A More Noble Cause

This is one of the many minarets of the many mosques you can see in Marrakech.

You'll see other shots of exteriors along the way of La Koutoubia, the largest mosque in Marrakech, and other mosques, but you won't see any interiors. As far as I am aware there are only two mosques in Morocco that a tourist can visit, the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca, which is the second largest mosque in the world, and another one that right now is just a fable for me because no one can tell me it's name or where it is, just that it exists. Perhaps it's in Rabat. I seem to recall that the taxi-driver who took me to the Indian Embassy there mentioned something. Anway...

You may recall all those pictures of cathedral interiors and views from the tops of bell towers, so you may also imagine that I would be pretty bummed out about not being able to visit the mosques in Marrakech. Which is true. I am. But I also really, really respect the choice to not open them up to whomever wants to wander through with a camera. Every mosque is an active mosque. The call to prayer that sings out from the top of the minarets across the city five times per day is a call that is heeded. So they are busy places of worship.

Frankly there were a few times when I've wondered if churches in Europe have gone too far in their accessibility. In Barcelona for example the Cathedral is actually open to visitors to walk about snapping pictures during services. Yes, during. Sure, the area where the service and congregation are is roped off, and there are plenty of uniformed people ready to shush people who get too loud, but still. Really? La Sagrada Familia is now an active church, but services are held in the crypt chapel. Now, I'm sure that it is lovely, and I'm sure the turn-out for Sunday mass fits comfortably in that space, so they don't need to use the main cathedral. But shouldn't they get to? Isn't that what it is actually for? Will that Basilica forever be first a tourist attraction and second a place of worship?

Well, if I were to be a tad cynical, some would say realistic, my answer would be yes, of course it will. Just look at the economics. One tourist pays about 20 euro, and they get thousands of them (tourists) per day. You think they're getting thousands of parishioners daily who are putting 20 euro into the collection plate each time? Even shutting down for morning mass on Sunday would be a hit in the coffers.

So yes, disappointed that I can't visit mosques. Happy that those worshipping do not have to vie for time or floor space with people like me? Totally.

And with that rant now out of the way I will get on with what I had intended to get on with this morning when I sat down to right.

A History of Cats and Their Struggles in Modern Day Morocco

Kidding.

Actually, I'm just going to show you around the city a bit more and introduce you to some of the people I did that wandering with.

The day after my first walk-around I headed out again with Ross and James, whom you've met, Charlie from BC, who you haven't, Chris from England, and another fellow from England whose name I sadly and wrongfully do not remember.

This was appparently to be a shopping day. Ross was heading home the next day, and Charlie was thinking about moving on to his next stop in Morocco, so they both wanted to pick up a few things. Well, when you're surrounded by souks, that's not a tough order to fill.

The blue bag above is Charlie.

That's Ross. Behind him in the glasses is Charlie. I don't know the lizards name.

The shopowners in the souks have developed many an ingenious technique for luring you in to check out their wares, one of which is to grab you by the arm and haul you in. Another though is to have something of interest outside of the shop. Well, we wandered out of one of the snaggles that is a street in one of the souks into this small square where, along one side, were several herbalist shops with cages in the front of them with lizards happily dozing or munching on something.

Hook, line, and sinker my friends. The minute the owner put the first lizard on Ross's arm we were in there like, well, like... like the bird that is now in my house and I need to go do something about. Be right back.

Sorry about that. It's amazing what happens when windows that are open are actually open. No screens and such.

Right, so the herbalist had lizards and as you can see they were fun and all, but the cool thing was actually all the stuff in the jars.

We were introduced to many a natural remedy, soap, perfume, and lord knows what else. The big one that sticks in my mind was the menthol crystals, that had been extracted from mint oil. Need to clear your sinuses quickly, stick your head over that and inhale deeply a few times. That night actually we got another dose of the menthol when, in Jemaa El Fna, the main square, we had a spice tea, primarily ginger and cardamom. Good and spicey. Then though they added this syrup which was basically honey with menthol, and my brain just kinda exploded.

With our sinuses wide open, and our forearms softer and sweeter smelling we headed on our way. Nothing bought, which was likely a disappointment the shop owner had been expecting, but much gained in term of olfactory play time.

Jeremy. The other Brits name is Jeremy. I remember this now because he'd already been to the tannery, and had suffered greatly because of the smell, but was willing to go again because we were all interested, and heck, it's just kinda what you do sometimes.

So off to the tannery.

Here we were warned that the smell would be offensive, so a bit of a change from what we'd had at the herbalist. The man who offered to show us around for free and then tried to extort money from us afterwards even though things were bought at the shop and he got a commission off that for leading us in to the place, had give us each some mint to stick in front of our noses sometimes. It reminded me of Cardinal Wolsey coming to court with his clover, but perhaps I am too swayed by television.

Now, I don't think my sense of smell is very good. Most of the time this is very disappointing for me, as I'd like to be able to enjoy all these things people tell me are in wine, or food, or the air, or whatever. Sure, bacon, bacon I can smell. Other stuff, not so good. That said, it certainly served me well here. Mint not required.

Here's a great description of the hide tanning process for those of you interested in a longer explanation. I'll just give you the short form.

