Morocco Maloku

Dad, there´s a monster at the end of this book. I´ve put it at the end so you can dodge it.

I was in Madrid for a couple of days only. The most interesting thing I have to say about it is that everything moves at a very leisurely pace. I saw the Prado and that was very nice, but I must say, Madrid held no magic for me; simply put, it was just a dry, hot, big city in my eyes. If I were to decide now, I would see no need ever to return to it.

With that in mind, I booked my reservation for a couchette (like the murphy's beds of trains) for tuesday night's departure from Madrid to go to Portugal. I wanted to see Lisbon briefly and then head to the much less crowded Atlantic beaches. I dished out 30 euro for the reservation (yes, there's no such thing as a free lunch) Which I thought was pricey, but Sooooo worth the 50 minute wait (can you sense the sarcasm?) It's impressive really. I got to the train station to buy my ticket, and had number 215, the till was serving 212m and number 213 was a no show. 50 minutes later, I was well looked after. Exhausted from the tedious wait, and my desperate need to lay some pipe, I relieved myself, then laid about in the shade of a very nice park, read my Don Quixote and played with my sack (hackey, that is - not to disappoint, there will be another sack story later on that is sure to titilate and amuse even the most apathetic reader).

I intended to go to Lisbon, I even told my mom it was a sure thing, but when I arrived at the station that night, it was a very dark and lonesome place; it was beginning to close down, which I thought odd, since my train was not meant to depart for another 20 minutes. As it turns out, an impotant unknown-unknown, was about to become a very disappointing known-unknown, that Madrid has two train stations, and I was only on familiar terms with the less helpful of the two. By time I had figured out w.t.f. the problem was, there was no way I was going to cross the vast urban expanse that is Madrid short of flying there, which, while I can do it, I'm scared of heights, so I didn't of course.

Instead, I took the interrail transport to the other station, in the off chance that just maybe the train was late leaving, which never seems to be the case - damn european efficiency; damn it all to hell (pounding fists on ground). So when I arrived I discovered what was now a known-known: I had missed my train. But hope springs eternal, and I'm not above begging, so when I saw that there was a train leaving to Algeciras (not quite the opposite direction I wanted to go, but not anywhere even remotely close to Lisbon) in five minutes, I thought to myself, "I think I know where that is. Umm, I hope." I ran down and in my terribly broken Spanish explained that my train was gone and if he could please let me on this one I would be totally grateful. In the Spirit of Little Britain, the conversation was much like this:

"Which train do you want to get on?"
"That one."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Really? Because your ticket says you want to go to Lisbon and this train goes to Algeciras. Your only option for that place is to go to Morocco."
"Yeah'i know."
"Remember the last time you said that Morocco lacks the tranquil confidence within the frenetic pace of the bustling medinas. Are you sure that´s the train you want?"
"Yeah! That one!"

Then he explained after all that, it was full. U was just about to make the crying baby face when he relented; I would be allowed to go on the train, but I'd have to stay in the cafeteria all night. I sang his praises and then boarded the train for a very interesting night of very young drunken german school girls, a young man escorted off the train by several heavily armed police, a sobbing woman, and a 20 minute conversation with a man with whom we had a collective understanding of approximately 30 seconds.

Since then, in the station, I met a couple of wonderful Portugese friends who I have adopted as my own... they're great people who I've enjoyed being with enormously. Poor Fatima has had to deal with our amplified lameness, public singing, and crude, crass, and inappropriate jokes. They've been teaching me a little Portugese, and I've been teaching them English phrases. Bruno has nearly mastered the art of 'the snap!' and he is el Maestro when it comes to haggling. We´ve made an art out of cutting each other down in jest. Oh, good times, good times.

The thing I love about Morocco, I mean aside from the massive amounts of litter, the wiping my butt with my hand, and the general smell we have come to call Eau d'ass, is the fact that people are very nice and want nothing more than to be your friend, especially if you might buy something from them. The children are really friendly, and families willingly accept offerings of gum or crayons that you give to the kids. We've met some really interesting people because their children have run up to us. Bruno has even received two marriage proposals. The women are very forward here ... You all at home could learn something from them (That´s not so much a hint as a directive :) - ).

