Being bestowed with good luck

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I have this urge every time I am just about to enter a new place. It’s a subconscious twitch that sets off a pattern of events until I arrive. A nervous excitement still gets me after all this travel. I bite my nails as I look outside the window. I sometimes resort to the skin (I know) and then once I realise I have to stop biting before I draw blood. I get this sudden urge to pee.

As the train slowly approached the outskirts of Marrakesh the city glowed a brightly lit orange. It was 8pm and I was wondering where the next hour would take me. Will something drastic happen halting my trip? What sort of accommodation will I accept? Will it have a shower or a squatter toilet? Or will there be only one room left in the whole city and the girl of my dreams and I have to share the last double bed. Actually the last thought doesn’t cross my mind every city but maybe I should. It could happen!!

The modern looking train station is easy to walk out of than its negotiations with the taxi drivers. He drops you off at a busy road opposite the Koutoubia Mosque, he points and talks in French to walk towards a mass of people. That’s ‘Place de Foucauld,’ which joins up with Djemaa el Fno. This place is steaming in the now black sky from the food stands. The smells of cooked meat, a hint of spice and stews occasionally are broken by the smell of public urination (but that’s brief). In front of the food stands are many performers who have collected groups of people, which now circle the individual groups. They are playing mostly traditional music and the place is a buzz. This was the portal I thought Fez was going to be and I was getting it a week later.

Many people try and help you get a hotel and there are plenty around the 80dh - $10 mark. It was now a bit past 9pm and I hadn’t eaten since noon so it was off to do what tourists do best whilst in Marrakesh – eat food. Every option is there for you bar vegans I’m assuming. A soup costs 50c and a meal about $5. There are plenty of juice stands, which sell fresh orange juice for 4dh (50c). There are also plenty of dates, apricots and other dried fruits to choose from.

The food stands are pretty much the same décor and menu so the competition is very aggressive. The arm grabbing and never letting go happens with another shopkeeper playing ‘good keeper’ by saying, “let him go!” I went to the one that said nothing. They probably didn’t see me go by the first time.

Begging was done in the form of they would stand right next to you whilst you have your first sip of orange juice. Also at the soup stand after having a conversation with a kid (we couldn’t understand each other bar Barcelona and Real Madrid.) Adults saw that as a weakness and expected me to either pay for a soup or give them money. I made some brief enemies (about a split second) a few times in my first hour.

This included when my flash went off taking a photo of the square including the band playing (which you couldn’t see). Within a ‘flash’ tambourine man is outstretched with his instrument asking for money. I laugh at him, a grin on my face and said “Non”. I decided I’d finish tonight on that note. Marrakesh was thriving, it felt so alive, vibrant something that I haven’t experienced for a while. Instead since I was on my own I felt it fitting to have this as a little taster before seeing how the city unfolds during the course of a whole day.

I go back to my hotel - where the girl of my dreams was not staying - and tuck myself into my double bed and what do you know… The bed is too small. Christ! This is the about the 12th night in a row the bedding has been too small so I have to sleep diagonally. I’m not a giant just over 6 ft so I shouldn’t warrant this treatment from the bedding industry. But again I have to blame the Latinos because it seems to be the countries that have had influences from either the Portuguese or Spanish that provide small beds. South America was full of small bedding.

Anyway, after my diagonal sleep I spent the day walking the streets and during the day Marrakesh doesn’t dazzle. I went to the tanneries. Fez is better for its traditional medina and its tanneries but I got nice weather here and got to see the tanneries in action.

Tanneries are a place where the animal skins get decomposed using chemicals to create leather. Done outdoors the stench is putrefying and to walk around they give you some mint leaves to get through the walk through. There are multiple pits with chemical solutions. The male’s work during the morning till around 3pm when the women come in and purchase dyes which give the leather its colour.

The evening last night was not a one off with snake charmers at dusk and similar action to the previous night. I did notice throughout my stay in Morocco the numerous snail stands. I was tempted but just couldn’t do it to myself again. But somehow it is a hit in Morocco with giant pots with boiled snail in its shell scooped up and put in a Chinese soup style bowl.

There are a few cafes with rooftop views. You pay double for a drink but it’s worth it. Grand Terrase du Café Glacier was the best spot I found. A more aerial view especially under the bright white lights and listening to the noise below of the murmurs of the people, the motorbikes zooming past. I found the best way to appreciate the night was to spend a bit of time but walk away for a bit and come back. You can stay around and let the place consume you or just keep coming back for a hit of Marrakesh. I really enjoyed my brief stay in Marrakesh and left to head south and Mauritania.

This would be the start of one week of hardcore travelling and the easiest part was at the beginning, progressively getting harder. It started with a 3 and a half hour bus ride to Essaouira.

