2010

March 8. Marakesh. A medina for beginners.

Marakesh is much larger than Fez or Tangier, and the medina is much larger as well. There's a far larger number of foreign tourists running around and far fewer pushy touts. That seems ironic to me. In places with more tourists, I would expect to see more people following them around. But there are hardly any touts cruising the streets. The shop owners gave the hard sell, of course. But even they were less pushy than the people I'd met in Tangier and Fez. In those places I thought I'd have to punch some people to get them to leave me alone. Here I just politely walk away.

The medina is also easier to handle. The streets are much wider, wide enough that motorbikes and mopeds cruise through them (walk to the side). The medina has a large central plaza that's easy to reach. Main streets radiate out from the plaza making it hard to get lost. I spent hours walking each of those streets and never had trouble finding my way back to the plaza. With easy bargaining and even easier navigation, Marakesh is like Morocco for Beginners. If I'd flown to Marakesh before I visited Fez and Tangier, I might have been prepared for those other cities.

After a day in Marakesh I was ready to leave Morocco. I had already made plans to meet my friend Kit in Marakesh that weekend, and that kept me from moving on to Tunisia. I needed to wait here until Kit could arrive and we could make our big tour into the desert. I decided that I didn't want to spend the next few days sitting in the medina haggling over souvenirs. I decided to visit Agadir, the Moroccan Cancun.

In my backpacker language, “All Inclusive Resort” means “Stay the Hell Out.” But I was doing well on my budget and I was tiring of the hectic life in Morocco. Tunisia and Egypt are waiting for me, so I have plenty of hectic days coming up. For the four days I have to wait for Kit, I went to the coastal town of Agadir and checked into the “Agadir Caribbean Village.” I love the name. Who knew that the Caribbean extended all the way across the Atlantic Ocean? Lodging, unlimited drinks, and three meals a day for 60 Euro a day. I can't complain.

As I write this, I'm relaxing on the balcony attached to my hotel room. Seagulls are fighting overhead. A stray cat is staring at me begging for leftovers. Middle-aged European snowbirds are wandering around the resort looking for food and drinks and swimming pools. Most of them speak French. I hear a lot of German as well. I'm happy to see that Americans don't have a monopoly on obesity. At least in America 300-pound guys know better than to walk around in a Speedo. Blech.

Don't expect to hear much from me for the next few days. I'm just going to eat, sleep, and get a tan. I'll catch up on my blog and photo sites. See you when I get back to Marakesh.

March 7. Off to Marakesh

I left Fez and bought a ticket to Marakesh. I bought a first-class train ticket this time. The difference was like night and day. Everybody got a seat. Even better everybody got an assigned seat. The coaches had air conditioning, and snacks were served throughout the trip. I wasn't approached by touts.

On the first leg of the trip, I met a man from Mauritania. Tall and thin with dark black skin, he wore traditional dress: a long white robe and a white scarf around his neck. From what I gathered with my poor French, he had gone to Fez on a pilgrimage to visit a famous tomb and mark the birthday of the Prophet. He was a very friendly man and very eager to tell me about his country. I wish I had spoken more French. He was the first nice person I've met in this country, and I could only understand a quarter of what he said.

Still, it was nice to be with a group of good people. There were four of us in a coach with six seats. The Mauritanian shared a sack of dates with all of us: an older businessman in a suit and tie, a young Moroccan woman who dressed like a European university student, a young man who listened to his iPod the whole trip, and me. Most of them got off at Casablanca. I rode the full 8 hours to Marakesh.

The Marakesh train station is large and modern. It has a lot of fashionable shops and restaurants. On the way out I noticed—Ahamd'Alaah!--a McDonald's. If you read my previous article on McDonald's, you know my opinion of the franchise. When a vacation goes from adventurous to stressful, I relieve the culture shock over a burger and fries. I had my first views of Marakesh over a large fries, large Coke, and a fresh Quarter Pounder. Just like in Pulp Fiction, they call it a Royale With Cheese.

March 6. Trains, touts, and....uh...something that starts with T.

I left Tangier after a day. One day in the city was enough to get a feel for it. I was anxious to see Fez.

