Thanksgiving in the Sahara

We´ve been using Marrakech as a home base. Upon arriving back in town from Essouaira at around 7 in the evening, we had many errands to run before our early morning start for our 3 day expedition south and east of Marrakech through Ouarzazate (the desert film capital of Morocco where movies like Gladiator were filmed), traversing the Atlas mountains through the Draa Valley and onto Merzouga, ending with a camel trek to our overnight camp in the Sahara Desert.

Our most important errand was to find some warm clothes for the sure to be freezing night in bivuoac tents in the desert. By sheer coincidence we happend to walk past a camping store near the Jmaa El Fnaa about 15 minutes before it was going to close. What luck! Until we realized it wasn´t a camping store, it was a uniform store, with thick wool sweaters for traffic cops, customs officials, border patrol and the like. Mike ended up with a Customs sweater and Val ended up with Den Mother. Apparently, customs guys have really wide shoulders and short arms. And den mothers have really thin necks, super long arms and need a lot of room in the chest. Ridiculously ill-fitting, yes. Perfectly warm, yes. Absolutely desperate, yes. Cheap, yes. We bought them.

There were 17 in our group, 4 lovely Aussies all except one who live in Europe, a handful of Brits, a loopy Scot and an antisocial German. The rest were shy single travelers who barely uttered a word the entire trip: a surly French woman who was buying tons of necklaces from anyone who was selling necklaces, a friendly but quiet Moroccan who´s lived most his life in France, a Belgian kid who never said anything to anyone, and a guy and gal who sat up front with the driver most of the trip whom we started calling Shaggy and Thelma cuz they really did look like them.
For the most part, we stuck to our own microgroups for the entire trip, Los Dos Chamorros with the Aussies, Ruth, Marianne, Jana and Kriss and one Brit, Ian.



Most of the time we drove and had quick stops in places to pee or take photographs or buy things. Not ideal, but we were trying to cover a lot of ground in just a few days. Outside the city, life is a lot simpler. Lots of donkeys and men riding them side saddle, occasionally reminding them to keep moving with the whack of a stick. Women flog their laundry clean in rivers, children play contentedly with rocks and used plastic bottles in between trying to get a few coins off tourists. Desert communities are pretty monochromatic. Buildings rise up from the earth in varying shades of terra cotta, cumin, ovaltine, cosmetic bronzer, graham cracker, and drug store pantyhose. To make up for this, their interiors are where the Moroccans splurge on their color. Between the intricate mosaic tilework and the hypnotic upholstery, they´ve got the entire spectrum covered. The landscape varies greatly as we proceed on our journey. From arid Arizona-like plains to snow capped mountains to fertile river valleys lush with date palms (a surprisingly Biblical touch) and birch trees in full autumn regalia.

The Draa Valley with its immense gorges was beautiful. Ouarzarzate was boring. Somewhere along the way, we bought two rugs from a guy named Mohamed. Don´t quite know how it happened but we were in a kasbah, in this room where everyone was served tea, shown a bunch of really beautiful rugs, given an expert sales pitch and before we knew it, we were doing a credit card transaction on the curb, with two beautiful new rugs snuggled under our arms. It happened so fast but no regrets. They were beautiful and a bargain.

The highlight was our camel ride to our tents in the Sahara. Unfortunatly we arrived close to sunset and by the time everyone was situated on their camels, we´d missed the magic hour. We reached our camp in the dark and spent the rest of the night exploring in the dark, in awe of the multitude of stars in the black sky (the milky way even) and drinking the bottles of wine we had comandeered off two Muslim gentlemen at lunchtime in a hushed transaction.

Completely exhausted by what, 9pm? we retired into our tents, froze our butts off despite our uniforms and heavy wool blankets, and had to wake up by 6 for our sunrise camel ride back to the oasis. The sunrise was absolutely beautiful. We calculated that around that time, Barbara was sauteeing the turkey dressing, Al was stealing bits of sausage from the pan, Lynn was wrapping up a freshly baked pie and getting together some appetizers and Alan and Kristie were juggling kids and green beans. We were loping the uncomfortable lope on our camels towards the sunrise to say hello to another amazing day. We hope everyone, friends and family alike, ate lots of stuff and put on a bunch of weight like they should.




For photos of the Sahara, go to:
http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423422139/

Jemaa El Fna and the Souks

In Marrakesh, we'd spent the first day or two wandering the Jemaa Al Fna square, true sensory overload with snake charmers, henna ladies wanting to adorn your limbs with intricate designs, medicine men usually encased in a tight capsule of curious onlookers and remedy seekers, the ubiquitous fresh orange juice stalls - all exactly the same but numbered differently in lieu of a name, all vying for your patronage, selling THE BEST, SWEETEST orange juice we have ever tasted. Restaurants and cafes line the perimeter of the square offering terrace views of of the activity and a relatively invisible perch from which to snap some photos.

