Morocco Begins - Part 1
Road
to Fez
Sunday, 5th of May, D-Day. Having just
arrived from Melbourne I was already packed. Gil on the other hand, coming off
his busiest week, had not. The taxi was on its way – there was still plenty of
time. Gil and I are old friends from Auckland and this was the first time we
would be travelling together. Could pen pals survive two weeks in northern
Africa? The taxi arrived, Stansted bound, we were about to find out.
We arrived at the airport at 10am,plenty of
time to check our bags, pass security and have a sit down breakfast. Enough
time had passed by the time we arrived by way of windy corridors to our gate.
There were no lines, no passengers – they’d gone. We approached the ground
staff – “Gates closed” they said. “gate opens at 11am and closes at 11.20am, it
is now 11.25, Gates closed” how did this happen? Up until this point we’d done
everything right, we were on time! “Is there any way we can get on that plane?”
we asked. “nope! Sorry” said the man with a look on his face that looked
exactly like he could very well get us on the plane. You win this world – our
lax breakfast of 24pounds got the better of us we checked at our boarding pass
a last time – the flight departed at 11.25, we were in the wrong.
The ticket desk inside the departure
terminal confirmed the next available flight to fez was not until next
Thursday, four days later. This would not do. I came all the way from Australia
and this trip had to happen. We needed a plan B. We walked out of the departure
terminal back to the public ticket desk - a walk of shame I’m sure few people need
to ever make – we needed to get to Morocco today! Back at home I don’t have the
best track record of making flights on time – I thought this was a habit I had
kicked, an expensive one I evidently had not.
Gil asked around the local budget airlines–
we were in luck there were flights to Marrakech on this day. This only turned
our original plans upside down – but there was no way we wouldn’t buy these new
tickets at 220pounds! What had we learned? Be on time, for the new flights we
were three hours early and we were already at the airport we weren’t stupid
enough to make the same mistake twice on the same day – take 2 – we’ve got
this! One facebook rant about the cost of a 242pound breakfast on the account
of brand new tickets later and we were through to security for the third time
today. We sat in the departure terminal stalking the flight schedules waiting
for our gate number to appear – this time we were going to be at the front of
the line no matter what no excuses. 2 hours later we were, and for the second
time today we were excited again.
A young woman in line with us revealed that
she frequently visited Morocco (as she had a Morrocan lover); she had given us
a handful of tips about travelling from the airport at Marrakech. When we boarded
the plane a man who must have overheard us talking in the line introduced
himself to us. Dan, an older man in his early 30’s, had not been to Morocco
either. There was something about the way he talked that made me not trust him,
he did not have an honest face. The way he tried to make plans with us for the
two weeks made him seem pushy and desperate. I could picture him as a British
version of uncle fester from the Adams family. We didn’t trust him.
Nevertheless we had the plane ride decide if we actually did. The plane ride
was a relief at least we knew that today we would actually make it the country
even though it wasn’t Fez. So far the money he had thrown down the drain
included flights to Fez that we’d missed and the two nights’ accommodation that
we had booked.
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| Overlooking Marrakech |
When the plane landed Dan had woke up: “Do
you guys have accommodation?” he asked. We had decided after the four hours
that even though we probably trusted the fella, we didn’t really want to be
travelling with him. This was after all a trip between old friends that was a
long time coming and we didn’t need the extra excitement of someone who
possibly could have killed is in the Atlas Mountains on top of it. In
retrospect he probably wasn’t a serial killer but still this was our boys’ trip
for two, not three. “Yeah, we have booked a hostel” we answered. “You don’t
suppose I could come along?” he followed up. We like to think we are good
people, so in the end we agreed to meet up with Dan outside after getting our
bags and make our way to the accommodation.
The first thing I remember about Morocco
was the dry heat. I had experienced heatwaves in Melbourne but this heat was
different. We walked across the tarmac and into a building into customs. “That Maori
guy’s from new Zealand” Gil pointed out a stocky guy who easily looked of Maori
descent, he had familiar tattoos and of course it’s easy to assume that a Maori
would come from New Zealand, “So what!” I replied; “So, I’m going to go say hi
to him” Gil said. We follow the guy into customs, I filled in my arrival card
and Gil made some small talk. We all know Gil is about the friendliest person
you will ever meet and even in a country new to both of us he could still make
time to make some new friends. After a while he returned to report on the
encounter. As it turns out the guy was Samoan and not Maori (though Gil asked
if his tattoos were Maori ones though they were cleary Samoan), an honest
mistake but funny enough to have us both in stitches. Some people watched – but
with the start we’d had to the day – we were taking every opportunity to laugh.
