2010

March 20. Sousse.

After a few days in Tunis, I pressed on to Sousse, a resort town about two hours down the coast from Tunis. It has a very long beach with calm and shallow water. The corniche (boardwalk) is lined with all-inclusive hotels and inexpensive restaurants. I stopped in Sousse just so I could swim in the Mediterranean, but I decided to stay there for my whole trip.

I did a lot of moving around in Morocco. Two days in Tangier, one in Fez, one in Marrakech, three in Agadir, and so on. I was getting tired of carrying my luggage around every other day. My duffel bag had gotten heavier since I had bought a rug for my friend and a shawl for his grandmother. I only had to carry the souvenirs as far as Egypt. My friends would take them from there. But it was getting awfully heavy. The duffel alone weighed 25 kilograms.

 

Once in Tunisia, I decided to stay put. I found that Sousse makes a good base for exploring the country. You won't find any dramatic desert ergs near Sousse, but you will find gorgeous beaches on the coast and ancient Roman and Arab cities inland. And if you get lucky with Expedia, like I did, you can stay in a 4-star hotel for $25 a night.

March 19. Bleeding

I wandered through the medina for a few hours and came out on the northern end; I was in a large modern commercial district. After a few minutes, I walked past an old-fashioned barber shop. My hair was getting a little long so I went in for a cut. The shop was small and narrow. There was room enough for two old-fashioned barber's chairs and a pair of plastic seats for waiting customers. The shop already had one customer, a big Arab man in his 40s. He was heavy-set, like a bouncer, and had his shirt halfway off. He was getting cut, but not in his hair.

 

The barber and his customer chatted amicably in Arabic. They greeted me in French and asked me to have a seat. The man's shirt was draped over his left shoulder. His right side was exposed, but I couldn't see it from my vantage point. The man groaned and massaged his right shoulder. The barber found a small glass and rinsed it out in the sink. He wadded up some tissue in his hand and lit it with a match. He put the burning tissue into the glass. He stood behind his customer and watched the tissue burn. Just before it burned completely out, he put the lip of the glass on the man's back near his shoulder blade. The man grunted. I could not for the life of me figure out what they were doing.

 

The barber kept the glass against the man's back for about three minutes. When he detached it, the man gave a heavy sigh and rotated his arm. The barber showed me the glass; it held about a quarter-cup of blood. The man smiled at the glass. He looked relaxed. The two of them explained it to me in French. I caught little snippets: “lots of blood” “tight muscles” “lots of pain” “take blood” “relaxed” and “no pain, no pain.” I averted my eyes to the floor. Along with the locks of previous customers' hair, I noticed drops of dried blood.

 

The barber swabbed the wound with alcohol and put a sterile bandage on it. Now it was time for the left side. The big man took his shirt completely off and I got to see the whole procedure. First the barber took a straight razor and made little cuts near the shoulder blade. None of them were very deep; only a few gave up a drop or two of blood. He made about thirty cuts, all of them grouped in a small circle.

 

As before he put burning tissue into the glass and cupped it over the incisions. Then I understood what the burning tissue was for. As the fire burned out, the cooling air in the glass made a vacuum. The skin on the man's back was pulled into the glass. A little bubble of flesh rose up in the glass and started to bleed. The man groaned. The barber advised him to raise his arm. He lifted his hand above his head and moved his arm in circles. Each time his arm reached the top of its rotation, the bubble in the cup gave up a little blood. The barber put his hand of the man's head and moved it forward, back and side-to-side. More blood streamed into the cup. The barber lowered the glass and with a barely audible pop it came off. The man leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He looked at me, gave me a thumbs up, and said, “Tres bien.” I smiled.

 

The barber rinsed out the glass and bandaged his customer. The man put his shirt back on gave the barber a hug. He went out and said something to me in French. The barber mopped up the floor and asked me to take a seat.

 

I didn't get a bleeding. Just a haircut for me, thank you. My haircut is really simple. It's a military-style buzz cut--number 3 razor on top, number 2 on the sides. With my limited language skills, I can't say, “Cut it clean over the ears, part it on the left, and sweep the top back.” But I can hold up three fingers and point to the top of my head. The barber did a pretty good job. I thought about asking for a shave. But I thought, if I pointed toward the razor, he might misunderstand and start cutting into my back.

March 19. Tunis.

I got into Tunis airport a little after midnight and got to my hotel at 1:00. Like the cities in Morocco, central Tunis is divided into the old Medina and the modern Ville Nouveau. Bad experiences in the medinas of Fez and Tangier had convinced me to get a hotel in the Ville Nouveau. The old and new parts of town are right next to each other, so I could stay in a comfy modern hotel while still only a twenty-minute walk from the twisty and lively medina streets.

