that door laughed and agreed with me that the sun was too bright! Seriously, the sun is crazy bright. I’ve been blinded since we arrived in the UAE- had a brief respite during the snowstorm in Jordan, but then was blinded, again, by the light in Israel and now Morocco.

Because we were too late to rock the kasbah (that’s for you, Mindy) the day before, we went back to check out a cafe that our new friend Catherine recommended. We walked through the garden, at a different entrance of the kasbah and directly to the cafe. We had our first official tea a la menth in Morocco (mint tea) and ohmyyum is all I can say. I’ve been drinking way more tea than coffee on this trip, and I have to admit, I think I like the mint tea more than the chai in India and Nepal. They call it ‘Moroccan whiskey’ here because everyone drinks it all. the. time. (Although I don’t really get why they call it whiskey- because no way could I drink whiskey as often as they drink this tea. I think ‘Moroccan water’ might be a better term for it… But… I don’t think I’ll be changing any minds any time soon.)

Another thing I don’t quite understand are the motorbikes. They really are motorBIKES with pedals AND an engine. From my observations, it seems as though the pedals are used to kickstart the engine, but I’ve also seen some people pedaling their motorBIKE with the engine running. I don’t get it. They’re pretty cute though.

After we had our fill of the kasbah, we debated what to do for dinner. Andrew and I are very different travelers. I’m used to traveling without the internet at my disposal and making decisions as I go. He looks up cities, hotels, restaurants online- seeing where to go and where to avoid, and is way more prepared than I ever am. Great, right? He’s prepared. I’m spontaneous. The perfect balance. In the perfect travel world, yes. In our travel world, not. so. much. This overwhelming difference between the two of us sometimes results in stony silences during dinner. Stony silences that include agreeing on what to order and even sharing our food- poutily (is that word?) and silently, until one of us caves and starts talking. Lindsay said her family wondered what we do when we just want to be alone. Well, we don’t always have that luxury. Frankly, I don’t feel safe being alone in Muslim countries. Men leer. They catcall. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes Andrew extra protective. So instead we wrap ourselves up in our own little worlds like we did tonight at dinner until one of us realizes how ridiculous we are being and we talk our way out of it.

Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s real hard. But we get through. And then Andrew teases me the next morning “Remember when you were mad at me for wanting to eat at a Trip Advisor restaurant?” and I fire right back “Remember when we ate at the Trip Advisor restaurant and it sucked, was expensive, and I was still hungry after?” I give him the “AND what?” face. He rolls his eyes. We carry on.

Day 147: Rabat

Rabat definitely has more character than Casablanca, but it still lacked that “ooooh exotic!” Moroccan feel I came here chasing after. I practiced my French with the sweet frontdesk man at our hotel. He didn’t judge (my mistakes). And that made me happy. Then we walked through the medina and a little through the quiet kasbah just as dusk was approaching.

When we walked up towards the entrance of the kasbah, a young man approached us to warn us that the kasbah would be closing soon. We assured him we were just walking through and it was ok that it was closing soon. We weren’t planning on staying long. He let us through and we started making our way through the blue and white maze. And then he magically reappeared. Andrew and I briefly made eye-contact, knowing exactly where this was going… He would guide us through, make pleasant conversation, and then expect a tip at the end of his “job” well done. It may be our first time in Morocco, son, but it’s not our first time around the block.

He pointed out door knockers of Islamic influence. He pointed out doorways of Portugese influence. He led us to what felt like his family’s balcony overseeing the Atlantic. He told us of his language studies: English, French, more recently Spanish. He waited every time I stopped to take a picture (in hopes it would shake his patience and he would scurry along) and didn’t pick up on our many hints that “We’re ok! We can find our way back out!” or my favorite “Are you missing your soccer game that you left to walk with us?”

Finally, not wanting him to accompany us to the sunset over the Atlantic overlook (Can a girl get a kiss on the cheek in private please?) I turned to him and said “We can find it on our own, Thank you. We’d like to go alone.”

He said, “It’s ok, I will show you.”

Andrew said, “No, we can find it. Thank you.”

He said, “Ok, a tip, whatever you want for my time.”

Andrew laughed.

I said, “No, we didn’t ask you for your time. You volunteered it. Thank you. We are not giving you anything. Good night.”

He tried to argue, clearly annoyed that his ten minutes was completely wasted. We turned and started walking away. We sighed. I mean, we saw it coming, we knew he was going to have a hissy fit about us not tipping him for his uninvited ten minute tour of the kasbah. And maybe, if he (like the many others) were upfront about it, like “Hey, it’s a little difficult to find your way, and I know of a secret view that I can take you to for 10 Dirhams.” I’d be down. I would probably even give him 20 (maybe) if he was cool and really did take me to a sweet secret spot. But this whole I’ll present myself as a nice guy with the expectation of making something after does not sit well with me.

And while I’m being honest, I spent the past five years of my life getting paid for my mad English skills. I’m particularly skilled at small talk with “foreigners.” Next time, I’m just going to ask him “Ok, a tip for me? For speaking English together? Whatever you want for my time…” and see what he says.