I got to the train station and asked for a ticket to Fez. The cashier sold me a second-class ticket for 105 dirhams, about $12. Not bad for a six-hour trip. The lines out of Tangier were flooded, so we took a bus to Kenitra, near Casablanca. Note: The bus was scheduled to leave at 11:00, but we took off at 10:30.

At the Kenitra train station, I waited on the platform for my train. A friendly local asked if I was going to Fez. I said that's right and asked if I was on the right platform. He confirmed that I was, and he asked where I was staying in Fez. I had booked another riad, but I told him I couldn't remember the name. He said he knew lots of great riads right in the Fez medina. He offered to help me find a good one. I politely declined. He asked if had been to Fez before. I said no. He told me of the three parts of the city and that he knew the best places to find leather and gold. I told him I wasn't interested in souvenirs. He walked away.

He walked around the platform but managed to stay in sight of me. Every time I turned around he was there, behind or in front of me, sometimes at the far end of the platform, sometimes a few feet away. Though he wasn't always looking at me, he was always facing me. After about 20 minutes of this, I squared up and crossed my arms and just stared at him. He looked at me and walked a little further off. He looked back and saw I was still watching him. He turned and walked off the platform. I never saw him on the train.

My ticket was second-class. Don't ever ride second-class in Morocco. There were no assigned places and there was far more passengers than seats. I stood by the door the whole time. Twice during the trip I was stopped by touts. Keep that in mind: I wasn't walking past a shop, nor was I stepping out of a taxi. I was on the train when they started their con.

“You speak English? Where are you from? Oh, America is beautiful. First time in Morocco? Where are you staying? I know a nice riad that's only 500 dirhams a night. You know Fez has a lot of history...No, please, take off your headphones. I will tell you about Fez....Can you hear me through your headphones? Do you listen to Moroccan music? I have CDs of Moroccan music. You want to see? I have them in my coach, two cars back. You want to see?”

Twice in two hours I put up with that. What's worse is that even when I ignored them, they stuck around for about half an hour. I put my bags in a far corner and stood over them. I leaned back into the corner where I could guard my bags and keep an eye on these touts. When they stopped talking to me, they stood next to me quietly, just staring at me. It was unnerving. I wished I'd known the Arabic word for “Fuck off.”

The train got to Fez after 5. I got a taxi to the edge of the Fez medina. Unlike the medina in Tangier, the Fez medina is closed to traffic. The streets are far too narrow for cars, though a few locals buzzed around in little motorbikes. A man from the hotel met me at my taxi and led me through the medina to my riad. I was cold and wet (it was raining) and tired from standing up for four hours on a train. I looked in my wallet and saw that I only had about 100 dirhams in cash. The hotel owner said there was only one ATM in the medina, and I should go there before dark. She gave me a map of the medina. Even on a map the medina is like a maze.

The early Arabs were great engineers but horrible city planners. They just staked out a piece of land and said, “Right, this is a city now.” The streets grew organically in all directions. Bound by thick city walls, the shops grew closer, the streets grew narrower, and now Moroccan medinas are confusing and crowded masses of humanity. The biggest street in Fez is barely ten feet wide. Most of them are just large enough for two people to pass. Many are so narrow that only one person can cut through at a time. That doesn't stop three or four from trying to squeeze through together.

I went out into the medina to find an ATM. Instead, I found myself outside the medina walls. I plunged back in and found the henna souk, the meat souk, and the leather souk, but still no ATM. I was afraid to ask for directions. If I stopped to look at the signs, four or five people approached me and invited me into their shops. When I say approached, I don't mean they gestured at me. I mean they got within a foot of my face, crowded in a circle demanding that I go to one shop or another. If the streets didn't make me claustrophobic, the people did.

So I kept walking. I had no idea where I was but at least I looked like I did. I stopped to look at my map a few times. Each time I ducked into an alleyway and hunched over the map, to protect it from the rain and to keep it from view. I found the ATM after an hour. I took out 2,000 dirhams so I wouldn't have to go back. I looked around to see if I was being watched. There were people on all sides, but none were looking directly at me. Still, on the way back to the riad, there was a constant stream of, “You want mint tea? Come look at my shoes? Sheesha, sheesha? Hashish, hashish?” I spent the night in the riad.