1. Ferment the hide in pigeon poo for up to a week.
2. Dry it, scrape it, and stick it in a pit with lime and argan pits for a few weeks to get everything else off of it.
3. Wash it and stick it back in the pigeon poo for another 24 hours to get it all thin and stretchy.
4. Scrape and beat the skins to prep them for the dyes.
5. Apply the dye by hand. Dye sources are natural, and differ based upon the colours being sought and the type of hide being worked with.
6. Leave it to dry.
7. Stretch it out till it looks like Lady Cassandra.

And here's where all of that happens.

Okay, for those of you who did not get #7, and are either named Cassandra, or were for some other reason perhaps mildly offended, but didn't bother to click on the link I so helpfully provided, it's a Doctor Who reference.

I don't often explain the references for my patter, but this time I figured since I was talking about stretching out skins and referencing the name of an, albeit fictional, person, it'd be best to set the record straight.

From tanneries we go to wools, but to do so we also abandon those companions, skip a few days, and pick up some new ones along the way.

A few days later, days that I will tell you bits and pieces about another time, I found myself out on another walk with new friends, also from the hostel, even though I was no longer staying there (mind the gap), Sabong, from South Korea, Max from I think somewhere in California, and another guy I want to name Alex, but I don't think that's right. There have been a few Alex's in Morocco, but the one that sticks out as definitely Alex was in Imlil, and I didn't meet him till that evening, in Imlil, so maybe not.

By the way, way to go Canada. I've met more Canadians here then I've met anywhere else during my travels. Now, perhaps that is because I've been here for much longer, but the truth is, it was as of day one. Until arriving in Marrakech I could count the number of Canadians I'd met on one hand. Well, I had a bushel full by the end of the first day. Actually, a whole lot more than that as a bushel is only about 35 litres, and even if we're only measuring the amount of blood that's about 8-9 people, but in no way accounts for all the types of body water that makes up 65% of the average humans weight.

I'm gonna stop as there is no way that this could end well. Let's just say that I've met alot of Canadians in Marrakech, and I said "way to go Canada" as it's nice to see a lot of us get out of Europe. Let me also state for the record that to my knowledge all of the Canadians I have met continue to be in good health. Just in case you were worried that me having read The Case Book of Victor Frankenstein on the ferry to Barcelona gave me any, shall we delicately say, new ideas.

Right, wool and silk.

Out and about with these new friends I have just mentioned, we found ourselves invited in to check out this area that was not only selling the finished goods, was also where they were actually making the various yarns and threads. We'd been walking through one of the souks and overhead were all these coils of yarn. It took me a little bit to find the word "coils", as I didn't know if there was a particular word for describing a big bundle of yarn. Well, there are lots of words it turns out. Skein, ball, cake, donut, cone, hank, just to name a few. None of them were right though so I'm sticking with coils. And why?

Because, here's a guy coiling the yarn. What else would you call it?

So I'd seen these coils, kinda like the ones above, hanging from the rafters in this particular area of one of the souks, and I asked a shopowner about them and all of a sudden a young fellow appears and we are whisked off to check out the operation. Now,we were promised that there would be no fee for this little service, nor that we would have to buy anything, and that taking pictures was not a problem. This all turned out to be true, however Max and the other fellow I am incorrectly calling Alex decided no and headed elsewhere. This becomes important when I get around to telling you about the Imlil trip, so don't forget.

There are wool yarns, made from sheep, camel, goat, and there are silk yarns made from cactus silk. There are both natural and chemical dyes used.

Yellow from saffron, red from henna, blue from indigo, green from mint, burgundy from pomegranate. Henna also is used to produced brown, and in Essaouira, they harvest a type of snail that the male produces a blue, and the female produces a purple known as Tyrian purple, as it was used by the Romans in their nifty toga stripes. It's also known as murex, and I may have swapped the snail genders.

The thing I find wonderful about the souks is that yes, it's a topsy-turvy world where there seem to be only a hand-full of types of stalls in endless repeat. Honestly, it's hard to tell one stretch of souk from another simply because of the uniformity of types of establishment and goods being sold.

That said, you also come across the places where people are busy making a shoe, hammering little holes into a lantern, binding a diary, lathing by foot. That's "lathe", not "blathe" which we all know means "bluff". Okay, they're doing that too, but not with their feet.

Yes, he's using his foot. That's Sabong in the blue hat. She has this amazing talent for having people just give stuff to her. And it got me some apples in Imlil, so I'm definitely not one to complain. Truly fantastic, and such an amazingly open, wonderful attitude. Engaged, friendly, wonderful person. Lucky to have met her.

These are argan nuts. The oil from these is used for cosmetics and cooking, just not at the same time.

There's a different process used depending on what type of oil you're producting, and actually the cooking one is not used for cooking. Never heated. More for a drizzle or dressing over salads, or perhaps a dollop in a bowl of beans, though that might have been olive oil.

This is the traditional grinder that turns the argan nut into a paste that is then further reduced, eventually down to an oil.

