The World's Largest Sandbox

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This is not an entry about how Morocco changed my life. Just to get that out of the way. Though it was awesome.

It’s more of an entry about real culture versus perceived notions of culture, tourism, and the vastness of the desert, all in the context of my experience in Morocco. Not blatantly, but you’ll probably catch it. Because the sentiment I felt above all others these past few days was frustration at the lack of authenticity. But here I go again with the reflection portion before the explanation. You know what comes next...

Day 1: Depart Sevilla in morning. Travel by bus to Algeciras. Cross the Straight of Gibralter via ferry. Cross the border in Ceuta. Arrive in Fes in evening. Dinner and hotel in Fes.

Steph (roommate) and I left the apartment at 3:30am Friday, giant bags of food in tow (lovingly packed by Lola) to get to the bus by 4am. Holy tired and groggy day. Thus began my sheep-like experience. We were herded off the bus, herded onto the ferry, herded into Ceuta… Ceuta, incidentally, is actually not technically in Africa. It is very much on the landmass typically known as Africa, but it is one of two cities that actually belong to Spain. Therefore we didn’t truly cross the border until we got to the Ceuta/Morocco border, where we stayed for a long time. Passports were handed over, a man came onto the bus to electronically check our temperatures, I actually took a short nap, woke up, and we were still waiting (yet another theme of this trip). Then: blessed solid ground in Fes. After our first Moroccan dinner and a trip to the lovely rooftop terrace with a picturesque view of McDonalds (it was the more modern section of the city), roommates Kate and Mishri and I turned in early. The next day was the “Medina”! What was that? I would soon find out…

Day 2: Visit Medina in Fes all day. Dinner and hotel in Fes.

We split up into groups by bus and did our first bit of sightseeing. During flash tourism stops at mosques and a panoramic view of the Medina, I took it all in as best I could. It was truly something different from anything I’d ever experienced. They had told us to pull our hair back and cover our shoulders so we didn’t attract too much attention, but of course that was impossible. In a world where many women are covered head to toe in fabric, anything else is going to stick out. Not to mention we were in a giant group and didn’t look one bit Moroccan.

Our Moroccan guides took us into the Medina, which was a labyrinth of dirt paths lined with shops. “Don’t get lost!” they advised, “Sometimes even the locals have trouble finding their way.” Donkeys loaded down with packages were not an uncommon sight, and I marveled at the colorful wares of the fabric stores as well as more exotic fare: giant fish and… a camel’s head? The fact that everything was in Arabic just lent a more foreign feel to it all, and I wished we could have slowed down. Then… sigh. I apologize in advance for the negativity. I’m just calling it like I saw it.

We entered our first shop, which was full of fantastically beautiful and brilliant rugs. They were hanging from the ceilings, lining the walls, rolled and stacked everywhere you looked. We were sat down, given some tea, and then the show started. “INVESTMENT!” The shopkeeper proclaimed. I stifled a laugh. I saw exactly where this was going, and it did, for a good fifteen minutes. Why you should buy 15 rugs and take them back to the states to sell. Why it’s such a bargain in Morocco. And such a great INVESTMENT. We were split up into groups and they asked us what we wanted to see. I played along, and they set out rug after rug, refusing to tell us a price until we had decided on our favorites. Finally: “2000 Euros for this one.” WHAT? They had told us Morocco was ridiculously cheap. That we just had to barter with them. But where the hell do you go from 2000 Euros?! Not down as far as I wanted to go. I stopped playing. Some people didn’t, got cheated, and learned an important but painful lesson: if you’re dealing in two different types of currency, you should make sure you specify which one the deal was made in before they swipe your credit card. When the exchange rate is 1 Euro = 10 Dirham, it makes a difference… “Oh, you meant 4000 EUROS for these 3 rugs?!” Oops… That’s around $6000 if you’re keeping track…

More places to go, more people to observe, more presentations to deal with. It wasn’t all bad, not at all. It was just like a tourist Disneyland, as someone put it. The tannery (camel leather) where I almost bought a pair of shoes, the “pharmacy” with natural Moroccan medicine, spices, and teas (where I bought many Christmas gifts, hope you like ‘em), fantastic couscous for lunch followed by the weaver (Hey man, I can get this exact same scarf in Sevilla- 2 for 5 Euro. And you want it for 15? You crazy.) Then we stopped at my favorite place: the potter. You know, I guess when I picture “hand-made goods” there’s always some old woman involved, sitting by a fireplace or something, toiling away. That, or a bunch of twenty-something Moroccan guys sitting in a row painting pots? Or something. But, I’m sure it’s a good job, they were talented at it, it was real, and reasonably priced, I felt. Not to mention beautiful. More gifts, check.