Morocco is a giant used car lot.

March 6. Tangier

I booked a riad in the Kasbah in the Tangier medina. A little vocabulary:

Medina is the Arabic word for town. Today it usually means the old town, the historic center of a modern city. The medina in Tangier was the extent of the original city and retains a medieval Arab ambience. Narrow, twisting streets, old brick walls, crowded shops, vibrance amidst decay. This is what the medina is like.

Kasbah is an Arab word that can mean a fortress or a palace. I believe it's where we got the English word “castle.” Prior to the Crusades, European castles were pretty much big houses with thick walls, while Arab fortresses were masterpieces of engineering. Most of the famous European castles were adapted from Moorish and Levantine designs. In Tangier, the Kasbah is a small section of the medina that was reserved for the city elite.

Finally, a Riad is a large house or mansion. Riads are similar to Bed and Breakfast places in America. They're often centuries-old houses restored for tourists. The riad where I stayed, La Tangerina, was absolutely gorgeous. In fact, my hotel was prettier than the rest of the city. It was expensive-rooms range from 70 to 130 Euros per night-but worth it. Even if you stay in hostels on a backpacker's budget, indulge yourself and spend one night in a riad. I highly recommend www.latangerina.com

As is my custom in a new city, I spent the first day walking around on my own. In Morocco this a huge mistake. From my first step outside I was doggedly followed by touts. In English, Spanish, French, and even German they asked me if I wanted a tour, if I was hungry, do I want to buy a rug, do I smoke hashish, would I like some tea. I waved them off politely and walked away. I ducked into a cafe filled with old men and had a cup of coffee. Al-Jazeera was on the TV reporting on a soccer game between Egypt and England. I listened to the old Moroccans arguing in French and Arabic about the game.

One of the touts bumped into me again as I left the cafe. The bastard was stalking me. He wanted to show me the medina. I said I wanted to leave the medina. He said he'd show me a park outside the medina. I said I didn't like parks. I went back into the medina and he followed along. I thought about my last camping trip. I'd found a tick between my thumb and index finger. I pulled the tick's body clean off, but its head was still dug into my skin.

While this Moroccan tick followed me around I noticed something interesting: the other touts left me alone. It was just him and me and nobody was bothering us. Suddenly I found him useful. Better to deal with one pushy tout than a dozen. As I walked further into the medina, I asked him to tell me about the street we were on. He launched into a long and probably made-up history about a street that was five feet wide. He followed me everywhere. All I had to do was listen to him talk, give him some dirhams, and I could walk in peace.

But I pretty quickly got lost, and that's when he had me. He knew I couldn't find my way out of the Medina. He offered to show me the way out. The way out went past three of his friends' shops. There was a pharmacist who offered me cooking spices and perfume and hinted that he had hashish. Then a rug merchant who literally had tears in his eyes when I refused to buy. And then there was a restaurant owner who demanded that I stop and have lunch. I was worn down and ate lunch at the last place. I paid 150 dirhams for a meal that cost me 40 dirhams at another place the next day.

As we walked back to the hotel, I offered the tout 100 dirhams (about $12) for the two-hour tour. He got angry and said that tour guides make 200 dirhams an hour. I handed him a 100 dirham bill. He refused to take it and demanded 300 dirhams (a discounted price, he said). I kept the hundred in my hand. I told him he might get 300 if he led a group of tourists, but there was just me and I only pay 100 dirhams. As we walked through the little empty alleys, he grew more angry. He raised his voice and said, “Give me 300! Give me the 300 now!” I thought for a minute he might try to rob me. When we got to the hotel, I held out the 100 dirham bill and said I was going inside. He snatched it from my hand and walked off without a word.

By now it was about 1:00 in the afternoon. I spoke to the hotel owner, and she advised me to avoid the touts. Too late, I thought. She knew a good tour guide and called him on the phone for me. He arranged to meet me at the hotel at 2:00. He would give me a tour of Tangier, wherever I wanted to go, for 200 dirhams.