This is the shop near the hostel where those nuts and grinders can be found. There are plenty of places in Marrakech, and throughout Morocco, to be found processing or selling argan. It's a biggie. Wander along a street and you'll hear it's name being called out to entice you into a shop. Wander through Jemaa El Fna and you'll pass plenty of people with little bottles of it spread out on a blanket. Take a day trip to Essaouira or someplace else and have the driver pull over at a women-owned and operated co-op that processes and produces argan-based goods. There are apparently many of these co-ops about, which seems pretty cool. Have someone come up to you in the evening in the square with an old Fanta bottle full of the stuff.

Let's just say that quality can differ.

What I like about this particular store is that almost any time I pass by it, and it's between the hostel and the square so it happens every now and again, I spend a few minutes chatting with the owner. He knows now that I'm not going to ever buy anything, but we still chat for a few minutes about what's been going on, and really, that's what this travel thing is all about. Meeting, connecting, even if just a tinsy little bit.

Okay, sorry. Skipping ahead a few days again to some other stuff.

These are some of the gardens around La Koutoubia.

I wandered around them with Megan, above, and Sophie, standing to my right when I took this picture also taking a picture of Megan. They are both from Australia and although they didn't know each other when they left, they met each other on the road and have been travelling together for a couple of months. See how these things just happen?

We'd met very briefly at the hostel the morning that I had gone there to work on the tour agency materials that lead to me having such an amazing opportunity to travel and write for the tour group that I have already told you about but which you will benefit from the labours of in future posts.

<gasp>

That was a fun sentence to write, and I did not breathe the entire time it took to write it, which is saying something given how bad my typing, resulting in repeated backspacing, is.

Anyway, we bumped into each other in the square in the afternoon, got to chatting a little, and then decided to wander about together, as, well, that's what you do.

This is Bab Agnaou. It's one of about twenty gates dotting the 19km of near 20 foot-high fortified wall built in the 12th century that includes close to 200 towers and surrounds the Medina, or old city of Marrakech.

After being in the garden we made our way here, so that we could then visit Palais Badi.

Now, it's really easy to get turned around, and around, in Marrakech. I have no idea what direction I am walking at any time. So it's kinda like being a little kid again. North, south, east, west. Who cares. The lake is to my right so I'm walking towards dowtown. There's Terry Pochmurski's house, even though they'd move from Armadale to Runnymede three years earlier, so I'd better hurry up if I'm gonna make it home in ten minutes. Oh look, it's the 7/11, that means I'm near...

Same thing here. But without 40-odd years (and yes, they've been odd) of getting to know the place. Slowly though. Slowly I'm figuring out my way around. That said, still lots of missing of the marks.

So no Palais Badi that day, and still not been there yet, but I will, and then I'll write about it a bit.

Did see the Palais Royal, but you're not allowed in. So there you go. And sure, you can't go in, but at least show us a picture you might be saying. Fine, here you go.

Walls, my friends. All you can see of the Palais Royal is more and more wall. Morocco love it's walls. Less Nessman would set up office here in a heart beat there are so many walls. Walls around cities, walls around section of cities. Around kasbahs, riads, communities, gardens, farms, orchards, hotels. Name it. It's all got walls around it. And that's not just Marrakech. Not saying it's all of Morocco. But it's Marrakech, parts of Rabat, Essaouira, and plenty of places I've seen in between. Even new constructions get to have walls around them. And there are walls within the walls, so just when you think you've actually left the Medina you find another Bab and learn that in fact you have not, and the road on the map you thought you were on is actually 10 minutes behind you in the opposite direction, and still not the one you actually need to take to get where you're trying to go.

It's a lot of fun.

Anyway, we did eventually find ourselves close to the Palais Badi, but as it was closing soon we decided to go somewhere closer that was open for longer.

This is the Mosque de Kasbah, and that's a stork.

This was not where we went.

This is where we went.

This is the Saadian Tombs. These tombs date back to the late-16th, early 17th-century and are the resting place for about 60 members of the Saadi dynasty, which was of Arab descent, and ruled Morocco for about a century starting mid-1550.

I think what I enjoyed most about my visit to these tombs, aside from actually finally arriving "somewhere", were the musings and ponderings of Sophie and Megan as we wandered about. I've had plenty of travel companions along the way who, if they've at all been curious as to the what and the why before them, did an excellent job at disguising it with silence or idle chit chat about nothing in particular. But not these two fine people.

"Do you think the colours or patterns on the tombs mean anything?" "Where are the inscriptions taken from?" "That's pretty, what kind of flower is that?"  "Why do the walls have all of these holes in them?"

And I had no idea. But they were awesome questions, and it was so refreshing, and nice, and cool, especially since this is pretty much what my head is spinning around with like 20 pounds of soaking wet clothes in the spin cycle because 'someone' forgot to take them in off the clothes line when the torrential rain fall hit, and needed some extra help wringing them out before hanging them inside to dry.

That's not actually what happened. I got my laundry in before the rain really hit just fine. But it was fun to write.

So yes, travel companions who ask questions aloud about the stuff around them is really great, and I very much appreciated that about Megan and Sophie.

Oh, in case you're afraid that, having just chatted about three different days of walking about without any pictures of doors popping up that I'd lost my interest, not to worry. I'd just thought I'd save them up for the end.

So there's a bit of a hodge-podge of some of the walks I've taken over the past few weeks here, and some of the people I've taken them with. You'll be seeing more of a few of them further on I am sure.