 

I had a problem in Tunis-I hadn't read the travel guide. I had no idea where to go. I've spent the last two days wandering around the medina and the modern strip near Bab al Bahr. I'm quite happy that I stayed in the Ville Nouveau. Modern Tunis is dynamic and lively. I had a great time watching the couples promenade up and down the street on a Thursday night. The restaurants in the Ville are also tastier and cheaper than those in the medina. Touts are completely absent. They must assume that tourists won't venture outside the old city. The Tunis medina is nice, smaller and less touristy than the medina in Marrakech, but those who skip the modern city are really missing out.

 

The Tunis medina has one particular souk you don't expect to find: the sex souk. I'd heard that there was a little side street in the medina where half-naked women beckoned from centuries-old doorways. It's a place where Tunisian men can do all the things they can't do with their proper Muslim girlfriends. The thought of a red-light district in the middle of a conservative Islamic nation—in the capital's historic center, no less—was something I had to see.

 

The red-light was one extremely narrow and winding street. It was somewhat close to one of the entrances but still well hidden from sight. I won't say exactly where it is. In the medina  finding little secret streets is half the fun. When you find yourself surrounded by teenage and 20-something men, and there's not a woman in sight, you know you're close. Follow the sound of loud music and try not to get lost.

 

Before anyone suspects anything, I didn't make a purchase at the sex souk. A walk down that street was experience enough. Middle-aged wrinkly women wearing granny panties stood in high heels and feather boas, their lips a bright red and their cheeks painted blue. Young men, most in their teens, ran from door to door peeking inside to see what was for sale. Some houses opened into steep staircases with a gang of women up top. The men ducked their heads and stared upward. Every now and then one of them sheepishly stepped into a house and quickly slammed the door behind him. The whole thing reminded me of the movie 8 ½, when young Guido goes to see the voluptuous Saraghina. The customers were as big and crazy-eyed as Saraghina herself; and despite their age the customers all acted like little boys looking at a woman for the first time. Viewed as a chance to see beautiful women half-naked, my side trip to the red-light was a disaster. As an opportunity to see a hidden aspect of Tunisian culture, it was a great success.

March 17. Casablanca.

I didn't go to Casablanca for tourism. I went there to catch a flight to Tunis. I don't have much to report about the city. I did find one interesting thing in the brochure for my hotel. It's written in Arabic, French, and some really badly translated English. I quote:

 

         Hotel du Louvre founded in 1936 besfore World War II, is a historical Monument when has hasted some very important personalities such as the Poet Moufdi Zakaria who     composed the Algerian National Hymen.

 

So if you ever get see an Algerian hymen, think of Moufdi Zakaria. Now off to Tunis.

March 16. Marakech. The Long March Home

I woke up early so I could take pictures of the sunrise. It was anti-climactic. The terrain was mostly flat, but there was a tall mountain due east of us. The sun was hidden behind the mountain until it well up into the sky. As day broke the sky took a light pink tint for about twenty minutes, then it turned a clear blue that it kept all day. So much for a dramatic desert sunrise. I still managed to snap some good shots of the landscape. As always, my photos are at http://www.flickr.com/gringracho.

 

We'd driven for 9 hours to get to that desert camp. Now we had to drive 9 hours to get back. We took a brief stop at Ait Ben Haddou, an old walled city in the middle of the desert. It was once an important trading post for goods travelling between sub-Saharan Africa and Moroccan ports. Today it's more famous as a movie set. Parts of Lawrence of Arabia, Kingdom of Heaven, and Gladiator were filmed here. There are pictures of Russell Crowe all over the place.

 

We got back at 7:00 that night, completely exhausted from the long trip. We went to sleep pretty early. Kit had to get up early to fly back to Heidelberg, and I had to catch a train to Casablanca.

March 15. Into the desert

Our desert tour was the highlight of my trip. We booked an overnight trip through Moroccan Views. I'd recommend that company to anyone.

 

The bus picked us up in the morning after picking up two groups of tourists at other hotels. There were eleven of us in all. Our guide was named Mustafa. One of our group affectionately nicknamed him The Lion King. Abdul was our driver. He was pretty quiet the whole trip; partly because he didn't speak English; mostly because he had to concentrate on the twisty Moroccan roads.