Wandering into the crowds are the souks, with stall after stall of exotic colors, amazingly beautiful things: carpets, scarves, lamps, mirrors, tagines, pottery, rose water and olive oils, bedspreads, jewelry and the traditional babouche slippers that almost every Moroccan owns. Turn the corner and you will find a row of apocatharies offering fragrant mounds of mint tea for digestion, black cumin seeds for snoring, chameleons in cages for...not sure what, frankensence, crystals, amber, vats of soft taffee like olive soap, traditional Berber lipstick , a little clay vessel that releases a red pigment when you put a wet finger to it. It's a carnival of colors and sounds and smells. You half hope to have a magic cave door open before you and a genie inviting you inside to live the rest of your life in shameless luxury. Bargaining is expected but Mike and Val, seasoned bargainers from South East Asia have no problems here. The typical lure of a shop vendor goes something like this:

Hello where you from? Come in just for looking, not for buying.

And you can never get a straight answer on a price. When you ask how much something costs, they will first pull you into their shop, maybe to be out of earshot of the other shop vendors? They will show you everything else they´ve got, then try to tell you everything you need to know about them. If you are truly interesting in buying, then they will begin to talk price. Sometimes a little backward because often our decision to buy something really only hinges on the price.



Around the next bend a completely different experience, one man emerging from the middle of a patchwork skirt of colorful spices, nuts and all manner of dried fruit. Stall after stall of these fruit and nut whirling dervishes frozen in time. By lunch time on the first day, we were lightheaded and almost nauseaus from our morning in the souks and wondered if someone had slipped us a mickey somewhere along the way.


At night, the center of square transforms completely. Smoke rises from the countless food stalls that materialize here at around sundown. Locals and tourists are out and about, eager to partake in anything and everything. As exotic and exciting as Marrakesh is, it takes out of you as much as it stimulates. A couple days were enough and we started to make exit plans.

For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Essouaira

On our second day in Marrakech, we met a Dutch/American couple, Katja and Jason, on the roofdeck of our riad. It was Michael's Cambodian T-shirt that sparked a conversation between us. We ended up yapping it up, going to dinner, sharing countless bottles of wine...one thing led to another and bam we're sharing a cab to Essouaira on the coast and an apartment once we get there. We've met many people since arriving in Africa, it's good to have some company, exchange stories, make promises to meet up again some day. We also met an older couple at the riad, Mary and Dig, who operate a treeking company in Jordan. Dig showed us tons of photos on his laptop and perked our interest in Jordan and of course, Petra. We threatened to visit next year (who wants in?).

The little town of Essouaira is charming beyond belief - it was what we'd hoped Marrakesh would be. But after a couple of days, Marrakesh began to feel like a big congested city and Essouaira was exactly what we were looking for. Its signature color is a cobalt blue — every door, window frame, balcony and trim is painted blue. It has the laid back feel of any beach town, a nice change from Marrakech. Our apartment was inside the walls of the medina, far less ancient in feel than the one in Marrakech. We had an amazing roofdeck that overlooked practically half the medina and the tumultuous ocean, a great (but often windy) place to glaze over with a bottle of wine. Still rather in love with the tagines (a conical cookware made of clay used to make the traditional Moroccan stews like Chicken with preserved lemons and olives for example - our favorite) , we ate those nearly every meal until we were quite sick of it by the time we left Morocco. The only time we didn't have a tagine was when we found a charming little curio shop and cafe in the Mellah (the Jewsih Quarter) owned by a jovial, overly tanned Southern French gentlemen who offered us the most delectible morsels.

The highlights of our 2 day visit to Essouaira were for Mike a meticulous and incredibly close shave
and for Katja and Val, a visit to a traditional Hammam, a local bathhouse. Hammams are still a common practice, strictly separated by gender, it's a place where Mohameds and Fatimahs go to bathe, exchange the latest gossip, and make use of the plentiful scalding hot water. Khadijah, an employee of the owner of the apartment we had rented was appointed to show us to the hammam. We didn't understand at first that she wasn't just going to show us, she was also going to bathe us. We followed Khadijah like obedient sheep down the narrow alleyway and through a small unmarked doorway not far from the apartment. We would have never found this place by ourselves, let alone what to do once we go there. We were really glad to have Khadijah there! The inside was rather simple and unattractive, one giant tiled bathroom. One OLD giant tiled bathroom. The next hour and a half was a truly divine experience. Will spare you the details here but will gladly share in person over some vino, but Katja and Val were given the scrubdown of their lives. Katja's tatoo managed to stay on but Val's henna one was completely obliterated. Aside from the sandpaper rubdown, the bath itself was heavenly. It was almost ritualistic, the systematic filling of hot and cold water in precisely seven buckets. We recognized the emollient olive soap we´d seen in the souks that melted into a deliciously fresh lather on the skin. We were like two giggling four year olds sitting on the floor being bathed by their nanny. Highly recommended!