We exited, Dan was waiting, outside the
terminal smoking a cigarette. He joined us as we walked along the path, “Big
Square 200dh” shouted the taxi rank operator. We ignored him and kept moving
(as we knew this was the price for tourists). We saw a bus for 30dh each to the
big square. We were weighing up our options. The Big Square, Le Grande Place in
French, or Jemm el Fna in Arabic is the main hub of the Marrakesh medina. This
was where we needed to go, our accommodation was here. The question at hand was
would we pay 200dh to get there, something that the Lady (with Moroccan lover
earlier) said was enough to get you from one city to the next, we found out
later this was true (as we got familiar with the lay of the land).
What we did find though was the bus stop
for the big square at the foot of the taxi rank. We met Matt, another very
English tourist. These guys are everywhere. After a chat we discovered he had
been to Marrakesh before and was also on his way to the big square too. It was
possible we could all chip in for a taxi if it meant it was gonna be cheaper
for us all and as important – faster than a public bus. 100dh was the best Gil could
haggle for four people to the share. What I didn’t really know about Gil was
his ability to speak French. I certainly couldn’t speak Arabic so it was a very
nice surprise to learn that Gil was actually good. He would argue just good
enough. To this day I maintain had he not lived in the south of France and picked
up the language our trip to Morocco would have been worse than it really was!
The ride to the square was a shock, both of
culture and of mild regret, we just befriended the two most intense and
annoying English tourists you can imagine. These fellas were friendly but way
too intense for me to spend any more time with them after the taxi ride. Dan,
the potential serial killer, and Matt the stereotypical English geezer had to
go – or we had to ditch them. Matt was not unlike Dan in lots of ways. He was
also in his early thirties and volunteered quite the back story. This time last
year he separated from his wife. Unsure of what to do with himself he made his
way to Marrakesh for some time out. This year he mentioned not much had changed
in his life since his separation and once again, as we met he made a second
pilgrimage to Morocco. Originally Gil and I planned on renting a car to travel
the country at our own pace, we needed to book car shortly after we found our
beds. Luckily the taxi ride to the square made our decision for us. With cars
weaving in and out of lanes, indicators were only novelties. Scooters and
motorbikes weaved in a similar yet faster fashion. There was no way we were
gonna drive around horse and carts on top of those vehicles. Driving a car was
OUT! It wasn’t happening and for our personal safety this was definitely a good
decision. The taxi came to a sudden stop, we arrived at what we were told was
the foot of Jemm el Fna, we paid the taxi and casually stepped into the
grounds. The sun was quickly setting and I grew more unsettled. The smell of
horse shit and people who had been out in the sun too long filled my nostrils.
The smell of food cooking and my day’s sweat from the heat and stress did the
same. The square was filling up with people by the hundreds, there must have
been just under a thousand people here. The sounds of more scooters, people,
instruments and snake charmers was apparent, this was Marrakesh. Without a clue
where to go I was panicking and my heart racing. We walked along, the intense Brits
meters ahead of us, local men yelling hotel and riads in our ears. We had organised
our hostel and just needed to find it. I wished all these people just pissed
off. A reality check, this was Morocco. At this point nothing bad had really
happened. I was happy to be in such a place with my best friend but this is not
what I had expected. Why was this so hard? “This is what you get” I told
myself. We decided on Morocco so anything that happened from this point in was
exactly what we deserved. I am usually calm in most situations, but not being
able to speak the local language or communicate with people really put me at a
disadvantage. I trusted that Gil would get us to safety, I had no other choice.
We managed to ditch our British friends by going into the nearest hotel to ask
for directions to our own. We didn’t mean to ditch them at this point but
turning away for 5 seconds was enough time to lose people in this place even if
you didn’t want to. Crowded streets with hundreds of people would do that. The
next half an hour I found myself thinking about what happened to Matt and Dan?
Did they make it to their accommodation okay? Did they try look for us when
they realised they had just lost too amateurs in a crowd of Moroccans in the
hundreds? Gil told me to snap out of it “We’ve lost them, don’t worry about
them anymore”.
At the hotel we were pointed in the right
direction of our hostel but no sooner after speaking with half a dozen people.