What's really great with the meeting new people and just hangin' out exploring thing all the time, is that you really do get to have different types of experiences. Not because of going to a different place, but because of seeing it with different people. I've been in Jemaa El Fna I don't know how many times now, and each time is different. Same stalls, same monkies in dresses and drugged-out snakes standing at attention to the guy with the flute. Same food stalls. Same women trying to inscribe henna markings on any woman who passes by. But it really is a different place when you spend some time there by yourself, or with a whole bunch of guys game on shopping and ready to haggle down to the last dirham, or with a couple of surfers talking about where to go next, or with a couple of people with lots of questions, or with another lone traveller who is happy to just get lost and see what comes of it, and the only question they ask is "What's this way?" as they bid 'Salaam' to everyone they pass.

Our friends are our friends for a reason. Relationships provide us with things that we need, and we have many relationships because, no matter how great one or another may be, we can't get it all from just one person. Yes, plenty of overlap, but there is something unique in each relationship that provides us with something, even if we can't put a finger on what that something is. Frankly, I don't think we need to. It's enough to just connect. Friends made while travelling are the same as those at home. Brief perhaps. More intense, and potentially more immediately intimate because we're all strangers in a strange land, but still providing each other with something that is necessary to the experience of living, wherever we happen to be at the time.

I've met some incredible people in Marrakech, and certainly before it as well. I'm also certain there are plenty to come. Some were for five minutes, some for an afternoon, some for a few days. I would suspect that in most cases, even though we've shared some incredible experience and then connected on FB in hopes of doing so again, we'll go our separate ways, occasionally smile at something we see in our news feeds, and that will be that. Others I may very well see again. I certainly hope so. Regardless though, I am thankful for every last one of them, as they make each experience along the way that much better.

We Had a Dream We'd Go Travelin' Together

That first morning after breakfast I headed out the door with Darnell, Corinna, Ross, and James. Don't ask for pictures. Darnell lives in LA, Ross is from Bristoll, James is from Australia, and Corinna is from... well, I don't recall, and we're not friends on FB yet so I couldn't just look it up. Actually in the time it took to write this post I sent a friend request and got a response. That said, her profile still doesn't say where she's from so we'll just have to live with that mystery for now.

These were the folk kind enough to take me under their collective wing, a kindness I will mention that I have since paid forward a few times with people arriving for the first time in Marrakech. Actually, "paid forward" is not the right term at all, as I really enjoy meeting new people and wandering about with them. So a fair exchange, and hopefully these four, along with the rest of my new found friends along the way, feel the same. But honestly, it was something I was very grateful for. Aside from the company, this place is chaos. Brer Rabbit would have had a rough time working his way through the snarl that are the souks of the medina, so someone, even with a wee bit of experience, makes it so much easier. Kinda like lots of things in life. I'll let you pick which ones.

Quick definitions. Medina is essentially a walled town. Souk is a market place. Sometimes people seem to use the term medina to mean market. Sure, it's got lots of them, but it also has riads, mosques, schools, and pretty much anything else you'd want to find in a city. That said, there are lots and lots of souks in the medina, and the place where people easily get lost are these markets and bazaars that seem to blend right in to one another as you move your way around, and around, and around. Not quite in a circle, more like an etch-a-sketch in the hands of a barbary macaque.

You'd think that with those definitions and me being out on my first walk, that you'd now be inundated with lots and lots of pictures of the market.

Nope.

I didn't take any on that first day. Not of the market anyway. I was going to be here for awhile, and I had resolved myself to just soaking it in and experiencing. I could quote a John Mayer song (John Meyer interestly enough being an audio engineer) but you're already probably laughing hard enough at me as it is for telling you I could.

Anyway...

So yes, I'd told myself I had plenty of time and I should just relax, not be so quick on the draw, and just enjoy the chaos that was unfolding around me. I also wasn't sure about picture taking here in the souks. Many people do not want their pictures taken, for a variety of reasons ranging from their faith to them thinking you are going to post it somewhere and profit from it. Which is fair. And taking pictures of the shops can pose challenges as well. A shop owner is happy to have a picture of their wares taken if you're buying something, just as some people are happy having their picture taken if you're going to toss them a few dirham for it.

So it's complicated, or at least, given that I really try and respect peoples privacy and don't want to offend anyone, I make it complicated. Many people have commented that I think too much. Steve, a guide I met in Imlil is the most recent to have done so, but I'll tell you about him another time. Well, you may all be right. But whatever. It has it's benefits, even if they are few and far between.

So this first day I did not deal with any of these complications, nor much of the thinking related to them. I just kept it in my pocket.

It got pulled out of my pocket here.

This is the Madersa Ben Youssef.

Sorry about that person in the foreground.

Most of my companions had already spent at least a couple of days in Marrakech, so when we headed out for the day, it was with this place in mind. Passing through the souks and doing a bit of exploring was inevitable, but this is where we were headed.

Madersa Ben Youssef is a college that was founded in the 14th century, and this particular complex, which may have held as many as 900 students, was completed in the mid-16th century. It shut it's doors as a school in 1960 and reopened as a historical site about 20 years later.

