Oh let the sun beat down upon my face . . .
Trip Start
Mar 01, 2011
1
9
27
Trip End
Ongoing
Marrakech, Morocco
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars fill my dreams I am a traveller of both time and space, to be where I have been - Kashmir, Led Zeppelin
Editors Note: Although this song is called Kashmir, and we are all aware of the fact that Kashmir is located in Northern India, not Morocco, the title is fitting. Robert Plant wrote the lyrics to the song after the 1973 Led Zeppelin US Tour whilst driving through the Moroccan desert.
For Information purposes, AUD$1 is roughly equal to MAD$9.00
We arrived in Marrakesh via Casablanca from Barcelona. This was about four hours of flying with an hour and a half transfer at Casablanca airport. Our flights had previously been pushed out to a later time, and then had been delayed by a further hour or so. This meant we arrived in Marrakesh after 11pm. This was far from ideal and after collecting our bags; we strolled out to grab a taxi (no buses run at this time). We had been warned that you would always get screwed over the price at the airport particularly at night, and that you should never pay more than 100 MAD. And it's true, upon going to the cab; we were told it would be 200 MAD. In our defense when it’s late, you’re tired and you’re in a strange place, you just pay whatever.
This was however, just the start of the festivities. Our accommodation for the night before the tour started was a hostel located down one of the myriad of streets that cannot be reached by car. So we would be dropped, and then have to walk. Hoping out of the cab, a dashing young Moroccan gentleman started jabbering away in French. When that didn’t work, he managed to put together some English into what was not really a sentence, but we gathered that he was going to guide us to our hostel. We began following him, mainly because we really didn’t have a choice. Beezel shouldered her backpack; I walked with mine in my arms. I was thinking that if we got led somewhere to be raped, robbed, murdered or a combo of the three, my ~20kg backpack would make a handy missile.
So after more than a brisk stroll though downtown Morocco, our guide said here we are, pointing to non-descript door on which we could just make out the name "Equity Point Hostel". Oh joy! Then our guide proceeded to ask to be reimbursed for his troubles. Suddenly his English became quite fluent. Beezel had been aware of this Moroccan custom and gave him 40 MAD, insisting that was all we had (It wasn’t). However he wanted 200 MAD (He wasn’t joking) and was standing in the way of the door. This went on for sometime and I was still holding my backpack missile, and was getting close to telling this bloke that he either took the 40 and walked away, or he could continue to argue and cop a belting for his trouble. Then, like a voice from the heavens, an Australian accent drifted down from somewhere above, told us to knock on the door and tell the guy to get lost. We did that, and found ourselves safely inside the hostel lobby. It had been a long day.
I would like to tell you more about the hostel, but we arrived, passed out on the bed and awoke about I hour before we had to check out. Beezel did manage to score a photo of a random cat drinking from the kitchen sink tap otherwise it was uneventful. We then had to make our way from this hostel to the hotel where our tour would be starting. Given the previous nights adventures, we were dubious. We did have one big advantage, it was now daytime. So it would be so much easier to spot the people who were about to rob you. We asked the girl at reception how to get to the main square (The square being the centre of the old city and the only landmark that a foreigner can recognize). We were told to follow the road and head left. These were not real directions, and we proceeded to wander aimlessly for a few minutes, until we came to a more populated road with shops. Assuming that if we just kept following the crowds, we had to arrive somewhere important paid off, and we made it to the square. Now we just had to find the hotel down one of the ~9,000 streets in the old city.
