Moroccan Kindness

For many years, I have had a strange fascination with Morocco. Something about the mix of cultures there, the famous architecture, the beautiful scenery, and what I’ve heard about the hospitality of the people has never ceased to intrigue me, and it has been near the top of my travel “bucket list” for almost as long as I can remember. In addition, I’ve known that traveling there would allow me to move one step closer to a major goal of mine: to travel to every continent besides Antarctica before I turn 25. So far I’ve crossed off North America (obviously the US, Canada, and Belize), Asia (China and India), Europe (England, France, Germany, Austria, Spain, Portugal, Hungary, Denmark, Malta, and Belgium), South America (Peru), and now, after all this time, I can finally add Africa (Morocco) to the list!

However, the journey didn’t necessarily start off in the idyllic way I’d imagined. After checking every day for weeks that the weather in Marrakesh was hovering around the seasonal average of 80 degrees Fahrenheit and sunny, I was shocked and dismayed when we touched down in weather that, at 50 degrees and rainy, felt much closer to England than the exotic land of wonders I’d imagined. After inching our way through passport control and haggling with a cabbie for a suitable fare into the Medina (Old City), we were dropped off at the end of a narrow alleyway and told vaguely to “just keep walking straight”.

Having been warned by our friends who have traveled to Marrakesh in the past that asking for any directions would cost us between 10 and 40 dirhams (from 1-4 Euro), we confidently brushed off all attempts to help and set off down the winding street, trying to skulk along under the awnings to protect our baggage from the continuing drizzle. As the road continued, seemingly endlessly, we began to lose faith, but then we finally emerged into a huge square. At first, I was excited, because I remembered that our hotel was supposedly very close to Jemaa al Fina, the major central square of the Medina. Then, as we scanned signs and saw nothing indicating our riad (hotel), we finally gave up and acquiesced to a man who had been pestering us for several hundred yards. He took us directly to the small archway leading to our hotel and wound us through the twists and turns, straight to the front door. He then yelled and carried on and tried to get us to give him 100 dirhams (10 Euro) for the less than 5 minutes of help we’d received, but we gave him 50 (which was still more than necessary by any account) and sought refuge in the dark reception area. 

It was a relief to meet our quiet but friendly riad manager, Abdul, and be shown to rooms that were small but clean and equipped with heat. I layered up with long sleeves and fleece, looking sadly at the shorts and dresses I’d been so excited to pack, and then we found our way back out to the square to eat at a somewhat tourist-y but reasonably priced Moroccan restaurant. Pretty much every restaurant in the country has a set menu price, so I paid it and selected the “Harira/Moroccan soup”, vegetable “tagine” (a traditional cooking method of a clay bowl covered by a chimney in which food is steamed), and mixed fruit salad with mint tea. The moment I tried the soup, I knew that I wouldn’t go hungry the entire trip! It tasted sort of like minestrone, but with lentils, chickpeas, and other veggies, and I proceeded to order it on pretty much every other possible occasion over the course of the trip. The tagine was delicious as well, and after the warm tea and fruit, we felt much refreshed, and set back off into the alleyways to attempt to find the museum and Koranic university I wanted to see.

Pretty much the moment that we stepped off the square into the “Souks” or narrow alleys that serve as residences, hotels, restaurants, and shops, we were lost. There are no street signs, and there is no discernible reason to the streets, which aren't straight or evenly spaced at all, so we had to stop and ask for directions twice before we finally found our way to the square we were seeking. Once, an adorable little boy who couldn’t have been older than ten grabbed my hand and walked us around for 5 minutes, then took 30 dirhams from us and pointed us down an alleyway that turned out to be a complete dead end! 

I was frustrated, wet, and cold by the time we found the museum, but we walked through the artifacts and enjoyed the beautiful architecture and tile work of the Ali Ben Youssef University. And beautiful it was! Like much of Old Marrakesh, both had been built in the 14^th century, and had the intricate detail and beautiful color typical of Islamic architecture from the time period. 