I gotta say that I am completely in love with the Islamic style of ornamentation. Islam generally frowns upon the depiction of humans and animals (though there are notable exceptions), so the carvings, tile work, and all that other good stuff that make this place and many others so amazing is all geometric patterns and inscriptions, which I believe are usually poetry or excerpts from the Koran or other important writings.

Alright, I guess that doesn't leave room for many other options for sources of text. All I'm trying to say is that it's highly unlikely that someone took the time to inscribe the Moroccan equivalent to the lyrics for 'Come On Get Happy'. And even if they did, it's just stunning.

See what I mean?

And clearly I am developing a thing for windows nearly as much as I have for doors. But can you blame me? Can you? I mean, look at it.

And then there is the austerity that makes up the student cells clustered around the courtyards.

Very near to the madersa, and included in a combined site ticket for only a few dirham more, is Musee de Marrakech. The museum is in what was once the Dar Menehbi Palace, which was built in the 19th century. That to say that the building is just as amazing to look at as is the items it contains.

This is the central courtyard, which would originally have been open to the sky but has now been enclosed with a clother ceiling.

The museum has a collection of artifacts and art that I did not take many pictures of. And I've actually half-promised myself that I would go back. To be honest I did not make the best use of my time in the museum, it being later in the day, and me kinda having been overwhelmed by all of the souks we had to wander through to get here in the first place. So my brain wasn't ready to spend time processing lots of written information, especially when I couldn't understand the language I was trying to read anyway. Also, when looking at the art on display, while I could appreciate it to some extent, not knowing the culture or history, I don't think it was having the impact it could have if I actually knew a fraction more. That said, this clown playing a violin constructed from his heart spoke to me.

Read in to that what you will.

All in all a really good first day that ended up in Place Jemaa El Fna, which is the main square, grabbing dinner from one of the many foodstalls that start setting themselves up there about five o'clock every evening.

You think walking along King St. in the evening with people shoving menus in your face in an attempt to have you dine at their establishment is rough. Wait till you get here. It's like the souks, which you may not fully appreciate as I've yet to really describe them, but trust me it is like the souks, but now with food. And it doesn't matter if you tell them you've already eaten.

"We have a special table for you."

"My friend, my friend. It's all the same, so just eat here."

"Drinks gratis. Gratis!"

"Don't believe any of those who tell you they'll give you somethng for free. But here..."

"117 seven will send you to heaven."

Sure, as long as it's not because of food poisoning.

Waka Waka Walk Abouts

I'm in Marrakech for awhile, so just as my understanding and appreciation of this city is unfolding, so too will my stories about the place. For the most part so far I've taken the approach of telling a story after it happens, showing you a place in as much of it's entirety as I can because I wouldn't be going back. Okay, the lack of photos actually depicting La Sagrada Familia are a notable exception to this trend, but maybe that was a phase. I'll share them eventually. Promise.

Marrakech is different though. I'm wandering around the Medina and the souks a few days a week. I've been in my own home now for a couple of weeks but am still passing by the hostel for tea and meeting new people and heading out with them to explore the city from time to time. I'm also taking time to just chill out and watch Channel 2 - the movie network that shows english language movies with arabic subtitles. 'Friends with Benefits' did not help my arabic in the slightest.

So it's tough for me to come up with a story, or to wrap my head around what I want to say about this particular experience. I'm still experiencing it. So you'll hopefully forgive me if these next few posts seem to meander more than the alley ways of the old Medina. At least I won't be jumping out, grabbing your friends arm, hauling you both into my shop, and asking you why you don't want to buy something from me.

Not yet anyway. Wait till I finally get enough hits on this blog to add the ads and then who knows what will jump out at you from your gmail, or facebook, or whatever 'free' service you are using. Hopefully not penis enlargement pills. If that happens then I've clearly gone off the mark with my writing.

You know though, as I think about it, having just written 'penis enlargement pills' (now twice) I'd be curious to know if that does show up for anybody in all of their spam ads and visual detritous that invade our virtual lives on a daily basis.

And yep, that's what you're in for now. Digression AND meandering. We'll both be amazed if we get out of here before dying of scurvy.

On with it then.

I rolled into Marrakech about 8am on a Wednesday morning and immediately paid probably double what I should have paid for a cab. And that's with a warning beforehand. Incidently, two types of cabs in Marrakech. Little ones, and grand taxis. Little ones are little tan hatchbacks, that have a meter, and, even if they don't want to use them and negotiate a flat rate with you, are generally cheap. Cheaper than what? Cheaper than a grand taxi. That is a tan Mercedes four door sedan, and charges you a flat rate that is much higher because, afterall, they are grand. All that said, paying double what I would have needed to still amounted to maybe $5.00 more Canadian. Not the end of the world. You can't sit in a cab for less in Toronto.

Well, the taxi deposited me near the hostel. Near because Waka Waka is in the Medina and while there are lots of roads in that chaos where you can fit a cab, there are plenty where you cannot. And the hostel was on one of these roads, that was off another non-cab-sustaining road. The driver did an excellent job of gesticulating me in the right direction, his french being excellent and his english being poor, and my english being debatable, but my french being non-debateably virtually non-existent.