We managed to find the right street, whilst avoiding the motorbikes, scooters, donkeys et. al. Along the way some bloke chased down the street saying he had accommodation for 150 MAD. We politely told him we already had accommodation. He kept chasing us. It gets awfully hard, awfully quick to be polite to some of the locals. Like moths to the flame, we soon had our own little posse of men chasing us offering us accommodation, or offering to show us to our booked accommodation, or trying to sell us a few camels. Ok so I may have made up that last one. We really didn’t want anyone to show us anything, because they would want to be paid afterward. Eventually one bloke said he would show us where to go, no matter what we said. And then he led us to the wrong place, and asked for money. WHAT? We refused, he then ran away, we looked at each other, and agreed that we had no idea what to do. Then another bloke strolled up, one whom we had quite rudely rebuked earlier and showed us to our hotel, and he didn’t seek any reimbursement and then sang the theme song to Neighbours on the way. Faith in humanity, restored.
Whilst checking in, we meet one of our other tour members. Our tour group was made up of 13 people, 11 of them Aussie, balanced out with one Canadian and one American. We would all be exploring the Sahara and surrounds for the next 8 days. Since it was just the three of us for the time being, we went to score some lunch. Now, you may think this would be a problem for us vegetarians, but during our wanderings we had gone past a vegetarian/vegan café. On that note, our group was made up of 4 vegetarians, so we fit right in. For the Best family members who are reading this, 3 of the others on the tour were from Melbourne who all hailed from, that’s right Rowville. From what I could gather, back in the mid 90s I think we used to walk past one of their homes on the way to the bus. It’s a small world.
The tour started proper at 6pm that night, when we had dinner together and were introduced to our guide, Brahim. We were also introduced to that staple of Moroccan cuisine, and what would also become a standard of our diet for the next 8 days, tagine. Cous cous and bread also was regularly featured on the menu. Another happy staple is Berber whiskey. Before anyone gets too excited, Berber whiskey is tea loaded up with mint leaves and lots of sugar. Real whiskey, well you really won’t be able to find it. Morocco is >98% Muslim, so the country is basically dry. This was probably for the good of all; 11 Aussies travelling through the heat and desert for 8 days? I imagine most days would have begun with complaints of headaches and a red eyed, badly hung-over tour group.
The next morning we all tumbled into our little bus and left the chaos of the Marrakesh streets to begin our crossing of the Atlas Mountains, the highest range in North Africa. This involved steep, winding roads next to sheer cliffs of the fall to your death screaming kind. Beezel and some of our co travellers downed Travelcalm anti motion sickness pills. No one appreciates being vomited on whilst on tour. Our driver for the tour had an unpronounceable name, so Brahim christened him Brahim II. Not that this really mattered; Brahim the Second spoke no English, save hello, goodbye (obviously a Beatles fan) and thank-you. He spoke great Arabic, Berber and possibly French. This didn’t help most of us. Tour members Will and Liza spoke some French, but we all spoke sweet FA Arabic and Berber. Conversely, Brahim the First speaks fluent Berber, Classical Arabic, Moroccan Arabic, English & French.
Some background on the languages of Morocco: The country is made up of two main distinct groups, the Arabs and the Berber. The Berber hail from the south of Morocco, up in the mountains and near the Sahara. The Arabs came from the north as they moved over from the Middle East. So the Berber speak Berber, in 3 different dialects. Everyone speaks Moroccan Arabic, whilst Classical Arabic is taught in school and also spoken. When the French decided that Morocco looked like a top spot to get a tan and annexed the nation in 1912, French became the language of choice, except for part of the south that the Spanish colonized. Is everyone nice and confused yet? Somewhere along the way, English started to be spoken by a lot of locals too.
Anyway, we were crossing the Atlas Mountains, reaching a maximum altitude of 2,200 metres above sea level. Photo opportunities abounded. Check them out. We made a quick stop at a shop/café that somehow managed to cling to the side of this mountain, where we drank Berber whiskey. You can’t drink the water in Morocco, so we all purchased water to keep us going. All manner of chocolate bars, chips and other junk food are available to purchase as well. This part of the mountains are made up of numerous small villages, usually situated near the river running through the valleys, where they will grow crops to sell at market. Market may be a 20-50km donkey ride away, but no one seems to mind too much.