Essaouira is on the coast and has day trip tourists during the day and quietens down during the evening, which was just okay. I didn’t understand all the hype. I tried to stop myself at lunchtime but this restaurant was perfectly positioned for the daytime sun. The town was windy so a place in the sun in March is needed. I sat there ordered a tajine again and I got a tourist piece of crap. If I were my dad I would have gone up to the owner and told him off for having no pride in his culture. The reason for that was he served me a ¼ chicken, a bit of onion and some olives (not complaining about the olives though).

Compare that to my search for a meal with real locals in Marrakesh during the daytime a few days earlier. The comparisons are immense. When you go to a tourist spot always look for a ratty looking place with locals. Hygiene might be out the door but you’ll get a good meal and that’s the whole point. It was behind the Mosque towards the Kasbah. They have about 20 tajines on the go and give you what you are supposed to get. Vegies, meat bubbling with a spiced up life.

Morocco is famous for being an alternative beach destination especially for surfers. I’m a bit like Miley Cyrus outside of work lifestyle when looking for a beach – Fox Movies had a half hour special on the rise of Miley the day I typed this – I don’t like big groups, I like some time to myself. And Agadir was just too busy. So I moved on towards the Western Sahara. (But in truth you need your own vehicle to truly appreciate the coast this far south.)

Morocco would have you think that Agadir is not the last major city of the country but officially it is. It was back when independence from the Spanish occurred that the area south was not decided between Morocco to the north and Mauritania to the south. The land is high in phosphate deposits. In 1975 the Moroccans did a ‘Green March’ with 350 000 people to claim the territory. 100 000 soldiers were sent down a year later to eliminate any resistance.

In 1991 the UN had brokered a ceasefire and a referendum was meant to happen. To this day it still hasn’t happened. In fact now the two main cities Laayoune and Dhakla proudly show the Moroccan flag and every building in between. They have created infrastructure that is outstanding for Africa. Smooth tarred roads, electricity and public transport.

It took me 24 hours of sitting in a bus in a 26-hour period to get to Dhakla the last city before Mauritania. The Western Sahara as a whole is an amazing amount of nothingness than 40kms from Dakhla we veer right and at a crest of a hill an amazing sight of the ocean just giving up on the place. A dry water bed with a strip of road weaving towards the next part of solid land. It was as if one water particle said to the rest of the Atlantic Ocean (which can not be seen) “Okay boys, that’s it! I’m not hanging around here. Who’s with me?”

The people living in Western Sahara are Moroccan mainly with tax-free higher income incentives to relocate from the north. So in a way this resettlement is interesting how they are getting away with it on the hush hush compared to other areas. In all truth they have done a pretty good job with it.

My plan was to maybe stick around an extra day to just appreciate where I am in the world. Just sit back for a day and appreciate what I am actually doing here and than after about a good 10 seconds it was like “Yeah overnight is enough isn’t it.”

Dakhla is a perfect destination to hang the clothes on the line. It’s windy and combined with the sun the clothes would dry in no time. Just might have to re wash with the Sahara sand hitting it. But in Dakhla that’s soon not to be the case as the town is building quite rapidly. It’s a very different Morocco. It’s an outpost. Tourists are common here as it’s a main stop to get to/from Mauritania but that would only be a handful a week.

After an overnight stay I set off for the border with a Norwegian who joined me in a shared taxi. The previous day there were a lot more police check points. I got checked 6 times along the way. Once it was literally 10 seconds after the bus got going. We stop and another guy comes on. “Passport” I look at him like ‘You must be kidding we just went through this a minute ago.’ “Job” I usually say Sales cause it covers a broad range but French speakers find this job incomprehensible. I have to come up with another job description. From Dhakla it was a bit better.

After around 400km of no mans land (after the previous days 1000km or so) we arrive at the border post. A pink building surrounds us. Norwegian Olav is told to turn back because he didn’t have a visa for Mauritania so he has got to go 48 hours back to Rabat or give up on Mauritania all together.

So we pick up a Mauritanian woman who loads produce, fruit, vegies, baskets, electrical goods and cross into the real no mans land. A 3km rocky sandy landscape - if anyone’s seen the movie ‘The Book of Eli” it was like that - with that drained out of colour look. Blown out cars where every part is ripped out than torched. Tyres, which look in good nick. The untarred road reverts the car into 20 km/hr from the max 100km/hr the previous 5 hours. There is the borders version of Duty Free with guys hanging around with cigarette packets looking like they are ready to hijack you.

One guy at the duty free patch waves us down like the official guards. His palm facing down than going up and down to indicate “slow down.” But our driver wasn’t up for that crap. I was on a winner with this guy. For some reason luck was bestowed on me when I got shitted on by a Moroccan seagull in Essaouira. I reached the Green flag with a star above a resting ¼ moon. No bird shitted on me as I arrived to my new country and I wondered could my next leg, the toughest leg be as smooth as the Moroccan leg? I had a seat to myself on all the bus rides and had no dramas at the border. Can Moroccan bird shit cross borders and stain with good fortune for Mauritania?

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