Wow, it was a big day! I’ve still got so much more to tell, and I’m not even finished with day 2. The rest will go faster, I swear.

After arriving back at the hotel, Kate and I decided to take a stroll by a nearby fountain as we had seen some of the locals doing. We were walking and talking, and then I heard something to the left. “Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez?” Have I mentioned that French is the second language of Morocco? Even though they gained their independence, it’s still widely used, and it’s taught to most people in school, thereby making twenty-something Moroccan guys more able to hit on tourists (one of the many benefits, I’m sure). “We’re not looking for anything,” I responded, “we’re walking.” He then asked if he could “make my acquaintance” and then gave me his brief life story, which he added to any time there was a pause in conversation. I played the translator for Kate as best I could, but I was having a hard enough time, because though my French isn’t perfect, his was worse. I would say something, he and his friend would discuss it, decide on something to say, and then proclaim it with confidence. “It is not often that we meet women who are so beautiful and also so nice! Why are you laughing?” Or this was my favorite, “So next year, insha'allah (“god-willing” in Arabic, I learned), when you come back to Morocco…” Ha! Right. They asked for phone numbers and us out for tea, settled for email addresses and goodbyes, and we haven’t heard from them since. Oh, don’t break my heart!

I do love encounters like that, though. They make such good stories. Later that evening the group went to a touristy belly dancing show, which is worth mentioning. There, I’ve mentioned it.

Day 3: Breakfast at hotel. Travel by bus to Erfoud. Ride 4x4's through the desert to the Merzouga (desert) campsite. Arrive at dusk and spend the night camping.

The desert was far. Very very far. When we got to Erfoud there were stars in the sky, and I got to see my first live camel. Sweet! Kate and I dawdled around the camels getting pictures, and the jeeps filled up. Thus, I spent the bumpy and exciting ride into the desert making some new friends from the Granada group and listening to gossip about people I didn’t know. I tried to strike up a conversation with the driver (English? Français? Español? No?) but communication is difficult when no words can be used. I wanted to ask him about navigating… it was completely dark and without a landmark in sight, so he must have been using the stars to find his way. Or a compass… but I’m gonna go with the stars.

We got there and snagged some spots on mats in the elaborate tents they had set up for us, then Kate and I spent the rest of the evening walking the dunes by the light of the full moon and getting completely covered in sand, as any logical person would want to do immediately upon arriving in the dune-covered desert. We were in the Sahara!

Upon walking back we enjoyed some Moroccan tea at the “bar” and somehow ended up at a table with one of the Berbers, which were the indigenous people, originally nomads, who now run the camp. I asked him where they lived, and he pointed in the direction of a nearby town, then said they were still nomads. I asked him how that could be if they lived in one place, and he told me that their way of life has changed slightly over the years. Slightly? Their entire existence appeared to have been transformed by tourism. Everything they did was a show. They wore traditional robes, but their street clothes were underneath. Nothing seemed real. Of course, I didn't say any of this. I just nodded and asked another question. Later in the conversation we got him to sing something, to which he added percussion by drumming on the table, and soon about half the camp was surrounding us, clapping along, laughing, and getting into the music. I was on a high, being at the center of such an energetic and spontaneous moment, and I didn’t want it to end. Music is universal, you can’t fake that.

I thought that was it for the day, but now I remember there was more! A group of us walked out into the dunes with more berbers later, and sat in a circle to exchange stories and play games. One of them took charge, and started explaining a game (in Spanish, because he spoke that better than English) that initially sounded a lot like “Duck, duck, goose” to us. I was listening carefully, though, and at the end I could have sworn he said “and then the person picks someone and gives them a kiss.” But he said “kiss” in French (“bisou”). I looked around, no one seemed to get it. I thought maybe I was wrong. Then the game started, and the berbers all looked confused when the two girls started running around the circle. “What, no, bisou, bisou!” The berber insisted. Ha! Finally someone said, “I think he wants you to KISS someone!” Hahaha how invaluable are these moments of sudden enlightenment. Needless to say, there were some disappointed berbers that evening.

Day 4: Wake up early to see sunrise in the desert. Travel by camel to visit a typical town. Rest of day to enjoy the beautiful landscape. Spend night camping.

Someone started clapping while it was still dark out. I didn’t realize until it was almost too late that that was supposed to be our wake-up call to see the sunrise. I threw off my blankets, exchanged my PJs for some jeans in the freezing cold of the desert morning, and grabbed my camera as I ran out of the tent. Then I started walking, (it’s impossible to run in sand) found a seat, and then caught my breath. I took dozens of photos, but they hardly do it justice. I wish you could have been there, I really do. We were looking to the east, of course, towards the Algerian border. We weren’t far, and the sun was creating a contrast of light and shadows in the dunes as it slowly crept closer towards Morocco. It’s thoughts like that, the ones that make me think of where I am geographically, that make me truly feel like I’m in a place. It’s just miles and miles of sand, right? But where… and I envision that world map that I used to have hanging on my wall, and I think of Morocco, and Algeria, and me, and then the whole continent spreads out before me and there I am. In Africa. It’s not just an exotic place on the map anymore. I “know” the place, personally. It’s real.