The first day involved a lot of travel, as we had much distance to cover. So aside from crossing the mountains, and stopping for lunch (tagine) we did not do too much. We stopped for the night in the late afternoon at an awesome hotel built in a valley between cliffs. Better still, this particular hotel was not dry, so we downed “Casablanca” beer (rather wheaty & cloudy, 5.0%) and Casablanca wine (not offensive at all). The next morning, we kicked off with a walk through the local village and a hike up through the mountains. It is a strange landscape, bone dry with no vegetation to speak of, save some local flowers. But then you go into the village in the valley, and there is plot after plot of wheat, corn, potatoes etc., and everything is so green. Begin marching up into the mountains and this all vanishes and the arid landscape is back with a vengeance. We got some great photos from the top. Brahim then showed us a game that involved protecting your livestock from marauding wolves. He put a few rocks on top of boulders and said it was time to practice our aim. Personally, I was quite woeful at this game. Others tried with various levels of success. Brahim however was an awesome shot, knocking down the rocks on the first or second shot. It was then I decided that at the first sign of a wolf, I was handing Brahim a stone and cowering behind him.
Back in the bus, back along the winding roads and we found ourselves at the narrowest gorge in this part of the Atlas Mountains. The cliffs rise up over 100 metres, the gap between them narrows down to about 40 metres. It was here that Rhyss, Kate and I had decided to try out some rock climbing. Kate is something of a monkey, as she regularly rock climbs. Rhyss and I weren’t. The 15m climb was pretty easy, the 30m climb less so. Beezel filmed me climbing, and there are some cringe worthy moments where my right hand sweeps left, then right, then left again, aimlessly searching for something to grip. Just before everyone thinks I’m crazy, I’ll clarify that there was a rope holding me up. The same could not be said for the Moroccan bloke running the show. After we had done the 15m climb, he pulled the rope down, slipped on climbing shoes and scaled the 30m face with no ropes or anything. Better yet, halfway up he ditched the climbing shoes because they were the wrong size, so went up the rest of the way bare foot. Rhyss and Kate went up and down injury free, I managed to shave some flesh off my fingers and left knee. I think it was helpful to Kate though, she just followed my blood trail up the cliff.
Back on the ground, a local woman was strolling through the gorge with a few donkeys. A number of us turned to take some photos, to which she indicated that a photo would incur a cost. The photos quickly stopped, I believe Liza gave her a piece of gum. Someone said that was fair enough, the local lady doesn’t have much. Quote of the day had to go to Elise, who said, “She can’t to be too bad off, she’s got three donkeys, and I haven’t got any. For the money she wanted for a photo, I could buy my own donkey and take as many photos as I please.” Generally speaking, it is best not to take photos of the locals, or anything they own. They will nearly always ask for money. Some take this to a new level. Walking through the gorge, a local lad called me Ali Baba, and then wanted me to give him some money. It’s not like I called him Aladdin then asked him for money! And he was a sharply dressed bloke with a gel-drenched haircut. I should have told him I couldn’t even afford a razor, and that I found the Ali Baba remark offensive. Oh well.
The hotel for this night had the added luxury of Wi-Fi Internet, as well as the odd scorpion wandering around. Given Beezel’s phobia, I introduced the little fella to Uncle Shoe when she was out of the room. As far as the bathroom was concerned, we could see a distinct pattern emerging when it came to the shower. Hot water sometimes came through, but more often did not. Also, the showers seemed to be positioned in such a way that you flooded the whole bathroom every time you turned the water on. The cold-water issue didn’t bother me too much; it was not like the water was glacial.