The Medinas are exciting and packed with people, it's ridiculously hot outside (to give you some idea, I just arrived in Grenada where it´s 31 degrees and I thought "Oh, finally, some cooler weather"), and the orange juice is so wicked-good and for so cheap, that I'm liable to drown in it, but you need to drink it right away because it rots very quickly. On Friday I haggled for a big glass of fresh squeezed OJ that cost me 1.5 Duhram, the equivalent of 15 cents - so, so good. There is no alcohol to be found here, which is a blessing; you don't need any help dehydrating here in the 40+ degree heat. Everywhere we go, the banks say it's 28 degrees, but it never changes no matter how hot it is... the thermometer must have busted. Or maybe it´s psychological, like when the when the weatherman tells you the winter weather is warming any day now.

One of the guys who was with us in Tangier on the 2nd bought a little tortoise, and a box for it, and you could see the twinkle in the eye of every peddler around. At one point Joss turns around and with a look of panic says, "This was the worst buy ever, it says to everyone 'hey everyone, I'll buy your crap'!" Then he tried to shake off five guys who had swamped him with offers of all sorts of things no one in their right mind would want. He even tried to pawn it off on me. I graciously accepted, but only for 10 minutes. At that point I was being accosted, and thrust it back into his arms. Even I broke down and bought a nice shirt I have no room for. But as things settled we had their wonderful mint tea, which is loved equally by man and bee.
From Tanger (Tawn-zhay) we left on a night train, which smelled like urine, to the wonderous city of Marakesh, nestled at the foot of the Atlas mountains.

Marakesh was a delightful city, full of the madness that are the streets of Morocco. It is a frenetic circus of cars weaving in and out of the meaningless painted lines, stop signs warrant little more than a faint yield, and where wearing your seatbelt is considered a grave insult, albeit one worth hazarding for your own personal security. People randomly stop and go; there is clearly a system of traffic control in place, though not one I can wrap my brain around. I am totally confounded when I try to fathom its inner workings. That being said, and despite the constant feeling that death was nigh approaching, I did not seen a single traffic accident. Fistfights, plenty, yelling and threatening, sure; but I've yet to see an accident of any sort.

But wait, there's more. The main square houses a nightly party of food, entertainment, and a bounty of strange delights. Snake charmers run up, throw snakes around your neck and then demand ridiculous payments of like 20 euro. They´re best paid with a stern fuck-you, or a couple of duhram and then a "you´re lucky you got anything." There are teeth pullers (and they´re clearly well frequented from the looks of people´s teeth. Old story- tellers strum along on their guitars, impromptu boxing matches, fire eaters, drum sessions, and more. The most shocking thing was that some guy asked if I wanted to touch his monkey. I was pleased to see, when I turned around, that he actually had a monkey. But all the same, I was like, "Dude, do you even know what that means?"

Our last two stops before returning to Tanger to take the ferry back to Europe were Casablanca which, other than the beautiful mosque, the second largest in the world, it's not all that remarkable, and the ocean is so dirty that it is ill advised for you to swim in it. El Jadida is much more swimmable, and holds the colonial remnants of a Portugese outpost. The cistern in the center of the fort alone was worth the trip. We did have a bit of trouble finding a place to stay, owing in part to the fact that it is summer vacation, it is a resort town, we didn't book ahead, and it's almost impossible to find a beach that isn't dangerously polluted in Morocco. I panicked when I could not get money out, then realized that it wasn´t my bank, but the fact that all the banks were out of money until the next day.

We sat on the beach for a few hours, and then I felt really anti-good and had to get some water and sugar into me. So we did; I felt much better, and we sat down in a park and thanked the universe for providing fresh cloud-cover. Ah, we said, this is the life. Laying down in the park without a worry in the world, flies swarming us, the gossamer breaze wafting the faint smell of fish and other fine smells, newly rotten "mixy" (a mango peach yoghurt drink) to drink, no water, and nearly out of food....this is the life. We laughed mightily, but despite the grim description, life did feel pretty sweet. How can it not when your biggest responsibility of the day is to buy a stamp for the now mangled postcard I've been meaning to send for three days.

So I did make it to Grenada as planned, and I´ll keep you posted from here.

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