This guide, Sharif, was excellent. He told me something that I couldn't believe the tout had failed to mention: The Prophet Mohammed's birthday had passed just last week, and today, Friday, there was a big parade in Tangier. Mohammed's birthday isn't a big deal in Islam. Muslims worship God, not Mohammed. But in Tangier there was a big festival with marching bands and North African musicians. After a brief trip through the Medina, we walked to modern Tangier where the parade was about to start. At the head of the parade was a big brass marching band with drums and trumpets and flutes. Behind them was a band of traditional Sufi musicians, dancing and banging on drums and castanets. Behind came a line of pickup trucks with huge incense burners and plates of sweets that would be brought to the mosque. After that was a line of little schoolgirls dressed up like a beauty pageant. Then men on horses dressed like Berber cavalry complete with ornamental swords and muskets. And behind them more musicians, all North African but each playing a unique style of music. I was lucky to have arrived on such an important day, and I was very lucky to have found such a great guide.

It's amazing how meeting the right (or wrong) person can affect the opinion of an entire country. Though I know one person doesn't represent an entire nation, the people I met over the next few days would change my view of Morocco for the worse.

March 5. Off to Morocco

Now it was time to leave Spain. I took almost every form of transportation possible. No planes and no camels, but everything in between. A walk to the town center, then a taxi to the Granada train station. I bought a ticket to Algeciras but the railway was flooded partway there. So after two hours on a train I got off and boarded a bus to the coast. Once there, I bought a ferry ticket for Tangier. The Algeciras-Tangier ferry didn't leave until 9:30 at night and it's an hour crossing. The cashier sold me a ticket for Tarifa-Tangier, which left at 9:00 and only took half an hour. I caught a bus for Tarifa.

It was a quick and comfy ferry from Tarifa to Tangier. One very important note: Passport Control, where you get a Moroccan stamp in your passport, is on the ferry. There are no immigration facilities in the port of Tangier. You must get your passport stamped while you're on the ferry, and the Passport Control office closes when the ferry docks. When I got off the ferry, an official stopped me and asked for my passport. I asked, in my broken French, where to find Customs and Immigration. He pointed back toward the boat. I sat on that boat for an hour while a very helpful man from the snack counter walked all over the boat looking for the (sleeping) Moroccan immigration agent.

I got off the boat with a stamped passport a little after 11. I must have looked suspicious to Moroccan Customs because they stopped me at the port exit. They looked through my bags and found the strangest piece of contraband I can imagine—a box of condoms. Apparently it's illegal to bring condoms into Morocco unless you're a doctor or have a prescription. Premarital sex is illegal, too. The Customs guy warned me that if I was caught in bed with a woman I'd be taken to jail. I told him that I was on a tour of North Africa and that the condoms were for my wife, whom I would meet in Egypt. I guess that worked. He put the condoms back in my bag and waved me through.

Note to self: Don't get laid in Morocco. 

March 3. La Alhambra

Finally, the place I'd come here to visit. La Alhambra. I won't get into a long description on La Alhambra's history or what it looks like. A thousand travel writers have described it far better than I ever could.

I will say that the road up to La Alhambra is steep and long but worth the effort. It winds up the mountain at something like a 30 degree incline. Note the benches by path: The seat is level, but the right leg is twice as long as the left. I imagined I was a Moorish rebel fighting my way to the palace. I think I would have died of cardiac arrest. Then I imagined I was in Napoleon's army fighting against the Spanish. It wasn't any easier.

In La Alhambra you were impregnable. The palace complex is studded with guard towers and thick walls. It has access to fresh water and extensive gardens with an almost indefinite supply of food. If an army besieged La Alhambra, there was no chance of blockading it and starving the population out. The army would be obliged to attack and waste itself on the steep hillsides. When the Spanish conquered Granada in 1492, they completed the Reconquest of Spain. But they never assaulted La Alhambra. Even with 200,000 men the Catholic Monarchs had to bribe Boabdil, the last sultan, to leave his fortress.