During our merry travels, we stopped by a Berber cooperative carpet making shop. The cooperative is made up of a number of Berber families who generally lead a semi nomadic existence. During the spring and autumn, they will roam the country side and in summer and winter stay in villages or in caves in the mountains. The women work a maximum of 2 hours per day make the carpets. It was reiterated a few times that Berber carpets are “quality, not quantity.” And quality they are, one large carpet will take about 6 months to create, all from a mixture of lamb wool, camel wool and agave silk. The Berber did not try the hard sell at all, they were happy to just have the publicity. Of course, that did not stop our group from collectively spending about 4,000 MAD on carpets. This included us, who bought a carpet, despite the fact that we have no home in which to put it. Logic does not play a part in impulse purchases. But the carpet is very nice, and I’m sure that one day, we’ll have a home or cardboard box to use it in. Everyone also bought scarves on the advice of Brahim, as the sand in the Sahara can be nasty. We were also taught how to make Berber whiskey, which is actually more complicated than you would think.
It was around this time that the group started to suffer it’s first casualty. By casualty I mean of course, diahorrea. This was not Beezel or I, but over the next few days this particular unpleasant ailment made an appearance for most on the tour. But the first casualty was particularly ill timed; as we were now headed directly toward a Berber camp in the Sahara via a 1-hour camel ride each way. No one wants this particular ailment whilst perched atop a camel hump. It had been 20 years since I’d been on camel, and that had only been for maybe 5 minutes. One hour proved to be not particularly comfortable, but it was still a great experience. Both Beezel’s and my camel were very tall. The group was pretty much unanimous in naming my poor camel the ugliest amongst the group, and Beezel’s as having the most overactive digestive system. Funnily enough, Beezel did not take kindly to me telling her that the saddle on her camel was coming lose. I won’t repeat what she called me.
After the stroll through the desert, and it is proper, Hollywood movie looking desert, we arrived at the Berber camp. Funnily enough, the camp had a full flushing toilet that was in far superior shape to some of the toilets we come across on our way. It was now time to go and do some sandboarding. This wasn’t really Beezel’s thing, so she and some others stayed back at camp. The rest of us started climbing the dunes, an event in itself. Brahim pointed to a hill and we all gave it a go. However, the hill didn’t seem to allow much acceleration, so I asked if we could try out a somewhat steeper one. Brahim seemed a little reluctant, which I could understand. If you broke a bone out here, well I have no idea how close a hospital, doctor or even vet would be. Still, we all gave it a go and it was good fun. Aside from a grazed leg on Rhyss, and my somewhat bruised bum, it was all good. It would have been good to climb an even higher dune, but the ascent would have given me a heart attack.
Dinner involved, you guessed it, tagine. I have no idea where it was cooked; it magically appeared from inside a Berber tent. No cooking facilities were apparent. It’s probably best not to think about it. Naturally no alcohol was available in the Sahara Desert, but Will had with him 2 bottles of vodka. Let the good times roll. Of course, the mixer was limited to warm bottles of orange Fanta. Will mixed up a batch in an empty water bottle. No one seemed to particularly like it, with most bemoaning that it was too strong, Funnily enough, I thought it was all right and happily downed the makeshift cocktail. Now, for those who are not aware, in Islam, one is not supposed to drink. That doesn’t necessarily stop people though. Why Will was mixing up the vodka-Fanta delight, one the Berber camel herdsman was nearby. He strolled over, leaned close and asked if we could pour some vodka in this empty water bottle he had. Then he said something along the lines of he wasn’t supposed to drink, but that out in the desert you sometimes needed something to help you along. Will emptied about a quarter a bottle into his water bottle and the Berber bloke, goofy grin glued to his face, happily strolled off to his tent. It was like being a teenager all over again.