For photos of Essouaira, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Marrakech

It took about 30 hours to get from Singapore to Morocco. We flew from Singapore to Istanbul, then over Bulgarian, Serbian and Croatian airspace to Milan, flying westward against the passage of time til we finally reached Casablanca. In Casablanca, we caught two trains to Marrakech, another 4 hours in total. Almost completely shattered and strung to our limits by then, but graced by the more than perfect timetable of planes, trains and automobiles, we ran from plane to ticket booth to train to ticket booth to train with ease, catching trains just as they were arriving into the station.

It´s an entirely different landscape. Different faces. Different smells. We welcome all of it but initially we tread lightly, keeping our voices down, our cameras off and a firm clutch on all of our things. The train to Marrakech was very crowded -- travel wary people pushing out as eager passengers hussle to get on. We´ve seen a few other backpackers but climbed onto a compartment where we are the only foreigners. A man motions to us to say that he has two seats available next to him. Indeed he did but one of them was occupied at the moment by his friend in the middle of a series of deep bows. He was situated at an odd angle in the seat, facing Mecca. We waited paitently until he was finished and took our seats, thankful to have them.

The view out the window is rather drab at first. Much of the land is barren as far as the eye can see, sometimes we´d come across a small town of boxy cinderblock homes that look unfinished and uninhabited. Well, except for the many satelite dishes on top of the houses faithfully pointed towards TV Mecca.

Hungry and exhausted, and getting impatient to get to our riad already. In the fading light, the landscape is brown brown brown except for some small patches of green who didn´t get the memo. Then in the setting sunlight, brown gives way to lilac, orange and khaki. It´s a strange limbo we´re in, hurtling through unfamiliar landscape with still at least an hour to go, unable to imagine what Marrakech is like except for the vague memory of a few internet photos of our accomodations. We´ve had many insanely long journeys and the feeling is similar: a displaced sensation of not knowing where we are, what day or time it is, being thrust through the windows of a parallel universe.

At the station, we negotiated a fair price for the ride to our riad (which we later found out was more than half what it should have cost). Val´s rusty high school French is really coming in handy since we set foot in Morocco. it´s either French or Arabic. Very little English is spoken here. Our taxi driver took us to the walls of the medina and stopped as the alleyways are too narrow for cars to enter. He got on the phone to someone, then pointed into the medina and said our riad was in there. We were sure we were about to be scammed. We´d just paid $5 for a pretty short cab ride and not even to the door of our riad. How were we supposed to find it inside the medina? There are no maps, or street signs. Just then, an old man in the traditional djellaba (a hooded cape-like garment that almost everyone wears) with a ferocious beard started circling the cab, summing us up through the windows. The cab driver was beginning to unload our things out of the trunk against our protests. The old man asked where we needed to go and we showed him the address of the riad. Silently, he began to lead the way into the centuries old medina, walls on either side so high you can´t see over them; alleys so narrow you can hold out both arms and touch the walls on either side. Some alleys were so dark and quiet we were a little concerned he wasn´t really leading us to our riad. And then, there it was. Riad Numero 10. A solid black wood door promising an exotic oasis within.

Janice, the French woman I´d spoken with to book the room opened the door and her big smile instantly melted away all our hesitations. Janice speaks no English but seems to understand Val´s French, so it´s all good. The inside of this riad is so so so amazing. Warm reds, pinks, oranges and yellows greet us, colors that have been missing from our color palette for the last couple days. We couldn´t wait to put our things down and snuggle into this place.



A sumptious meal had already been prepared for us by the gentle cook Raffida: a delicious pea soup, pastilla (a flaky pastry filled with chicken, ground almonds and showered with powdered sugar), a tomato and onion salad and for dessert, caramelized bananas. A bottle of wine and we felt so pampered, we sat there, catatonic from our journey, but eagerly soaking up the reality that we were finally in Morocco.

The next morning we are awakened at 5 am by the morning prayers. Hm, no one told us the speaker from the mosque was IN our bedroom. (It wasn´t but it sure sounded like it was.) These prayers sounded almost angry, with a terrible singing voice.

For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Out of Africa

Hello! Sorry for the long silence! We're alive and well in South America. We had very limited time for internet in Morocco and when we got to Tanzania, internet cafes were plentiful but completely useless. So I´ll do my best to catch up on the last 3 weeks. Please stay tuned!