By the time you reach the top of the winding path, you're not in Granada anymore. La Alhambra seems separate from the city, like it's another place, another world. The history of the complex spans centuries, and walking from one part to another is like travelling through time. The waterways resemble Roman aqueducts. The palace represents the height of Islamic architecture in the Middle Ages. Carlos V's gaudy 15^th century palace can't compare. A plaque on one wall is dedicated to a Spanish veteran of the Peninsular Wars. When Napoleon's troops evacuated the Alhambra, they set explosives to destroy the whole complex. A crippled veteran came through after them and removed the fuses. If he hadn't been there then, La Alhambra wouldn't be here today. Finally, several rooms in one tower are dedicated to Washington Irving's visit in 1827. I'm reading his book, Tale of the Alhambra, now. 

March 2. Chill day.

I stayed out late buying drinks and munching on free tapas. When I found a place that sold Corona, I couldn't help but down a few. We finished the night in a Chinese tapas bar. I called it the Dim Sum place, because I think tapas and dim sum have the same idea—try a little bit of everything.

By the way, “rejo” is not short for “cangrejo.” At the Chinese tapas place, I recognized everything on the menu expect “rejo.” I'd never heard of that dish before, so naturally I had to try it. Cangrejo is Spanish for crab. I thought rejo might be slang for cangrejo. I don't really like crab, but it was something new.

It turns out that rejo, in the world of Spanish tapas, means fried octopus tentacles. They were about three inches long, curly, breaded, and crispy. They looked kind of like American curly fries, except you can see the little suckers on them. They tasted horrible, but now I know what “rejo” means.

I woke up late the next morning. I wanted to visit La Alhambra early because I'd heard that tour groups fill the place in the afternoon. Since I didn't get out of bed until after 10, I decided to put the Alhambra off for a day. I spent the day just walking around, and I'm afraid I don't have much to report. The Turkish and Moroccan restaurants are great; there's no danger in walking alone at night, even with an expensive camera; and Grenadines (Granadians? Granadenses?) are very friendly and outgoing.

March 1. Walking Granada.

New week, new month, day 13 of the big trip. Today was a holiday in Andalucía, celebrating the region's designation as an autonomous region. There weren't any big festivals, but there were a lot of people out enjoying their day off. I was told that the Alhambra would be filled with tourists today, so I decided to save that sight for later.

The Oasis hotel offers two walking tours from local guides. Both are outstanding. The first is a general tour of the city. The guide—a young Englishman; I can't for the life of me remember his name—gives an excellent tour. Most walking tours are pretty boring. The guide leads a group of tourists around like a flock of sheep, occasionally dropping a bit of trivia that isn't interesting to anybody. This guide gave us a great history of Granada that was both detailed and exciting. He recounted the city's history from the first Roman settlements to the Reconquest of Ferdinand and Isabella. He told us legends of Jewish and Muslim gold hidden under old houses in the city. When they were expelled, the Jews and Muslims weren't allowed to take their money with them, and many hid gold and silver in and under their homes with the intent to return someday and reclaim their wealth. Every old house is rumored to have a stash of gold in the basement.

The guide pointed out the caves near the Alhambra. Gypsies took up residence in those caves when they arrived in the 15^th century. Today they're populated by modern day hippies (the guide's term, not mine). When I think of living in a cave, I think of campfires and sleeping bags. But apparently most of the caves are quite comfy. They've been excavated a bit to give them clean rooms. Most have electricity. Some even have heating and air conditioning. Today the caves are barely regulated, and anybody can find an empty one and live there as a a squatter. The only catch is that the unoccupied caves are used as public bathrooms. If you move into one, you have to clean it out. Still, modern-day bohemians from all across Europe live on the (literal and figurative) fringes of Granada. They come into town on the weekends to sell handmade jewelry, play guitar, or juggle for tips. It's like a Phish concert that never ends.

Granada's a surprisingly vibrant city. I had the impression of a quiet town that had the Alhambra and little else. I was completely wrong. Along with the squatters, Granada has a large student population thanks to a nearby university and a wide-ranging student exchange program. The population is young and young-at-heart. The nightlife is busy with a good mix of Spanish and foreigners. If you speak a little Spanish, you can meet lots of locals and have a really great time.