Day 146: Casablanca’s Black Market

As if our couchsurfer hosts weren’t already awesome enough (making us french toast for breakfast and then Russian vegetable pie for dinner), Bryan let us tag along with him for a trip to Casablanca’s Black Market. He needed an external harddrive and a tagine (Moroccan cooking pot). I wanted a replacement lens and possibly some replacement shoes. Off we went.

Can I just point out how awesome the dude above looks? A grey jalaba (Hello, Star Wars) with bright yellow glasses. He was awesome. He also gave me a super great deal on a new camera lens. I dropped mine an uncountable amount of times (or accidentally knocked it against a rock while trekking, or it fell off of my backpack while I used Andrew’s camera to take video of him, or maybe it has a grain of sand stuck in it from when I took it to the beach…) For the past month, I haven’t been able to adjust the focal length and recently, it hasn’t been focusing unless I use the LCD screen to shoot a picture. It’s been frustrating. Bryan helped save the day taking me to the dude above.

He then took us to this awesome store (or booth or whatever it’s called in the depths of the Black Market) that I’m convinced is just a front for something even more ‘black market’ than simply having a store at the Black Market itself. Bryan was pointing out a Nazi dagger or bayonet point in the glass case. Outside of the market, he pointed out old slave shackles. He loves the Black Market and is convinced whatever you possibly need or want, you’d be able to find it there. I’m pretty sure he’s right. We stopped at a tagine store on our way ‘home’ where I tested out my new lens while Bryan shopped and Andrew kept an eye on the car. Andrew refused to let me buy one of these giant ceramic pots to ship home. He likes to crush my dreams like that.

Day 145: Casablanca

Waking up to french toast after the day of travel it took to get from Tel Aviv to Casablanca was unbelievable. Our couchsurfer hosts, Catherine and Bryan, were already proving to be the most amazing hosts. ever. We had breakfast with them, got some directions for our first day in Casablanca, and set out in the direction of the Hassan II Mosque on the shore of the Atlantic.

We arrived too late to go in for a tour of the interior, but both of us enjoyed walking around the mosque and people watching. Women lounged in the sun with their shoes off, girls rollerskated through the columns, families posed for pictures. It felt more like a Saturday at the park, than it did outside of a mosque!

I’m constantly amazed at the size of the mosques we’ve been through around the world. This mosque holds roughly 25,000 people inside its main hall. I always think of my hometown’s population of (roughly) 10,000 and compare.

It’s eye-opening for a girl who grew up surrounded by Christian denominations. There are simply SO many followers of other faiths out there! I sometimes wonder how someone who worships at a huge mosque like this one would feel about the multitude of small churches and parishes in the states. This is just some of what I ponder when sitting outside of something so beautiful and unlike anything you’d find in Northern Kentucky. Is there even one small mosque in NKY? I just googled ‘mosque in Northern Kentucky’ and the results are unsettling. They consist of one for the Islamic Association of Northern Kentucky and the rest revolving around protests in Florence over the construction of a mosque in 2010. Apparently in 2011, the Islamic Association instead sold the property to developers, making 750,000 on the sale. Seriously.

It seems a little coincidental that the sale was ”too good to be true” resulting in them selling the property instead of building a mosque. Next time they should pick a parcel of land near the Creation Museum. I bet the Creationists would shell out some serious cash to not have a beautiful minaret obstruct the view of dinosaurs mingling with Adam and Eve on their museum grounds. The longer we are on this trip, the more I see, and the more people I meet… it becomes increasingly difficult to digest insular thinking.

In the book, “Shantaram” the main character, Lin, says:

“Fanaticism is the opposite of love. A wise man once told me – he’s a muslim by the way – that he has more in common with a rational, reasonable-minded jew than he does with a fanatic from his own religion. Winston Churchill once defined a fanatic as someone who won’t change his mind and can’t change the subject.”

I couldn’t agree more.

I digress. I’m sorry if some of my posts go down the road of being a religious rant. Sometimes- like today, like in the Old City in Jerusalem, like in the Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi, like in the churches of Old Goa… our days seem to revolve around one religion or the other. It’s incredibly interesting, but as always, reminds me of how little I know of other religions and how much I want to learn about them.

After we wandered around the mosque, we tried to walk through the medina. Every time I hear the word medina, I start singing (to myself in my head, or to Andrew out-loud) “Funky Cold Medina! Bamp. Bamp. Bamp Bamp.” But then I started wondering what a medina is exactly and if the song is related. A ‘medina’ is Arabic for ”city.” Usually it refers to the ‘old city’ and it is comparable to a walled maze of narrow streets, houses, shops, restaurants, fountains, palaces, mosques, etc. Cars are too big for the streets, so it’s quieter, but upon first visit can be rather confusing and makes me think of what it would be like (only way more challenging) if I were to participate in a corn maze.

It’s completely unrelated to ancient walled in cities, yet I cannot stop singing it. Walking through the medina in Casablanca was a bit impossible because the walkways were covered in a thick layer of mud and I’m still stuck with my barefoot ‘water’ shoes with holes on the bottom letting mud seep in.

We walked back through the streets of Casa towards Catherine and Bryan’s apartment. Casablanca doesn’t feel anything like what I thought Morocco would feel like, but then again, we hear it’s the city you stop through getting from Fes to Marrakech, or where you get into Morocco.