Collected Emails From Morocco Trip
I decided to collect all of the emails I sent while I was in Morcco in November 2004, and post them here. Here they are in all their ungrammatical splendor.
Hello All,
Well I made it, I am in Marrakesh now having come from Casablanca yesterday,
and Tangier before that. Everything is going well. I will write more soon. I am
typing on some weird hybrid french/arabic/english keyboard, so it is taking me a
long time to type this. (I only just found the comma). Hopefully I can search
out an English keyboard tomorrow. Take care all,
Joel
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Well, I am in a city called Meknes now, nothing too exciting, though tomorrow I think I an going to Fez. I just bought some camel meat from a butcher and had it cooked at a small sandwich place. It was actually pretty good. I tried snails the other day, which are not as tasty as I had been led to believe. The only thing left is sheep brain...I'll let you know. Otherwise the local food is excellent, and now that Ramadan is drawing to a close I will be able to sample a bit more of it.
All in all, it has been a fantastic trip, hardly anyone speaks English and I have been able to use my Arabic for just about everything (of course most people don't really speak what I speak, but it is close enough). Take care, more soon,
Joel
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Hello All,
Well, I am still in Fez. Probably I will go to a place in the mountains called Chefchaoen tomorrow, because it just isn't cold enough here. To give you some idea as to why typing on this keyboard is so difficult and why I am on the verge of throwing it across the room: the A and Q keys are reversed, as are the Z and W. The M key is where the colon should be and there is a question mark-comma-tammarbuta key where the M should be. Every key has between two and four uses, including an Arabic letter, though I have, as yet, been unable to determine how to use the Arabic. Additionally there is a double arrow key which changes the direction of typing from left to right to right to left, but does not change it back (this is, as you may have guessed, my favorite key). The keys also include: é,ç,²,µ,ù,§, and £ to name but a few. Leave it to the French, not only are they snobbish about their language, they need an entirely different keyboard. Presumably Americans can't even type French correctly. And the English drive on the wrong side of the road (Note: I like both the English and the French, and every other nationality, this is merely my feeble attempt at humor).
I was going to keep a journal, but it took me two weeks to find suitable material (something with blank pages), and when I did, I found I had purchased shoddy pens. Perhaps it is Allah's sick attempt at humor for my not believing in him. I got him back though, I gained access into one of his mosques while he wasn't looking. Chalk one up for the Infidel (I ate bananas during Ramadan, too). So I guess that makes us about even. I mean, sure, he created the universe and everything, but can he find his way through 9400 winding streets and alleyways to the Fez tanneries without a guide, and back (eventually). I say, "Bring it on!" (of course I do still, on occasion, get lost going to the restroom).
Take care,
Joel
P.S. If you received another, very similar message, it is due to my having to retype the entire, wonderful thing again, due to a lovely computer error. On the plus side, this version is, I think, the better of the two.
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Well, I did it. I changed locations. I know you didn't think it was possible. I am now in Chefchaoen, a nice, quiet little town. All the buildings here are white and the doors are painted blue. It is a shame that I do not have more time here. It is getting close now, just when I am getting into the swing of it. I think it takes about three weeks to acclimatize oneself to traveling, then the rest is gravy.
So, I took a bus here, and if you have never taken a bus in the third world, you can but dream of the experience. It started out well enough, at about one thirty in the afternoon. Of course before boarding the bus I had thought to maybe take a grand taxi. The only grand taxi I could find wanted 800 dirhams (about 100 USD). Needless to say this was on the extravagant side, the trip should have cost 40 DH tops (a bit over4 dollars).
So, I boarded the bus. Things were going well, until the seats filled up, then the aisle, and I think they would have started cramming people into the luggage racks above the seats, but alas the hour of one thirty struck and we were off. The first bus ride was not so bad. four hours or so. It was during the second that things took a turn for the worst. After waiting about an hour for the second bus in a lovely little hole called Ouazran, we boarded. This bus was also filled to the gills and I, of course, had given my seat to a rather elderly lady. Chivalry would not permit me to do otherwise. It is fortunate for most of the rest of the world that I do not control the buses, for if I did, none would be permitted to travel an inch until every women and child had been secured a seat. I will never understand a country that does not put women and children first, though the general rule throughout most of the world seems to be everyone for him/herself. Fat, spoiled baby boys and deprived baby girls. Of course I am a bit biased, girls are much lovelier, softer, and rounder (in all the right places). But I (always) digress. So there we were (some of us standing), on board the bus. It is only after we had been packed like sardines and the bus had started moving that the little ticket taker guy decided to start checking tickets. At this point, such a strategy actually seemed to make a sort of sense. As he pushed and squeezed past us, first from the front to the back and then in reverse order, I asked him if this brilliant tactic was of his design (in my best MSA Arabic). I think my inquiry was somewhat less than welcome. Of course by the look on his face you might have thought I had asked him his favorite color. The interesting thing about saying things in another language is the very liberating feeling of being able to to spout utterly surreal, potentially iconolastic phrases, and then to completely distance oneself from actually having said such a thing.