The other tour is a street art tour. Granada has graffiti everywhere. Some of it's just shout-outs from local kids, “Maria, I love you!” “FC Barcelona!” A lot of it is political slogans, “Down with fascism! Viva socialismo!” “No nazis! An end to racism!” But Granada's also home to some amazing artists. Working with airbrushes and cans of spray paint, they make works so dynamic that they ought to be in the Reina Sofia. Many of the works remind me to the Mexican muralists of the early 20^th century. One particular painter, El Niño de la Pintura (Son of the Painter), makes a living painting houses in his unique style. A decade ago he was a criminal, often arrested for painting on public property. Today, he's a national treasure. The government gives him public walls for painting, and sometimes they erect a thick layer of glass over it to preserve the work. We saw a building with El Niño's work that was about to be demolished. The city had ordered that the wall with the painting be carefully removed before the building could be destroyed.

Our guide told us one amusing anecdote from several years ago: A local man had commissioned El Niño to paint a mural on his house. It costs tens of thousands of dollars but they say the work was beautiful. The house is in the middle of the city, and the section of the house that was painted is part of a continuous wall that runs along the sidewalk. The Granada government didn't know the painting was a commissioned work. They thought it was illegal graffiti, and they painted over the whole thing! The home owner went on vacation, and when he got back the whole wall was eggshell white. There was a pretty big lawsuit, and the government was a little more careful about covering up graffiti.

Anyway, the street art tour focuses on the works of El Niño de la Pintura. He painted a stairway in a local park. The stairway zig-zags up a steep hill, and every inch is covered in paint, images from a vibrant and dynamic Spanish town. A local school commissioned him to paint their outer wall. He painted a long parade of figures from Louis Armstrong to Mario and Luigi. The tour gave me a new perspective on Granada. It's a city that ought to be as famous for its modern life as for its ancient monuments.

February 28. Granada. Arrival.

The above-mentioned floods slowed my trip to Granada. I was scheduled to arrive by train at 9pm. I arrived at 10. I checked in at Hostel Oasis, a relaxed place near Plaza Nueva. The streets around Oasis were part of old Moorish Granada. They have the same twisting plan I've seen in modern Arab towns in the Levant. It's easy—but fun—to get lost in the narrow streets. The pedestrianized cobblestone walkways are about big enough for three people to walk abreast. The side streets are little narrower. The streets are lined with Arab restaurants and souvenir stands. It's a little bit of Morocco plopped in the middle of Spain.

February 28. Córdoba. A walk around town.

As in Madrid, I booked a train for the evening so I could spend the day in Córdoba. There's not much to see in the city—the Alcazár with its beautiful gardens, the Tower of Calahora with it commanding view of the city—but it's a beautiful place to wander. I spent most of the day walking up and down both sides of the Rio Guadalqivir (if you can pronounce that, tell your Spanish professor to give you an A).

 In the last few weeks, Anadlucía has seen the worst rains in the last 40 years. Many cities including Córdoba suffered severe flooding, and several people were killed. When I arrived, the rains had stopped but the water hadn't fully receded. The Guadalqivir flowed over its natural banks and up to the floodwalls built on either side of the river. It had covered biking paths paved next to the banks. Where it receded, it had left a thick layer of mud over the paths. Near one bridge there are two small islands on which two centuries-old houses stood. One small house was still safe above a steep brick foundation. In the other the first floor was completely underwater.

The city of Córdoba is much larger than it first appears. The Moorish part of the old city is rather small and easy to cover on foot. It's tightly enclosed and gives the impression that the city is tiny. Step outside of the old town and you appear in a large and modern Spanish city. Not that there's much for a tourist to see, but it looks like a really nice place to live—large enough to stay interesting, but not so huge as to be frustrating.

Did I mention that I'm homeless and unemployed right now? And that I have no idea where my next home will be? It's fun to be a wealthy vagabond, though I'm constantly thinking about my next destination.