Next up, a fire was lit and the Berber gentlemen broke out the drums. The stars in the sky were unlike anything I’d ever seen. Lying there, we spotted a number of shooting stars, one of which was so bright that it lit up the landscape for a second or two. We were only about 40kms from the Algerian border, and Brahim said it could be the start of an invasion. This was a joke, but only just. A bit of history, Morocco and Algeria are not the greatest of mates. This stems from 1975, when Franco finally bowed to pressure and Spain decolonized the Western Sahara, which borders Morocco; on the proviso that Morocco and Mauritania would administer the region. Morocco and Mauritania quickly decided they both wanted total control and fought a war over the region, which Morocco won when Mauritania withdrew in 1979. Now the locals, the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic want the region for themselves and are backed by Algeria. But Morocco understandably does not want to give up their prize, and are supported in this belief by the French. What’s in it for Algeria? Well, Algeria has lots of oil, and access to the Atlantic coast would make it a lot easier to export the stuff. What’s in it for Morocco? The same thing, access to the Atlantic coast. Anyway, the point is, we were all wondering if we would wake up in cages on the wrong side of the border come morning.
We all had to be up early to catch the sunrise over the Sahara. Now the night before the wind had started to pick up, but somewhat warmed by the vodka I had taken my shirt off before turning in. As testament to the temperature drop and wind sheer, during the night I had, whilst comatose put my shirt back on. Aside from the cold, everyone awoke with make shift sand mines in each and every (and I mean every) orifice. Clambering on to the camels did not hold the same luster as the day before, and certain parts of one’s anatomy were wide-awake, as soon we had mounted the beasts once again. The sunrise was, however spectacular, and definitely worth the early start. Upon return to our starting point, it was breakfast time, but I at least was not very hungry. I was too busy holding my hands over my face to stop my eyes dropping out of my skull. Sleep had not come easy the night before. Beezel was feeling the same.
A number of hours later we stopped for a clean up, and in my case, a nap on the lounge next to the pool. Then it was back in the van, until we reached our final destination for the day. Beezel and I did well at this hotel; we somehow scored an upgrade to a poolside room with a huge bathroom. Although our bathroom may have been massive, it suffered from that recurring problem in Morocco, in that it did not work. The water was hot, but the showerhead slid off the wall when the pressure got too high. So you kind of had to chase the water around the room. A swim was in order, but the pool suffered from a design fault, in that it was too bloody deep. At it’s deepest, it was 2.60m, and at its shallow end it was 'only’ 1.60m deep. But I could not stand up anywhere. I know I’m not particularly tall, but this was ridiculous. So a relaxing swim involved seeing how long you could tread water for. During this time Beezel appeared to have vanished even though she had said she wanted to sit by the pool. The reason for her absence being that as I was heading out to the pool I closed the hotel room door behind me and without thinking slid the outside bolt across. This meant that Beezel was locked in the hotel room which she didn’t realize until she had gotten out of the shower. All the windows had bars so she could not climb out of them. I will not repeat the conversation that was had upon my returning to the hotel room an hour and a half later.
The next day, we went to visit the “Hollywood” of North Africa. Amongst others, movies filmed here include: The Jewel of the Nile, The Mummy Returns, Kingdom of Heaven and Gladiator. The guided tour was definitely worth the 50 MAD per person. All the sets remain standing and get reused for new movies as required. It kind of destroyed some of the movie magic when you see that all the Roman pillars are actually paper mache and wire with a nice paintjob. The same day, we visited a UNESCO site where a traditional mud brick village sits atop a hill and where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed. People still live here now, in an effort to preserve the village by making it a productive centre. A local trying to sell me a decorative rifle chased me down the mountain. Apparently, I needed it because I was, no surprises here, Ali Baba and heading for the desert. Go Figure. There was an artist who was very impressive. He did wood burning art using nothing but a magnifying glass and the sun as well as paintings with saffron. Beezel bought an original of one of his pieces for 80 MAD. Cheap!