Conveniently a clairvoyant shop-owner, with just one look at me, knew exactly where I needed to go, and gesticulated to a man passing by to take me there as he was obviously (to the clairvoyant anyway) passing that way. So the man kept walking and I was shooed off to follow along in his wake. Now, I'd read about this sort of thing. He was going to show me where it was and then he was going to ask for money. This is pretty normal, and in fact it's recommended that if you're looking for help, just negotiate terms up front and then get on with it. If they tell you its free, and no worries or don't say anything, but then ask for something afterwards, then you're in your rights to politely say no and move on with your day.  So, as I'm walking along I am preparing myself to 'just say no'.

10 dirham later I was knocking on the door of Waka Waka.

You might as well get a tour of the place now as it was my home for close to ten days, and continues to be my home away from home away from home now.

This is looking up from my usual spot on the ground floor. The layout is a traditional riad with a central common space/courtyard now enclosed but the 'skylight' does slide open a good way to let the sun and if you're not quick enough, rain in.

 
Around that central space are a few rooms on the ground floor, and a few more rooms here on the second floor.

After that you get to the rooftop terrace, where there is plenty of whatever the weather-du-jour being served up is, and where there is also plenty of space to idle away the day reading a book, chatting with new found friends, or napping. 

Many choose to sleep up on the rooftop, a choice which has become less popular these past couple of weeks as Marrakech along with the rest of the south of Morocco, endures more rain than it has in over 50 years.

This is me trying to be arty and look for the story in the photo and failing brilliantly in the process. It's also just a look down from the terrace into the riad.

This is tea. Berber whiskey would be the nickname you hear alot. There is always tea. Tea is the social thing you do. You are welcomed into a home with tea. You are invited to shops to have tea, and then perhaps purchase a carpet but that is another story. There is alot of tea going around.

The tea most commonly served up is a mint tea, which is actually a green tea base with mint leaves added to it at the timing of steeping. It usually comes already sweetened, though you can get it straight up with cubes on the side, with not much of a weird look. While sugar is used alot, and my friend Abdul told me the other day that he is sure Moroccans per capita consume more sugar than any other country, the traditional sweetener for Berber whiskey are dates. And I've had it sweetened by dates, and it's a totally different type of sweet. And don't get me wrong, it's still crazy sweet, it's just not going to give you diabetes as quickly.

This is a tortoise, or perhaps turtle I still don't know the difference, that lives on the terrace at the hostel. I have named him Picard, as, to my mind anyway, he looks like Patrick Stewart.

So that's the place in a nutshell, but then again, it's not.

Given my poor research skills I'm not sure how I've gotten along so well so far, but for the most part, the hostels I've stayed in have been pretty chill. Nice, relaxed, quiet late at night. Happy drunk people yes. Stupid drunk people vomitting on you in your sleep no. I've had the opportunity to visit a few other hostels along the way as whoever I've met on whatever walk needed to pop by and pick up a jacket or whatever, and the atmosphere has been totally different. And the vomit story? Not nearly as uncommon as you would like it to be.

Waka Waka is not a crazy hostel. It is however the most social and active hostel I've been at. And sometimes when I was trying to sleep and the sound from the common area came through at 3am because there is no such thing as a regulated quiet time, well sometimes that kinda ticked me off. For the most part though I didn't care. I had headphones. Headphones are my friend.

Waka Waka has played host to some of the most fantastic group of people I have met thus far. You'll meet some of them over the next few posts. It's also got Hussein and his team, all of whom are wonderful, kind, helpful people. And I cannot speak enough about how great Hussein is. You may remember him hooking me up with his cousin for the tour writing gig. That kinda great.

Right, so that's the beginning of the Waka Waka part. What's the walk about part? Was I captured and made to travel by a rowdy group of Australians? No, though it's inevitable if you're travelling to not spend some time with those from down under. Did a dingo eat my baby? Not to my knowledge.

When I arrived the first thing I did was have tea, and eat some breakfast. They had me sit down and put it in front of me, so that's what I did. The next thing I did was start answering some questions from people around me. The usual questions of where are you from, where have you been, when did you arrive in Morocco, how long are you staying for, and that sort of thing. No names yet. Names tend to be one of the last bits of information you get from someone. Usually when they're leaving and you decide to be FB friends so you can perhaps meet up later in the day, week, month, life, whatever. The next thing I did was walk out the door with four people I had just met to discover what there was to discover in the snickleways of Marrakech.

And this became the pattern for a couple of weeks. Get up, eat breakfast, meet some new people, and walk out the door with them to explore something. Sometimes familiar places, sometimes new ones. So this is how I figure it'll be best to share Marrakech with you. One walk about at a time.

Later though, right now I'm gonna go make a tagine.

And then I'm gonna find out the difference between a turtle and a tortoise.

One of the Big Ones

In my post from earlier today I commented on acts of kindness and how they get repaid. I didn't call them acts of kindness at the time, but I guess that is what they are. I referred to the one in the previous entry as a small thing, and said that there were big ones too. Actually, I'm not sure whether you can measure an act of kindness or not. They just kinda are. That said, here's what I meant by a big one. It's not in sequence, and I'm skipping alot to tell this little story, but I'm very excited and I wanted to share.

For the first ten or so days in Marrakech I stayed at a hostel called Waka Waka. I won't go into it now because I plan on going into it later. Soon, but later. As in another post later. Perhaps the next post later, and the later being two days from now or so.