The rain had started up again in earnest when we stepped outside, and we tried desperately to retrace our steps back to the big main square so we could find our riad and have hot showers and a short siesta before it was time for dinner. We wound our way through the streets for over an hour, and finally paid again for directions back to the big square…so imagine our dismay when we ended up in the exact same place from which we’d departed over an hour ago! Now, both to save some little bit of my pride and reinforce how convoluted the Medina is, I would like to stress that I normally have a very good sense of direction, and this was the first time I can ever remember that I managed to get so completely and irreparably lost that I walked in a circle without ever realizing it.

After a few moments of silent fury and disbelief that finally lapsed into laughter, we set off again, and this time were successful in making our way back to the riad without incident. For dinner, we stayed on the beaten path by retracing our steps to a beautifully tiled restaurant entry we’d spotted not too far from our hostel. Once we found our way inside, we discovered a huge and intricately decorated room with traditional Moroccan music playing and a wide selection of foods served in huge portions. After the long, wet, and frustrating day, it was exactly the sort of thing we needed, and we even managed to look past the somewhat tourist-y veneer to enjoy ourselves. Between the food and the walking, I slept hard that night, and woke up in the morning glad for a new day to try again with Marrakesh.

But when I walked outside, it was raining and cold once more, so we changed our plans slightly and booked a hammam, or traditional bath, for the afternoon.  Because of its high volume of tourists, Marrakesh has hammams that offer both traditional Moroccan and more classically Western spa treatments, so we found a package that would allow for the steam, soap, and scrub typical in Morocco and a TWO HOUR massage…all for only 60 US dollars! In the mean time, we ventured through the markets to pick out the few scarves, soaps, and other gifts we wanted to pick up for friends and family. We made a lunch of the fresh squeezed orange juice, dried fruits, and roasted nuts sold in bulk at many small stalls, and purchased enough extra to bring with us on the desert trip starting the next day. Abdul had a friend who worked at the hammam we’d booked, and she was nice enough to come to our riad to guide us through the confusing alleyways so that we made it to the hammam in a timely manner. We were treated to more mint tea on the rooftop while everything was being prepared, and then eventually changed into our robes and flip-flops to start the afternoon. First, we spent about half an hour in the steamy sauna, where a pleasant middle-aged woman first rubbed us down with the “black soap”, a gooey dark green gel, and then let us sit for a period of time. Then she put on an exfoliating glove and scrubbed us hard, laughing at our shock when we saw our skin rolling off in little tubes. Finally, she shampooed our hair and applied argan oil, and then let it sink in before escorting us back downstairs. The massage was absolutely amazing after that, and we practically slithered out the door, so relaxed were we after our first experience with the baths. We then had enough time to pack up our things and buy some movies before dinner, which was at a rooftop restaurant recommended by Abdul. By evening, the sun had finally made an appearance, and we enjoyed our harira, tagines, and tea while we watched the sun set. Then we all three climbed in bed to watch a comedy before an early morning wake up call for the desert tour.

Our guide came to pick us up at the riad in the morning, so we hugged Abdul goodbye and followed him out to a Toyota Land Cruiser with a smiling driver. The driver was introduced as Ibrahim, and the guide (who spoke perfect English) told us that his name was Driss. As we slowly wound our way out of the Medina and into the Moroccan countryside, he explained the plan for the next four days in the desert, which would ultimately end with us being dropped off in Fez. Then he fielded all of our questions we’d had pent up about the people, culture, and customs of Morocco. After a few hours of winding through the green mountains, we found our way to a small rest stop, where we stopped for a snack and bathroom break. I took the opportunity to snap a quick picture of this portion of the beautiful Moroccan landscape:

 Then, we wound higher and higher up through the Atlas Mountains, on a narrow road that often came scarily close to sheer dropoffs. I can't remember a time in the past when I've ever gotten carsick, but after offering to sit in the cramped middle to keep Joe and his mom more comfortable, I was feeling more than a little bit queay. So I breathed a big sigh of relief when we stopped at a beautiful lookout to take pictures, and I could climb out of the back to get some clean, cold air. After only about three hours, the flat desert scene of Marrakesh had given way to something quite different:

The point where we stopped was close to the peak of the mountains, and we slowly wound our way down the other side, which was luckily not as curvy or narrow as the Marrakesh side of the mountains. Still, I was more than happy to get a few hours' respite from the Land Cruiser, when we stopped at a small town in the desert that has sprung up to accommodate tourists visiting one of Morocco's most famous sites, the Casbah of Ain Ben Haddou. After a lunch of cous cous and vegetable tagine, we hiked a short path to get a view of the casbah, which is a UNESCO site and has also hosted the crews of movies as famous as Lawrence of Arabia and Gladiator, and even the TV show Game of Thrones! Then we set up the winding path through the mud and straw buildings. Although the casbah traditionally only housed one family, today there are nine different families living inside the outer walls. It was a steep trail, but the top offered beautiful views of the desert and the casbah itself.

After spending enough time at the top to take pictures and be harrassed by a young Moroccan boy who followed us around angrily repeating, "Money! Money! Money!", we clambered our way back down the reddish paths and reluctantly got back in the car for the remaining hours of our drive. That night, we stayed in Ourzazate, which is on a high plateau with a perfect view of the sunset and a gym, which was much needed after the cramping of the car. It was also remote enough that it was pitch dark when the lights turned off, so I slept amazingly well.

The next morning, we had planned to leave around 9, but got a late start because Joe woke up with a terrible stomachache, presumably from something he'd eaten the night before. I felt terrible for him, especially because we only had about two hours of highway driving that day before we had to start our offroad trek through the desert, which is a bumpy road under any circumstances. Before that time came, however, we went to Three Gorges, which is a huge natural canyon at the mouth of one of Morocco's largest fertile valleys. As we stopped at the entrance, evidence of Morocco's rich mineral deposits was apparent in the hillsides:

In the canyon, there was a crowd of people: locals selling souvenirs and handicrafts, herdswomen bringing their goats, sheep, and donkeys to drink in the river, other tours, and even rock climbers clinging to the rocks on the either sides. Although the sheer size of the place, worn by millenia of water flowing through it, meant that I couldn't really capture it with my camera, but this panorama shot was my favorite by far.

After we lingered around the canyon for a while, we had to set off once again to finally start our offroad trek. I felt terrible for Joe, noticing him become progressively more green as we bumped over the rocky desert, but he was a champ and didn't complain one bit. Moroccans say that there are actually three types of desert: mountainous desert, rocky desert, and sandy desert. We'd glimpsed the mountainous desert going up through the Atlases, but now we were down in the rocky part, where the mineral deposits turned the landscape different colors. We even passed through a greenish desert, which I found fairly ironic. For the most part, however, we were in the blackish-brown volcanic desert. The sand that was picked up by the wind and flung in our faces stung, and Joe eventually asked our guide to tie him one of the Berber turbans to protect his ears and neck.

By the afternoon, we were in Berber territory. Although a portion of the Berber people are still completely nomadic and move their herds across borders freely, tightening border controls and economic difficulties have meant that many former nomads have settled down to become farmers and tradesmen, most in small villages that dot the landscape of Morocco close to the Algerian border. Because our tour company, Rough Tours, was started and is staffed by all Berbers, being in the area necessitated our stopping at no less than four houses along the way, so that we could all pay visits and drink tea. At each of the houses we stopped, the people were friendly and excited to have us, and we always enjoyed ourselves, even if we needed Driss to interpret everything. Although none of the people were rich by Western standards, each of them put out their best nuts, breads, and snacks in front of us with the tea, and the women would all scold us, "Chat! Chat!", which means "eat! eat!" in the Berber language. We were so touched by their hospitality and generosity that all of us, even sick Joe, felt that we had to take them up on their offers. Driss explained to us how all Berbers are expected to show kindness to guests, no matter how difficult their own circumstances, and I thought that was the most beautiful thing I'd heard about in the country. We asked him why they always served tea so ceremoniously, lifting the teapot high over the tiny glasses but somehow never spilling a drop, and Driss laughed. "There is a Berber saying: tea without foam is like a Berber without his turban!" 