We now had to contend with the drive back to Marrakech over the winding, mountainous roads. Aside from being referred to as Ali Baba half a dozen times or so, it was an uneventful trip. We had 1 more full day in Marrakech before heading for Germany, and intended to make the most of it. A tour had been organized for the morning, which was good because generations of inhabitants of Marrakesh inadvertently created the greatest maze on earth whilst building the city. Beezel would not be coming along, as she was not feeling very well. So the rest of us set off, starting at the former Prime Minister’s residence. This guy had a pretty good deal going back in the 1800s. Four wives and 24 concubines. Also, it didn’t seem to matter how you looked back then. Our guide advised that although the palace was two storey, all the PM’s ladies lived downstairs with him, because he was too fat to climb the stairs. Then again, he was not allowed to get any of his concubines pregnant and he was strictly forbidden from ‘being’ with more than one at the same time. So you really can’t have your cake and eat it too.
Moving on, we arrived at a traditional Berber pharmacy. Remedies for all ailments, all chemical free. There were herbs and spices for everything. Dry skin, stress, headaches, the flu. Special mention to the natural viagara, and the pharmacist saying that you mix a few drops in your tea and then you could ‘bojangle’ for days. A 200ml jar cost 200 MAD. When someone asked if there were small jars available, the bloke laughed and said it was usually sold in one-litre tubs, and that in the heat of summer, a lot of couples don’t leave the house very often. I’ll let everyone’s imaginations run wild with that one. As tempted as I was to give some of the herby viagara a shot, I didn’t purchase. Not even the female version parted me from my money. However, I did get 5 minute neck massage for 20 MAD, as well as some natural insect repellant and harissa (Arabic hot sauce powder).
Back at the hotel, it was time for lunch so we headed out to the square for a feed. We went up to one of the highest cafes available (4 storeys) for some good photos. Lucky the photos were worth it, because the food was average. Just on the other side of the square, we could see the cordoned off cafe where some silly bastard blew him/her self up, along with 16 tourists and numerous locals at the end of April. At the time, all the locals were saying that a gas oven had exploded. Of course, this did happen, but only after it was helped along by an idiot and a number of sticks of dynamite. Things have been all right since then, but it is bad news for a country where tourism is the main industry, and the vast majority of locals are regular, friendly people.
A final round of shopping in the souks, and I may have got the hang of bartering. Every second person called me Ali Baba, but I was used to that too by this stage. When shopping, one does not need to even pick something up; just looking at it is enough to garner unwanted attention. I grabbed a fez hat, immediately this bloke raced up, pointing and saying 150 MAD. I was never going to buy it, so said no. The price dropped to 100 MAD, I started to walk away, and the bloke abruptly said the hat was free. I nearly turned around, but I knew there had to be catch, so just kept walking. Beezel wanted some pants, so we came across a nice looking shop. The price was unacceptable, but I had spied something I wanted. After back and forth ‘negotiation’ I said “Look, I either buy just this thing for this price, or I buy nothing”. And it worked. Did I feel like a big man? You bet! Did the bloke still get the better of me? Almost certainly. Particularly when we bought the two pair of pants anyway, albeit at a lesser price.
Later Beezel went to a spa for a traditional Moroccan massage. On the way, a funny little man offered to buy Beezel for 5 camels from Kate, one of our other tour members. Kate said she would need at least 5,000 camels for complete the transaction. Lucky I hadn’t been there. If they’d been good looking camels, we could have had a deal. Following on from this, when I was walking with a number of the other girls from our group, numerous local chaps said they were my four wives, and I was a lucky man. Funnily enough, whenever I was walking by myself, no one paid me the slightest notice. I guess I mixed in with the locals.
That was the last day of the tour. A final dinner was had and goodbyes were said. Breakfast the next morning was also to be included, but Beezel and I could not attend as we had a ghastly early morning flight to Brussels. So next morning we strolled down to where the cabs were. Brahim had advised the night before that a cab to the airport should cost 80 – 100 MAD. Armed with a 100 MAD note in my pocket, we went up to the cab driver and said Airport, 100 MAD, and the deal was sealed. I really do think we got the hang of the bartering by the end of our Moroccan trek . . .
Next Blog: Germany, specifically Hamburg & Berlin. Stay tuned.
Comments
Boab it looks like you've found a kindred spirit!
Great blog as always!