Stop pressuring me.

The really great guy who manages this hostel is Hussein. Hussein's cousin Abdellah runs a tour agency, and there's a booklet at the hostel describing the various one or multi-day excursions they offer. I was sitting around one day reading the English descriptions (it comes in three languages) and noticed lots of spelling and grammar issues, as well as the use of some interesting words that Google translate might toss in, but which no English speaking individual would use in that particular context. All of which is good. No big deal, and totally understandable. But I decided to clean it up, do a little rewrite, that sort of thing, just for the heck of it. Hussein had been really great and I figured a cleaner English version of the descriptions would help attract business and I had the time and thought it would be fun, and all that good stuff. Something to do. I asked Hussein if he thought it would be okay for me to do this and he asked if I wanted anything for it and I said no, it was just something fun for me to do, and he said sure.

Sunday morning I went by the hostel with my tablet, grabbed the booklet, sat down, and got to it. Got it all done and then asked Hussein where I could send it. He said he'd have his cousin come over and we could talk. So Abdellah comes to the hostel and we meet. I explain what I did, and kinda awkwardly as I didn't want to be disrespectful to existing materials. He took it all in stride.

And then he offered me a job.

Okay, not quite a job, but a job.

So tomorrow he is sending me to Essouira, a coastal city a couple hours away from Marrakech. This is one of the day long excursions his company offers. I go. I enjoy. I take pictures. And then I come back and write about it for his agency. Fair exchange. I get a free trip, and he gets new marketing materials. Personally I don't think it's actually fair as not only do I get a free trip, I get to "pay" for it by doing two things I love and would be doing anyway.

And this is likely the first of many. Here's hoping anyway.

I was utterly gobsmacked when he made this offer. Completely and utterly gobsmacked. (Nearly) speechless. And why did he do it? Why did he present me with this opportunity, before even having read the rewrites? He told me this, so I'm not guessing. Abdellah is giving me an opportunity to be able to see all these amazing places in Morocco at no cost other than my words and pictures because I'd decided to help him out without having met him and without any expectation of being rewarded or thanked for it. Which is true. Doing the rewrites was something I was doing as much for me and my own entertainment as it was for helping Hussein, or someone in Hussein's family out.

And honestly, the amazing thing about this opportunity and why I was so stunned when it was presented is not the opportunity of travelling around for free. It's because I'd actually taken a first major step in doing the thing I really wanted to do, become a part of a place where I was staying. Actually live somewhere, not just be touring it. Have the opportunity to actually connect with people in a more meaningful way. And I'm not kidding myself, there is still a ways to go, but a door has opened, and I'm getting to step through it and see where it leads, and discover the adjacent possible. I am so frickin' excited about this I am totally losing it. Again. All because of a little act of kindness.

Here's hoping I don't botch it up.

56:01

It's December 1st and I've been in Morocco for just shy of three weeks and I do not know where to begin, hence why I've taken so long to write about Morocco, and more specifically, Marrakech, where I am spending the bulk of my time. Sitting down to write now is more of an act of desparation rather than inspiration. I have these places, people and pictures piling up and I need to get some of them out or they'll be lost. Lost to me anyway. I'm sure the places and people will go on existing whether I write about them or not.

Perhaps I'll start with getting here.

The last you saw of me in Barcelona was balloons at night. That was me walking to the port to get on my Grimaldi ferry that was setting off for the port of Tangier, or what the dropdown menu on the website where I booked the ticket so confusingly referred to it as Tangier Med. It's like a resort, but not.

It was setting sail (though there were no sails to speak of so I'm not sure why that nautical term for departure is still applicable) at 11:59pm, or, since I was in Europe 23:59, for a thirty hour voyage. Yes ladies and gentlemen, thirty hours.

The following captures the essence of that voyage.

Actually, not in the slightest.

I'd been itching to get out of Europe as I was feeling it was time to start to experience somewhere that I thought would be truly different. Now, I realize that the countries and cultures of Europe are all unique, and that they're different from Canadian culture, but the feeling I'd been developing for a bit by this point was that, fundamentally, they're quite similar, and the experiences I was having were very similar to one another, and in fact, similar to experiences I would be having back home in Toronto. Perhaps this is a user error and I am failing horrendously at this travel thing. Perhaps not. Perhaps I don't have a friggin' clue as to what I've actually experienced and won't be able to fully appreciate it until I'm back home.

In either case I've got this metaphorical itch (felt it important to clarify) and figured it was time to get it scratched (again, still metaphorically) in Morocco. Well, it didn't take getting to Morocco for that to happen. It took getting on this ship.

From the moment I got on the ferry I was in something completely different than what I had experienced so far. To begin, not all of the customer service crew spoke English. Arabic, Spanish, French? Yep, pretty much consistently nailed. English? Not so much. Next, people had alot of stuff with them, and I mean alot. A husband and wife with four gigantic bags all taped up, plus some luggage on wheels. Families with bag upon bag upon enormous bag, again all taped up. Cars, trucks, vans, all seemingly crammed full and with another few feet worth of stuff bungied to the top. People were bringing STUFF.