 

Moustafa took a liking to a pair of American girls in our group. Maggie and Katherine were cousins from Boston and Tampa Bay. I thought they were both incredibly beautiful, and Moustafa did as well. He gave Maggie a “good Arabic name,” Aicha. For most of the drive Moustafa sang along to DJ Khaled's romantic tune, “Aicha.” It's a good song. It's something Michael Bolton would sing if he'd been born in Morocco. He and Abdul got into a mock bidding war over the size of Maggie's dowry. The bride-price got up to 200 camels, but Aicha wouldn't budge.

 

There was also Michael, an Australian financial advisor visiting from London. When we found that there were two Michael's on the bus, Moustafa changed my name to an Arabic one. For the rest of the trip I was “Mulit.” For the record, I don't have a mullett.

 

Rounding out our bunch were a foursome of two professional Rugby players and their wives. Ryan was from South Africa and came to Morocco with his wife Jo. Paul was originally from New Zealand and was there with his girlfriend Louise.  The two men had been playing Rugby in Spain for the last year and a half. They told me that Spanish rugby wasn't very popular and that only two of their teammates were actually from Spain. Most of their team was from the UK, Australia, and Germany. Still, they loved the game and they certainly loved the lifestyle. Imagine: You're born and raised in South Africa, brought up playing all kinds of sports. You marry your high school sweetheart, and then you go play professional Rugby in the Gold Coast of Spain. I think that's a pretty good life.

 

And then there were Kit and I. It's hard for us to answer the question, “Where are you from?” Kit's response was, “Well, I was born in northern California, but I moved to Germany. Then I lived in Iraq for a year and after that I moved to Honduras. Now I live in Germany again.” My answer was equally complex, but I just said, “I'm from Indiana.”

 

We drove into the mountains for nine full hours. By the end of the trip, we were thoroughly sick of the bus. Something most people don't realize is that Marrakech isn't in the middle of the desert. It's at the foot of the Atlas Mountains on the side that faces the ocean. What few clouds come out of the Atlantic get stopped at the mountains and fall as rain on Marrakech. As a result the city's in a semi-arid zone. At this time of year, it's surrounded by lush green wheat fields and scattered farms. To get to the desert, you cross over the mountains and into the rain shadow. We drove for three hours through the mountains and another four beyond that. Only then did we get to the rocky edge of the Sahara.

 

We unloaded from the bus and waited for a team of camels. None of us had ever ridden one before. They have a longer and smoother gait than horses. They're more comfortable in my opinion. Our equipment made the ride a little rough.. Our saddles were just blankets thrown over the camels' backs. There were no stirrups and no real seat. After two hours of riding, the men in our group were a little...uncomfortable. The rugby players were wearing shorts. One got off the camel with a wedgie so deep he needed Ex-Lax to get it out. I still have a rash on the inside of my legs. I hope it's gone before I meet my girlfriend in Egypt. If she sees it she'll scream, “You got jock itch from some whore in Morocco!” Then I'll have to shout, “I swear I wasn't with another woman. I was with a camel!”

 

We arrived at camp just after sunset. There were other groups of tourists and each group got its own tent. The nine of us filed into our tent and laid back on piles of blankets. We cracked open the booze we'd bought earlier. I had a bottle of cheap French wine. Ryan had a bottle of local Moroccan wine. The Moroccan stuff was actually better than the French. The two American girls had picked up a dozen cans of Moroccan “Special” brand beer. The flavor was nothing special. But it was funny to watch people open the first few cans. They were agitated after the long camel ride, and they sprayed all over the tent.

 

After dinner in the tent we joined the other groups for drumming and dancing around a big bonfire. I felt a little embarrassed to be drinking in front of our Bedouin hosts. They didn't seem to mind. In fact, they asked us to share some of our vodka and Coke. We all wound up happy and drunk and capped off a great evening.

March 14. Marakech. The Medina

Kit's quite a hard bargainer. His initial offers were about a fourth of what the shop owners offered. As they went down in price, he went up and down and up again. One shop owner asked 500 dirhams for a small glass lamp. Kit offered 100, then 125, 150, down to 75, then 100 again. They finally settled at 130. I think I'll send him to negotiate the next time I make a purchase.

 

In the evening, we wandered around Place Jemma al Fna. The plaza had come alive with henna artists, snake charmers, amateur boxers, drummers, trumpeters, singers, and plain old crazy screamers. Bicycles, mopeds, and a few cars battled for the right of way with pedestrians in the square. Beat-up donkey carts loaded with vegetables meandered behind elegant horse-drawn carriages with smooching tourist couples.