A 16-year-old berber struck up a conversation with me as I was walking back towards the camp, and I thought it was very nice that he was being so helpful and friendly, pointing out tracks in the sand, talking about his family… then we got back and he tried to sell me some “fossils.” Are there no pure intentions in this place? What a contrast between that and what I had just experienced. I talked in the beginning about frustrations, and this is one of them, though I’m realizing even as I write this that I shouldn’t let these things overshadow the experience as a whole, and that while I felt that much of the experience was from inside a tourist “bubble,” there were moments of clarity and truth that can outshine the more frustrating experiences if I let them.

The morning activity was riding camels, and it would take a lot of nerve for me to complain about that. Camels! In the desert! I mean at that point who cares if there’s a hundred other people doing the same thing, I was on a camel! And he rocked back and forth, and made Kate and I a bit seasick, and ambled on through the desert towards a giant dune which we climbed (sans camel) which afforded us another spectacular view. More camel swaying led us to a small town, where we were led into another rug shop. But this time, I bought one!! Ahhh I still can’t believe it, but it’s gorgeous and elaborate, allegedly hand-woven and hand embroidered using camel fur and silk, and will certainly brighten up my space. And I got the guy down to 200 Euros from 390, so I thought that was pretty good… right? Haha I hate haggling because I always feel at the end that I could have done better. Always, without fail. But it’s done, and I have it, and now I have to figure out how I’m going to get it back to the States…

We got back to camp with nothing else planned for the day, and I decided to take a walk out into the dunes to watch the sunrise. It was actually sort of difficult getting the berbers to let me walk alone, “No really, you don’t have to come with me… really…” but I finally made it out further than I’d been before, where I could just barely see the camp but nothing else, and sat down to take it in, sinking my feet into the warm sand, running it through my fingers… I lay back and closed my eyes, thinking it was nothing but me and the sand, and then as soon as I remembered the tiny little bug tracks I’d seen earlier a scarab beetle scuttled onto my hand and caused me to violently flail about, completely ruining my moment of serenity but effectively bringing me back to reality. It was a great opportunity to reflect on a lot of things, and I remember thinking consciously that I wasn’t missing anything at that moment, no one and nothing that I could clearly identify, at least, and it was a blissful sensation of wholeness of self and fulfillment, as well as excitement and hope about my life. Too many abstract nouns in one sentence? I’m afraid I’m getting a bit too philosophical. I guess that’s what the desert does to you. The sun sank down lower and lower and I stood up, Aladdin pants billowing in the wind, and I closed my eyes again. Music started playing. All was right with the world. Gotta love moments of enlightenment.

I got back to camp and then promptly realized that something wasn’t right with myself. I was so high on life that I didn’t notice my entire body had started aching. Everyone in Morocco gets sick… at least it was just in time for two days of traveling…

Day 5: In morning travel back to Erfoud. Travel by bus to Meknes. Arrive in evening and spend night at hotel.

Day 6: Travel by bus from Meknes to Ceuta. Take ferry at Algeciras, then bus back to Sevilla. Arrive in late in evening.

I suppose it might be amusing to note that the Granada bus broke down right before the Morocco/ Ceuta border, so us, the Sevilla bus, had to get off and wait at the border so our bus could retrieve the Granada kids. Meanwhile, we sat on the curb and observed someone try to dash to Spain past the guards and the barriers. They caught him, and were laughing. Happens all the time?

So here I am at the end with no more energy to reflect, and you probably have no more energy to read it. And writing this entry has given me a different and more positive perspective about the trip than when I started, so I don’t even feel like complaining anymore. It is what it is; I’ll take the bad with the good and remember to not go to on any trip with a group of 150 other people next time. In the meantime, I’m appreciating what’s real.

If you want to see more pictures from my trip to Morocco, visit: My Picasa Album

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Photos

The Medina
Yes. that is a camel's head.

INVESTMENT
Rug salesman at work.

Potters
Doing what they do.

Camel at dusk
A very desert-like scene at Erfoud.

Sunrise, sunset
My favorite photo from that early morning.

Camel parade
Onward!

At the top of a dune
I had to.

Rugs again
Mine is actually in this picture! It's the indigo/bluish one at the bottom right.

Jaimas
The "jaimas" or tents that we slept in.

Campin' out
Inside our humble abode.