Actually, people were just returning home from a season of selling their goods (carpets, scarfs, blankets, clothes, etc.) in Spain, and lugging their remaining inventory with them.

Once I got settled in my cabin (yes, I splurged and got one again - much cheaper this time by the way) I went for a walk about to see what sort of entertainment and such this ship had to offer. I found my way to the back deck and there was a guy on a little keyboard, and another guy singing, all of it in Arabic, and relying heavily on quarter-tones. Just fantastic music. More fantastic was the crowd of men and boys sitting around at tables, clapping, dancing, and smoking like it was going out of style, which by the way, in Morocco, it is not.

It's easy to feel isolated in this kind of moment. Not understanding a word being spoken, not recognizing the tunes, not feeling like you can just turn to the person leaning against the rail beside you because you don't expect to be understood, watching men behaving and expressing themselves in a way you actually seldom see men behave or express themselves when they all hang out together without women around. Ya, it can be isolating. It can be lonely. That said, if you opened yourself up to how amazingly awesome it all was then you could sit there in total silence and love every minute of it and feel more connected then you do some nights at your local.

I went for open. And make no mistake, it was most certainly a very deliberate choice. It's a choice I made for that entire thirty hours, to just, pretty much silently, enjoy everything going on around me, even though I had no clue what the heck was going on. Smiling goes along way in these moments by the way.

So who knows, maybe that sunset does kinda sum it up.

What goes around comes around does really seem to be true. In this particular case I had helped a gentleman get his several items of luggage on to the ferry. It was a long hike and he'd have been going back and forth a few times, so this was of some benefit to him, and no skin off my nose, as I had two free hands and was walking there anyway.

Getting off the ferry in Tangier port I had no idea what to do. Yes, that's right, I had arrived in Morocco and had no idea how I was going to get to Marrakech.

Okay, not totally true. I knew I had to get from the port to Tangier proper, and that was about 45 minutes away. I also knew I could catch a train or bus to Marrakech. And I knew some timetables. Thing is, I had been planning on using some time on the ship to figure out the details as I had not been able to find anywhere to book stuff online thus far, but figured I should be able to sort it all out during the thirty hour voyage. And yes, this would have been ample time had there been internet access. But nope, there wasn't, so at about 1pm on Tuesday the 11th of  November I stepped onto dry land in Morocco without the slightest clue as to what to do.

Okay, again, not true. I knew what to do. I knew to ask the guy in the customs uniform standing beside me wanting to quickly see my passport what I needed to do. And he told me. Go get on that bus that will take you to the train station. Take the train to Tangier and then get a bus to Marrakech.

Simple.

So I go get on the bus, sit down, and wait for it to load up with what eventually felt like ten people and a hundred bags and take us all to the train station. While waiting along comes the fellow who I'd helped with his luggage. So, I helped him again, and he sat in the seat beside me. His name was Abdul (and I'm sure it still is, I just continue to have issues with tense, and the overuse of paranthetical statements), and he took it on himself to make sure I got my ticket to Tangier, and also gave me the excellent advice of not taking the bus, but to take the train to Marrakech, which I took. The advice, and the train.

And that's what I mean. Simple acts of kindness get repaid again and again. And we all know (or at least I hope we all do) that you're not being kind to get some sort of reward, but it really is amazing, or at least I find it anyway, how these things come together. And yes, this is a little one, but there have been some big ones. And yes, I could have sorted this out by myself with little issue, but its actually really great and comforting when I don't have to, when people come along and just help for the sake of being nice. Friends back home have asked me about how I feel travelling alone, and honestly, I really don't feel like I am. I'm pretty sure I've said it before, but I feel like repeating it. It would take an enormous effort on my part to actually be alone out here. I'd have to deliberately not only not initiate communication with people, but shun or quickly shut down other people who initiate. And I'm not about to do that. This planet is full of incredible people and the blessing of travel is the opportunity to meet some of them. So you give, and you take, and it works out.

Moving along.

This is the train to Tangier.

And this is a view of the port from the window of said train as we headed off.

The port of Tangier has been growing and growing over the past several years, and is now the largest port in Africa, or will be when it reaches full capacity in 2015. And duh on me, Tangier-Med, the Med is Mediterranean. Again. Duh me.

I'd bought my ticket for Tangier to Marrakech when I bought my ticket for getting from the port to the city, so I knew I was on the overnight train, and that I had about six hours to kill in Tangier. What did I do in that time? I ate shawarma and read my book. Pretty simple. No sites. Just enough wandering to find some food and then sit back and wait. And I've really come to enjoy this part of the travelling, the waiting to depart, or the actual being in transit. Going to Rabat the other week having not been on a bus or train for only five days or so I found myself thinking I would dread the travel but actually felt really wonderful being on a train again. It's peaceful.

It was a night train so I found myself in a sleeping cabin with two other people and asleep pretty fast, having had a quick hello with one of the fellows who lived in Tangier but worked in Marrakech, and who took this trip twice per month.

Here are a couple of quick shots out the window of the train the next morning on the way to Marrakech.

So, having left Barcelona at 11:59pm on Sunday November 9th, I found myself, surprisingly refreshed, and setting foot in Marrakech at 8am Wednesday November 12th.

And the rest will follow.