 

Brion Gyson and William S. Burroughs were living in Morocco when they developed their “cut up” style of writing. They would type up three or four short stories, cut sentences out of the typed sheets, and paste them out of order onto one page. In their books, one might simultaneously read tales of giant centipedes taking over the medina, a drug-filled trip to New Orleans, and the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. The stories intertwine not just metaphorically but literally as one paragraph contains sentences from all three stories. Buroughs' and Gyson's cut-up style was mostly the result of addiction to hard drugs. But I think some of their inspiration came from Moroccan medinas. To walk through the medina is to experience a cut-up story.

 

At night the Marrakech medina is lit by street lamps and strings of bare light bulbs. In smaller shops, bright white kerosene lamps cast harsh shadows and make a hissing sound as they burn. Six drummers scattered around the plaza bang out six different rhythms, all as intoxicating as they are incompatible. A young woman tugged on my sleeve and held out a box of sweet cookies. When I refused to buy one, she motioned to her young daughter, who chased after me with another box. A pair of teenagers shoved her away and held two fliers to my face. The one on my left had an brochure written in Arabic. In English he told me where to find a great hammam with a mud bath and massage. The one on my right had a French restaurant menu and was saying something about brochettes and poisson. I didn't acknowledge them but they walked beside me shaking the brochures. The English speaker broke off when a motorbike zipped in between us. The French speaker switched to Spanish, something about couscous con cordero. I heard the rhythm of the drummers on the far side of the plaza and spotted a shop selling Moroccan spices. I caught the smell of incense and heard the mosque giving the last call to prayer. “Te gusta cordero? O caracol? Tenemos caracol rico.” “Allahuakbar! Allahuuuakbar!” “You want Moroccan spices? Come see my spices. Come take a look!” And still those ever-present drums pounding away. I listen to those drums and hear the roots of Latin music. Flamenco and salsa are hidden in those beats. If Africa begins at Lyonne, then Latin America begins at Marakech. Did the djinn become orishas when they found their way to Cuba?

 

If you open all your senses to it, it makes you a bit schizophrenic. You experience everyone's story at all once. You forget which story is yours and which are someone else's. If your name is Bill Burroughs and you're whacked out of your mind on drugs, the result is Naked Lunch.

 

I think I've come around in my opinion of the Moroccan medina. It's like those syncopated drum beats. If you can't catch the rhythm the medina is chaotic and frustrating. But once you catch it you become part of the song. I'd like to take a trip back to Tangier and Fez; see if they look different this time. But I've already booked my flight to Tunis. I have three days left in Morocco. I'm certain I'll be back.

 

Kit and I wandered around the side streets for a while and then returned to the medina for a meal. He ate a bowl of roasted snails for 10 dirhams. He proudly pointed out that he had the courage to eat Moroccan snails while I stuck to chicken. We both passed on the boiled sheep's head. A handful of food stands sold whole sheep's heads, sheered of skin and eyes but with all their muscles and teeth. They dipped the heads into a big drum filled with boiling oil. After about 15 minutes, they took the heads out and set them in a long row where tourists could pick which head they wanted to eat. Kit said that we had to share a boiled sheep's head while in Morocco. Somehow we never got around to it.

March 13. Back in Marrakesh

I arrived back in Marrakesh on Friday, a day before Kit arrived. I had booked a night at the same hostel I stayed at before. Before I went to Agadir, I told the owner that a friend and I would be in Marrakesh from Saturday to Tuesday. I asked him to reserve beds for us, and he confirmed that he had space. I hadn't told him that I would be back on Friday, so I booked that day on the web while I was in Agadir.

When I got there, the owner told me they didn't have any beds for the weekend. He asked why I hadn't booked our two beds from Saturday to Tuesday on the Internet. I told him that I had spoken to him directly. He remembered the conversation, but he thought I was going to visit the website and book the room's there. I asked him why I would ask the owner in person to reserve the rooms and then go make another booking online. He said he thought I would reserve the rooms myself.

So after a quick night in that hostel, I made a reservation for a hotel outside the medina. Kit's flight was scheduled to arrive at 9:30 am. I got to the hotel a little after 9:00. I said to the receptionist-again in my rough French- “I'm Michael Cornn. I have a reservation for today through Tuesday.”

The receptionist looked a bit confused, “You are here to see Mister Cornn?” she asked.

I replied, “No. I'm Michael Cornn.”

She picked up the phone and said to me, “But Mister Cornn is in his room. Moment, let me call him for you.”

For just a second, I pictured in some kind of exotic spy movie where my identity had been stolen by an international doppelganger. But it was just Kit. His flight had arrived early and he had already checked into the hotel. The receptionist didn't asked for his passport. She assumed he was Michael Cornn. After a bit of confusion I got to our room, and we headed out to the medina.