The locals all had different ideas about where a popular local cafe was. It
wasn’t until we spoke to the guide of an American man that we really got into
the true direction of our hostel. The guide was Moroccan, he took my passport
wallet with our passports along with the address of our hostel and disappeared
into the crowd. My natural reaction was to secure our passports and run after
him. In my state I wasn’t keen on chasing a thief in the dark. But again Gil
told me to calm down. At this point I hadn’t yet learned who to trust. Usually I
would trust just about anybody. But after landing in Marrakesh this particular
afternoon I knew I had to do the exact opposite, trust no one except Gil of
course.
The guide pointed us in the right direction
again. It was night now and we didn’t know how far we needed to walk and how
long it was going take to get to our hostel. On the broken information we
received we kept walking – deeper into the medina. The more we walked the more
stressed I became, this is what you
get.
We had followed our directions to a point
which lead to a fork in the path. None of the paths were lit, it was officially
night and we needed to make a decision. We were surrounded by people who were
staring back at us. “Equity point” a homeless toothless man called out. My ears
pricked up, equity point was the name of the hostel we had booked in Marrakesh.
“Gil, let’s follow this guy. I think he knows where our hostel is”. My better
judgement got the better of me and I desperately wanted to trust this guy. The
first person who I thought knew where our hostel was. He took us through some
dark medina alley ways. It was dark I was hungry and I didn’t care. I was happy
to follow him but the entire time was Gil, four paces behind me and cautiously
following the toothless man. In my head he was helping us, later Gil confirmed
he was cautious as this toothless man could have lead us to a back alley to a
gang to rob us. I wasn’t thinking! I need to step it up next time.
We walked down some more dark alleys to the
sound of French tourists walking in the opposite direction to us, “Ca va?” gil
greeted them “is this the way to equity point?” they confirmed it was and for
the first time this evening we both were relieved. These tourists didn’t have
heavy packs like we did. This was a good sign since it meant their bags would
have been at a hostel. The man took us to the barred wooden door which looked
not unlike every over door down these alleys. This was apparently the hostel.
His guidance was apparently not free and we parted with 5dh with the knowledge
that we might have to pay every person who showed anything. I noted this and we
rang the doorbell. The other side of the door was sanctuary for the
night.
night.
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| Alvin - backstreets of Marrakech |
Equity
Point.
Through the barred wooden door was the
reception of the Equity Point hostel. This place was definitely a gem hidden
deep in the Marrakesh medina. The path to get to the hostel is deceiving in
that the hostel interior which was fitted with traditional Moroccan art and
furnishings in contrast to the Medina path which was dirty, unpathed,
unfinished and dusty. This hostel by contrast was a modern Moroccan palace all
as if you walked into a different area code. We were greeted by an older
gentleman we only assumed was the manager, a European man named Xavier. He
stood about 6’2” with shaggy grey hair and glasses. We couldn’t place his
nationality at first it was evident that Xavier had travelled many times in his
life and he had picked up a few languages on the way. His French, Spanish and
English were all very fluent. “Can I help you boys?” he asked. When Xavier
asked for our passports I didn’t hand them over straight away, but Gil told me
– “These are the good guys (so it is fine)”. The stress left my body it finally
sunk in, we are safe! We organised our booking and were then given a tour by a
young man from the Ivory Coast, Dan.
“Come this way, I will give you a tour and
show you to your room” said Dan as we walked through windy corridors all
decorated with Moroccan art. It was like walking through a page off lonely
planet. Equity point was the real deal, this place had a pool and over two
dozen rooms spread across three stories. The upper terrace made way to the
starry Moroccan sky as well as boasted a view of the rough roof tops that made
up the medina skyline. Although not as tall as a skyline you can find in London
or Melbourne the medina low rise was just as if not more breathtaking. We
definitely were not in a Western country anymore.
The next morning, Gil approached this South
African woman (that we had seen numerous times already), his own heritage being
the conversation starter, Marci actually ran a local tour company. She was
easily the most important person we’d met this particular morning. She was
leaving Marrakesh on this day but we were able to organise a tour of the Medina
with one of her guides. We had made zero plans of things to do and places to
see so meeting Marci and organising a tour seemed perfect. I asked her for a
lighter again before we got ready for the tour and she was kind enough to give
me her spare.
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| atop the hostel |
Ali’s
Medina tour.
