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We arrived very jet lagged and expecting a bit of chaos, but to our pleasant surprise the Marrakesh international airport was such a lovely introduction to Morocco, eat that LAX. We had agreed to the airport pickup offered by our Riad (traditional Moroccan house), but now thought that maybe we had been overly cautious. Where were the dodgy taxi drivers and hustlers that we had been repeatedly warned about? However, we would soon be quite glad of our decision for a little added assistance when we arrived at the medina. We were dropped off outside of a 30ft red clay wall and told to get out of the taxi, because our bags had already been given to someone who was walking away into the maze of little arteries that make up the heart of this city. It is one of the situations that travelers are confronted with time and again, when do you protest and stomp your feet and demand that the situation be changed, because you are tired, nervous and completely out of your comfort zone? When do you trust that the man that has disappeared behind the corner of the next smelly, dirty alley has indeed been sent to
help you navigate? This is a gamble that every traveler is asked to make and almost everyone will be able to tell you a terrible tale of being taken advantage of, but for each one of these there are a thousand missing stories of people doing the right thing by you. I comfort myself with this knowledge when I feel especially nervous and trying desperately not to offend, look like a tool and to take care of myself. It feels like a testament to the goodness of people the world over that I can say that I have generally been treated well by almost everyone I have met while traveling and the Moroccan people reaffirmed this belief once again. The first words that anyone said to me in this new place were spoken by an old man opening his dusty cigarette stand and he looked up at me to smile and say ‘Welcome.’
We settled into our place with a pot of incredible mint tea that would become a cavity inducing staple during our stay. Marrakesh is a fascinating city that changes shape depending on the time of the day. We had tea overlooking the main square and as
the sun sank down the night market sprang up. The central square transformed into a bustling hive of storytellers, orange juice sellers and snake charmers. Needless to say we steered clear of the vats of boiling snails and BBQ goats heads.
One of the most obvious and vibrant aspects of Morocco can be found in the multitude of crafts and spices, but it was in the coastal town of Essaoiura that we hunted artworks that most people just consider to be vandalism. Here there was a street artist devoted to representing the less popular characters in Moroccan society i.e. street children, pirates and witches. He put his pictures on the back of signs, broken doorways and driftwood. Because these artworks appear in the most unlikely of places, it required us to look at both the place and the people from a different perspective. It was a treasure hunt that took us through the streets in the wind and rain, but was well worth the discoveries.
Our next destination was Fez and we took the train for nine hours, haggled with the taxi drivers for a fare of about one US dollar and arrived late to the outskirts of
a deserted, dark maze. The person who was supposed to be meeting us wasn’t there, but a dodgy group of guys playing cards in the alley were. They seemed a bit too interested in the two hopelessly vulnerable backpackers standing around looking at each other wondering how they had managed to get themselves into the exact situation agreed upon to avoid. But again, maybe by luck, we were helped by a man in a booth with a phone - yes we at least had the number! It is so interesting how much an experience of a place will flavor the desire for you to spend time there, and without much of a second thought but after attempting to navigate at least 500 of the 1963 laneways in the Fez medina, we decided to quickly make our way to the little mountain town of Chefchouan.
The whole town of Chefchouan appeared to have invested in gallons of blue paint as if they had their inspiration from a Greek village and whitewashed every wall, fence and path. It would be here that we spent the remainder of our trip. We met a local artist who insisted on befriending us and showing
us the true hospitality of the country. It was such a nice change of pace and we were again struck with how welcomed we had been and how everywhere we went people opened their homes and wanted to share with us, even if it meant smuggling in a bottle of scotch in their trousers. We laughed constantly and people were willing to laugh both with us and at us. We left the country with the taste of homemade tagine on our tongues and a lantern that refused to fit, but that is another story- inshallah.
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mom
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flea market fantasies
Morocco looks like all my shopping dreams rolled into one. The thrill of the hunt amidst every possible texture, color, and material. I literally dream of wandering in places like this.