Morocco....very good price!

Crushed in! The train is fully packed with people in every nook and cranny. The rich smell of sweat fills the air and the AC chuffs away trying to keep the cabin hovering around +35°C. The train thunders along bringing us closer to our goal: Marrakech!

Out the window Morocco passes by in blur, it’s squat shabby buildings blending into one another. The laundry drying from windows flutters in the wind and changing colour with each new town. Outside the cities and towns fields dry and bare are littered with garbage and rubble. We passed a field with a donkey, standing stock still in its midst, its dull eyes surveying its kingdom: the perfect master to a field of refuse.

Every guidebook describes Morocco as a country of contradictions and it is. Massive luxury apartments flank shantytowns strewn with garbage. Below the apartments, on the street, old men wearing traditional garb are shoved aside by young boisterous boys wearing flip-flops and second-hand Nike T-shirts. Old men with yellowed teeth beg for change and when refused offer to sell joints. Donkeys trot along the shoulder while cars and trucks, weaving from lane to lane, race by! This all takes place under the edifice of the Hassan II mosque, towering tall in its ivory and olivine beauty; a huge symbol that no matter which religion it is -- the name of the game is always: big, imposing, and beautiful.

We booked a tour out to the desert with a seven-hour drive each way. Heading out of Marrakech the Moroccan dirt, red and barren, seems as forbidding as the yellow sand of Tunisia. Even so, among the rocks, pockets of life eek out a living and thrive. The plant life, striking and vividly green, accents the changing tones of earth that morph from red to green, purple to yellow. Small pockets of palms, cacti and brush hold the line against the unforgiving desert. From these pockets people cobble together lives and build cities, testament to the resourcefulness of people around the globe.

An hour into the trip an Australian 
demands to have his money back and be returned to Marrakech. He wants air conditioning, he says: “I was promised air conditioning by your people.” pointing accusingly at the driver. Once he leaves the group discusses his actions, wondering how he was planning to get AC on the camel or in the desert.  Inching closer to the Sahara, the mountains of faded green look like they have been carved from olive paste.  The dunes turn out to be much smaller than in the pictures we were shown but we make the best of it. The camel ride is amazing. The odd beasts, snort fart and poop the whole journey. They appear ungainly and dinosaur like, but perfectly suited to the strangeness of the desert. Even though the ride was only an hour I know my ass will be sore the next morning  The tent for sleeping is too hot so we sleep under the full moon. The warm desert wind quietly sings us to sleep while palm trees rustle above us.

 
Upon return to Marrackech we head out to the night markets with our new American friend from the tour, Dallas. She guides us to a stall for grilled eggplant and mini skewers of grilled meat. We finish the meal at a different stall: drinking spice tea and eating gingerbread paste! The market is smoky from late night barbeques and illuminated by the lights of countless stalls selling: juice, nuts, spices, tea, lamps, knives and any other imaginable good. Every merchant calls to you, guessing your nationality: "Spanish, Italian, French, English, Polish?" This is followed by: "My friend, my friend take a look! No buy, just look." They finish with the clincher, the same at every stall: "Very good price, very good price for you sir...only four hundred Dirham!" Which is about 300 dirham more than it's worth. In the background Arabic drums pound in 3/4 time reminding me that I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore.

 
The girls have their bums constantly groped by old disgusting men. In retaliation, I grab one old man’s ass as he walks away from the shouting girls; he is so surprised, he gasps, and the cigarette drops from his mouth. Right back at ya Morocco! One man when confronted by Dallas raises his fist to strikes her and in heavily accented English exclaims: “fuck you.” Shortly after we stumble upon two Arab men fighting in the street, from the melee of twisting bodies and shouted Arabic, a rusty knife springs out and clangs at our feet.  Arab men flood around us attracted to the commotion. We decide to beat a hasty retreat and head back to the main square. Along the way a man tries to lead us in the opposite direction, claiming the square is the other way, we ignore him and end up safe in Djem El- Fna, the main square. After all the excitement we sleep exhausted and sweaty in our Spartan hotel room. 

The next day we headed out bright and early for Essouira. We didn’t account for Moroccan holiday season and have to wait for the last bus, the earlier ones already sold out. Essouira turned out to be damp, cold and windy so, we packed up again and headed for Taghazout. Taghazout is a small, laid back, surf town. On arrival dudes offering us rooms and deals swarmed around us. We managed to shake them off and had lunch. But two guys hung around and approached me after. I was charmed by their persistence and demeanor; and agreed to let them show me some places. These two surfers had long dark curly hair, bleached at the tips from salt water. Their dark countenances, tanned darker by the sun, clashed with their pale blue eyes. The one went barefoot and considering Moroccan towns have refuse and broken glass everywhere, it was pretty amazing to see. We ran all over town but every place was full. Each time a place was full they would say: “come… my friend… we find another.” During our journey they told me about life in Taghazout and themselves. They were both of Berber origin and had moved to the coast in search of surf and hash. They explained that the Arabic prayers broadcast five times a day over the loudspeakers were unintelligible to them and other Berbers. They speak a different dialect of Arabic and can’t understand “classic Arabic.”  They can however understand and speak English, French, and Spanish….Not bad!

The bed bug search

 The surfers couldn’t find us a place but two other Moroccans appeared, grinning, repeating the Moroccan mantra of: “very good price, very good price,” and found us an interesting apartment. These guys were friendly and helped Amanda procure some Argan oil from the feminine co-operative, which produces it by hand. They also invited us for “Moroccan whisky” which is mint tea. We sat in Mohammed’s tiny one room apartment and drank tea while Arab tunes pumped out of his radio. They told us stories of Moroccan life and Taghazout back in the sixties. Sitting in his tiny apartment I couldn’t help but feel privileged. So many  
Moroccans have so very little and Canadians have so much. That night falling asleep to the sound of shrieking Moroccan children and pounding waves; I dreamt of Canada.

Camel rida!