 We spent so much time with each family, showing pictures of our homeland and trading stories of our lives, that we got to the village where we were to spend the night rather late, just as the sun was setting. We went straight to the small auberge, or guesthouse, where we'd be spending the night, but Driss promised we could go back into the village in the morning to meet people and see the farms, school, and livestock pens typical of Berber homes. The sun was already setting when we pulled in and got ready for dinner, and once we ate, we all fell straight into bed.

Joe was up most of the night with a fever and stomach cramps, so after a simple breakfast of bread and water, we sent him back to bed to rest while Mrs. Riley and I went into the village, called Ramlia. We first toured one of the two schools in town; we weren't allowed in the government school, but we could see the building that served as a preschool for children younger than 6 who couldn't yet go to the state school, and also was a place for the volunteer teacher in town to teach basic English to the children. The teacher, Anna, is a middle-aged Australian woman who has been living in Morocco for three years, alternating between Ramlia and a village in the north of Morocco. She told us about the difficulties of teaching an optional program in an agrarian community, where kids are often held out to help around the house or farm, and many families don't even see the need to send their children at all.  When we were in the building, the preschoolers came in to have their lessons with a teenaged girl named Khadijah who teaches them the Arabic, English, and Berber alphabets and some verses from the Koran. Mrs. Riley and I tried to teach them how to play "Ring around the Rosie", but that didn't catch on too well with them, as they were confused by the song.

Next, we tried "Duck, Duck, Goose", and got significantly more interest in that game. I asked Driss if he could tell me the Berber words for animals the kids were used to seeing, like donkeys, sheep, and goats, to see if that would work better than ducks and geese they'd probably never even heard of. He shook his head and said, "Watch, they won't need words." So I watched the first little girl walk around the circle, touching everyone on the head silently as she walked by. Finally, she paused in front of a little boy, smacked him on the head hard, and ran off laughing while he chased her angrily. Mrs. Riley and I burst out laughing, and the kids absolutely loved it. I guess we didn't realize exactly what sort of abuse we'd introduced into the little schoolroom!

Afterwards, we walked around the farm plots, or "gardens" as Driss called them, as he explained the irrigation and farming techniques for different crops grown in that village. We'd picked up a small shadow when we left the school: a little girl named Ibisha who silently grabbed my hand and led me through the gardens behind Driss. When we finished our tour, it was time to go, but I was surprisingly sad to leave the people who'd shown us so much hospitality in our short time with them. I knew that we had a schedule to keep though, so I hugged Ibisha goodbye and got back into our trusty SUV for another day of bumping across the desert.

Much earlier that I'd thought, we got back onto smooth, paved roads, and Joe was able to take a bit of a nap through the monotonous desert. We stopped for lunch in a village that's a traditional Gnawa, or black tribal Moroccan area, and were able to listen to some of their traditional music while we were waiting for lunch. It was rich with drums and chanting, and I could see why Moroccans hold a yearly festival to celebrate it. Our lunch was of "Berber pizza", a dish that was almost a calzone of the bread we'd been eating but filled with rice, spices, veggies, and eggs. It was delicious, so I ate up, and since Joe was starting to feel somewhat better after his rest, he tried some as well. After storing everything we wouldn't need for the night in a hotel, we then were set to embark on our biggest adventure yet: a camel ride through the Sahara desert! Joe's family has horses, and I've ridden in the past, so we were confident we'd be fine with the camel riding, but had no idea how different it was. The camels layed down so that we could clamber up in the saddle, and then we had to hold on tight while they found their way to their feet. Then, when we'd gotten settled on the soft saddles that fit around and over the hump, we started off at a walk. The gait of the camel was slow but lurching, and I quickly realized it wouldn't be nearly as comfortable as riding a horse.