We made our way down to reception at 10am
where we were to meet Ali our guide for the day. Ali was an older Moroccan who
seemed very well educated. Fluent in Moroccan, French, Berber and English his
level of intelligence was not hard to grasp. Showing tourists around the
Marrakesh medina was his bread and butter. Ali spoke about how the perfect
(Muslim) ‘man’ is one who is humble, but not afraid to ask. He implied he was
one of these good Muslims... despite the fact that he didn’t ask his opposition
tour guide about the information he was giving – he told him he was wrong. In
terms of being humble – he boasted how he took some of the British Royal Family
around Marrakech for a few days, and that he had done a stellar job. Therefore
a man who was seemed humble upon introduction Ali was sure the one of the
proudest Moroccans we had met so far. He was as nationalistic as he was as
passionate giving showing people his proud town. The tour started with the
various souks or markets which were grouped by the type of trade or craft.
After about an hour of weaving through tight medina walkways we had seen and
heard the history of Marrakesh’s local blacksmiths, rug weavers, shoemakers,
woodcarvers and herbalists. The area also boasted an old university which was
now a historical site to be walked by tourists and tour guides alike and a
modern museum. It was with a local woodcarver (apparently the 2nd
best in all the land) that we experienced haggling for the first time. We came
across two identical wooden boxes carved from cedar wood. We convinced
ourselves that we would never see such craftsmanship in a wooden box again and
that we had to have them (though we saw these ‘magic boxes’ in all the other
towns we ended up going to, and Gil’s box – a present for a friend – was badly
put together and somewhat broken). This is perhaps why Abdullah the woodcarver
was more than happy to oblige us. This was our first time haggling and
apparently we were in good hands as Abdullah talked us through the process. It
is simple – the seller gives his optimal price, you come back with the counter
bid, he meets you lower than his initial price, and then you meet him on your
final offer. Then the ball is in his court, whether he wants to accept this
offer or not. So it started, 1200dh was his asking price, 400dh we replied
back. The look on his face was of disappointment or maybe this was how he lured
tourists in for a profit. 950dh was his final offer – this was more than double
what we were willing to pay (as we had both mismanaged our money situation –
and didn’t have much money in the bank as we were both waiting to get paid our
most recent salaries). Gil had even said to Abdullah, “We actually don’t have
any money right now”. He interpreted that as – we didn’t have any liquid cash
on us (as Europeans have bags of money in comparison to Moroccans) – “So you
can pay by Visa”. After much lengthy discussion and laughter, certainly a sign
of disrespect according to Abdullah, we named our final price of 450dh. Abdullah
was not in the least impressed, but explained that perhaps we would spread the
word of his crafts and he would one day make his money back. We didn’t though.
We stopped Ali’s tour in the middle of Jemmel Fna, the square we had finally
conqured. We’d seen some of Marrakesh, and due to logistical events it was time
for us to move on. That afternoon we walked with Ray about 5km out of the city
to the CTM bus station we booked tickets for our next city and the next part of
our adventure – Essaouira.
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| Market Spices |
Road
to Essaouira
The next morning we had breakfast for the
last time with Ray at equity point. He was on his way to Essaouira too but
received some bad news about his friends back home, so he was still tossing up
whether to go back or not. When we left Marrakesh we never saw him again so we
could only assume we made a pit stop back to Ireland. This same morning we met
possibly the most interesting and unexpected character of the entire trip. A
Libyan academic who was in Morocco on conference to present on the Arab Spring,
he never introduced himself by name unfortunately (but he looked like the main
guy from Allo Allo – and had an amazingly characteristic chuckle to go with it).
Nonetheless, it had been many years since I sat in lecture room but this
hearing this man’s views and opinions on the Arabic political climate was more
than enough to take me back inside the university lecture halls. For instance,
the night before he spoke of how he bumped into Libyan Generals in Marrakech,
who used Morrocco as their refuge, as they had probably committed some really
awful acts under Gaddafi (and probably wanted for crimes in modern-day Libya). I wished we had stayed another day to talk
this person more but it was onward and upward for us – West we would go to the
sleeply coastal town of Essaouira. We were really happy to leave Marrakesh and
even more happy to do so in style all the way to the national bus station. We
decided to take a horse and cart past the taxi ranks for 100dh, a financially
challenged personal victory against local taxi syndicate. We waited at the bus
station for our bus and watched the tourists pack into the terminal; these
people were heading in the same direction as us. Our bus pulled up and five
hours and one pit stop later (where Gil experienced a heat-wave he had no idea
of, since living in London for a few years) – we were on the Atlantic coast.
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| Horse&Cart to the Station |
