Morocco: We're not in Africa anymore

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Well I finally had to say goodbye to Ouagadougou on the 4th. I had a great time hanging out at the restaurants and clubs on Kwame N'Kruma Avenue with a big group of PCVs until my 3 am flight. Stephanie, Leslie, and I went to the airport early only to wait around until 6:30 am when the flight finally boarded.

At the Casablanca airport we took a train to the city and were in a different world. For example, there was a train. And tall buildings and well-dressed Moroccans and tourists from all over Europe and the US. It didn't look anything like Africa, more like I'd imagine the Middle East. Still only some people spoke French; most communicated with Moroccan Arabic or Berber languages. There were almost no black Africans and I couldn't believe I was still on the same continent.

I put my luggage in storage and we hopped on an efficient, air-conditioned train inland to Marrakech. The train took us through miles and miles of apparently uninhabited desert. Nothing but rocky, sandy hills with the occasional struggling plant. Rare water sources were accompanied by explosions of deep green plantlife and small mudbrick villages.

After a few hours of travel the train came upon the huge oasis that is Marrakech. Out of nowhere there were green grasses, tall date palms, and rows of whitewashed buildings. We took a taxi through the spotless new city to the Medina, the old, walled-in city. We walked through the medina's narrow streets past countless food stalls, spice shops, and tiny stores full of Berber rugs, Moroccan pottery, silver jewellery, cedar statues and boxes, hanging lanterns, leather goods, t-shirts, anything that toursits would buy. The streets only got busier as we approached Jmaa el-Fna, the main square in the center of the old city.

We took a cute hotel nearby and set out wandering in the bustling activity of Jmaa el-Fna at sunset. Dancers, drummers, snake charmers, performers of every type competed for the crowd's attention and tips. Rows of food stalls beckoned passersby with beautifully-displayed saffron chicken, kebabs, calamari, and colorful salads. Rows of stalls were piled over with local nuts, dates, and dried apricots. A half-dozen vendors stood amidst heaps of bright oranges, continuously squeezing fresh juice at 3 dirhams (50 cents) per glass. We sampled some succulent snails and were heading to the OJ stand when we were accosted by those preteen girls who draw with henna on your hand and then demand money. They're dramatic actors. "Five dirhams? This is nothing!! I want moneeeey!!" She threw the coin on the ground for emphasis, only to pick it up again when we walked away.

We perused some of the colorful shops around the square and found that it's nearly impossible to get a good price on anything, thanks to the omnipresent tourists who don't know how to haggle. We sat down at one of the cafes on the edge of the square and got real cappuccino for the first time in too long. It was nice to watch the action from a cafe terrace, avoiding the aggressive vendors and pushy men.

We spent another day wandering the medina's labyrinth-like streets, shopping for souvenirs and tasting some wonderful local food. There were chwarmas, kefta (seasoned meatballs), bean and lentil soups, and lots of tagines. Tagines are dishes cooked in a ceramic tagine pot, usually containing vegetables, potatoes, and sometimes meat. They are the staple dish for most Moroccans. Also the grapes, cherries, and plums were the best I've ever tasted.

Our next destination was Imlil, a town in the High Atlas Mountains. It had one steeply sloped main street, lined with small shops, restaurants, and hotels. Leslie had reserved a hotel for us, and when we asked for directions people just kept pointing uphill. It turned out to be in a village about a 20 minute hike up the mountain from Imlil. We wandered into the village, through peoples' courtyards, until the path ended at a rusty door with "Dar Adrar," the name of the hotel, written in chalk. We were a bit nervous but it turned out to be a nice place. The owner, Mohamed, welcomed us with a pot of mint tea.

From the balcony of Dar Adrar we could look out over the valley around Imlil. We could see snow on the tallest of the rocky peaks. Most of the area was dry, rocky, and sandy, except for a strip of green along the icy river, which was fed by the melting snow. We could see the well-restored kasbah, or caslte, now an expensive luxury hotel.

The town of Imlil seems to thrive on tourism, which explains the high cost of a meal in town. We were looking for a restaurant when we met Alex, a Peace Corps Volunteer from a nearby village. It's funny how even when there are lots of tourists around, you can just tell if someone's a PCV. Alex showed us a good restaurant, got us a great discount, and answered lots of our questions about Morocco.

Tourists come to Imlil to hike to the summit of Mount Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa. It is a two-day trek, and most people spend the night in the stone refuge built 10 km up the mountain. With our tight schedule we only had room for one day of hiking, so we did a day hike to the refuge and back. Steph and I had already given away our sneakers in Burkina, so we hiked the 20 km in flip flops. Hooray for Chacos.

The path led out of the village, past some walnut groves, and along the river. We passed a small village where shopowners took advantage of the hiker market, selling American candy bars and sodas kept cold using river water. Overburdened mules were used to transport goods to the village or gear for hikers. On our walk we met groups of hikers from England, Australia, France, and Spain. No one had heard of Burkina Faso.

We ate the lunch we'd packed and relaxed for a while at the refuge. It was cool and for the first time in a while it felt good to sit in the sun. When we were rested we fumbled down the mountain in our flipflops until we were back in Imlil. We met up with Alex again and got another discounted dinner.

The next morning we met our new PCV friend at the kasbah, just to see the beautiful property and to sip overpriced cappuccinos. A couple of other young, somewhat disheveled Americans approached us and asked us if we were Peace Corps. They were PCVs from Mauritania, on vacation with family.

When we left Imlil we returned to Marrakech by taxi and got a bus to Essaouira on the coast. Essouira is an old fishing town, quite a bit calmer than Marrakech. We met up with more PCVs who showed us the best hotel deal in town: a hotel with no name and no sign, tucked away in a narrow alley that was hard to find. But the rooms were beautiful and cheap.

We spent some time wandering among Essouira's whitewashed buildings in the medina and along its 18th-century ramparts. The port was full of fishing boats and a sea of wooden rowboats all painted the same blue. Nearby was grilled fresh seafood of all kinds. The beach was crowded with vacationers as well as windsurfers and kiteboarders who took advantage of the continuous wind.

We only had one night in Essa before we took a night bus back to Casa so I could catch my flight. For anyone else traveling to Morocco, a week is not nearly enough! I hope to go back again someday.

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