 For two hours, we rode along the sand dunes, our camels carefully picking their way behind our guide. The slow pace was perfect for taking pictures, but I quickly realized I'd have to still pay attention, because my camel was devious. When we were less than five minutes away from the departure point, she slowed down until Mrs. Riley's camel was far enough ahead to stretch the rope that bound them together, and then she yanked her head back hard to disentangle it, and started moseying along in her own direction! Luckily, the guide, Ibrahim, paid closer attention to her after that, and we didn't have too many other problems on the way to camp.

We stayed in a set of tents protected on either side by two sand dunes, and got there in time to climb up one to watch the sun set over the desert. Mrs. Riley took a few turns on the "sand board", a snowboard that had been greased to allow it to slide down the dunes, but I considered the long distance from civilization and decided against trying anything that could put me in need of emergency medical attention.

We waited for dinner and chatted with the other travelers staying at our camp: four Germans, an American family on their son's high school graduation trip, and two American girls working for the Peace Corps in Morocco whose two friends were visiting them. The dinner was huge tagines and more cous cous, and I was glad to see that Joe was feeling well enough to eat a normal dinner, and his fever had gone down. The guides treated us to some Moroccan drum music and dancing around the campfire, but I was more interested in watching the stars, which were out in droves thanks to the lack of light pollution that far out in the dunes.

Looking back on it, I'm glad we went to bed early, because Joe woke up in the middle of the night and we quickly realized he shouldn't have eaten the big dinner. His fever was up again, and he was covered in sweat and cramping so badly that he couldn't sit up. There was a point when I was legitimately worried that I would have to get the guide and bring him back to the town, but around 3 am his fever broke and he was able to get some sleep. I got up at 6 to watch the sunrise, but I left him sleeping, hoping that he'd get enough rest to be able to make the long camel trip back.

After he woke up, the fever was still gone, but he felt weak after the night before, and I take it as a testament to his endurance that he was able to make the bumpy and uncomfortable camel ride back to the hotel. He called his dad, who's a doctor, the moment we got back, and got instructions for how to get over the last little bit of whatever it was he had. Then we showered the sand off and ate a quick breakfast before beginning our long last leg of the drive, which was almost 600 km north to Fez.

It took us over the mountains again, so we had the strange experience of seeing the Saharan desert and snowy pine forests in the skiing area of Morocco in the same day. Needless to say, we got some strange looks when we stopped at a rest area still wearing shorts and sandals from our desert morning.

It was almost 8 pm by the time we made it through the mountains to the green, fertile, and non-snowy area around Fez and said goodbye to Driss and Ibrahim. They were both absolutely amazing, and if any of you are thinking of going to Morocco, you should most definitely look into doing a Rough Tour. 

This has already been a long blog entry, so there's not much else to remark upon in Fez besides going to the leather tannery, which still treats and dyes leather using the traditional techniques. It was a bizarre place, and smelled worse than probably any other single location I've been in my life. Nonetheless, it was still interesting to see the workers moving among the catacomb-looking vats, shifting hides around and treating them with different chemicals. Each week, the dye vats are filled up with a single color, and only items that color are treated over the seven days. While we were there, it was a red week.

We only had one day in Fes, and in the evening had to start our long journey to Italy (for Joe and me) and Innsbruck (for Mrs. Riley, who was planning on skiing with some of their German friends). First, we took a 4 and 1/2 hour train to Casablanca, and then had to find our way onto another train to the airport, which took another hour. Then we had to wait until 1 am, when our gate opened, and go through security to wait until our 3 am plane, which landed in Rome at 7 am. It was one of the more tiring travel experience I've had, and I was ready to kiss the ground when we landed safely on Italian soil. Then again, a new country brings with it all new stories, and I don't have time nor space to begin on the Italian ones here.