Fortunately the driver had a liking for (extremely loud) chantings from the Koran, and as luck would have it he just happened to have a copy of his favorite chanter. This was actually quite atmospheric at first, very Indiana Jones (with a third rate sound track): We have the intrepid adventurer, adrift in the vast sea of foreigners. It had something of the feel of the end of one of those movies in which the last scene finds the hero on just such a bus, and there is much the same melancholy, thematic music in the background. The scene slowly fades to black and we see the little blurb telling us that the bus crashed and the hero died during this trip, and how much good he had done for the world, etc. And finally the little dedication: In Memory of Joel Hardin 1973-2004. I was rather engrossed in the moment, actually, picturing my own end, the fragility of life, how it can end so suddenly, so easily. This feeling lasted, on the generous side, maybe 10 minutes. An hour or so into the trip, I was thinking that maybe it just isn't that easy. Would death end this? Or would the music continue, after death. Perhaps my own little private hell would involve listening to the very last thing on earth that I had heard for the rest of eternity. Truly, it had become an entity in its own right. Corporeal, you could taste it. And just as suddenly as it had come, the "music" ended, replaced by a sound that could only have come from heaven itself, the static-filled noise indicative of the ending of a cassette tape. Undaunted, our driver did the only logical thing, he flipped the tape. I wept tears of pure ecstacy, oh blessed auto-reverse! Oh wondrous, exhalted technology! My observations (mostly in English) were totally lost on my audience. Casting out pearls and not getting so much as a pork chop in return (I lifted this phrase from Ayn Rand in the Fountainhead by the way, but it is one of my favorites).
At some point, (somewhere between singing Elvis Costello songs to myeslf- "Mohammed's Radio" for those buffs out there- and total insanity) the driver actually changed the music to the pleasant chanting of a choir of women. Fortunatly I understood maybe every 10th word of this new music, where as before I could understand most of it, but I would usually miss the most important words. "For Allah said those who ___ will ___ forever, and their ___ satan. And we must fight __ great differences between them ___ the prophet of Allah." Over, and over, and over. We did finally arrive, by the way. A mere 6 and a half hours later we had covered the entire 60 miles or so. It staggers the imagination, really. Of course when you think of it in terms of dollars verses miles, it is not such a great deal. I paid about 45 dirham for the entire trip, this comes out to around 10 cents a mile. But when you look at in terms of time, it is more like a dollar an hour, a bargain really. You can't pay for entertainment like that. Take care,
Joel
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Hello again,
Well, what started out as a trip to a ruined mosque turned into a mountain climbing expedition. I climbed up this small hill to see the mosque, and thought to myself, "I can go a little further up the mountain." So the next thing you know, I am almost at the top. I didn't quite go all the way as it was becoming a bit steep and the footing was not the best. The view of the city was amazing. Took some great photos, if they turn out. These (the Rif Mountains) aren't the highest peaks in Morocco, but they are tall enough to be called mountains.
It is a good thing I did not make Chefchouan my first destination, else I may never have left. It is great here, the town is beautiful and very clean, compared to some. The white wash with the blue make the Medina (the old part of the city enclosed within walls) quite striking. The air is crisp and clean, which is a welcome relief from the horrid air pollution of the other cities I have visited. I think most Americans have no idea how clean the air is in America (The air of Moroccan cities is by no means as polluted as say that of Kathmandu or Xi'an, however).
Joel
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I know I spelled third incorrectly on the header of my last message, but that is hardly any reason not to write, now is it?... Anyway everything is still going well. I spent most of today just walking around, browsing the many shops and markets. I am torn, half of me wants to come home, the other half wants to stay. Tomorrow I hop on yet another bus, this one to Tangier. Tuesday I should be on the ferry to Spain and then on to Madrid and finally home Wednesday. We will see how that goes. Had a few drinks last night with a lovely Austrailian woman, and with a little luck, maybe I can find her again tonight (there is only one place in town to get a drink).
Speaking of ladies, there are some absolutly gorgeous creatures here. Of course, as it is a Moslem country, I have not been able to talk to many (one Berber lady on a bus who decided that we should elope to America). It is not quite as conservative as I had thought, but much more so than the west. What a racket. These guys have these amazing ladies walking around all covered up, and don't want to share. Can't say that I blame them, though. As for the dress, the usual Muslim cotume for females is about as becoming as a potatoe sack, but the jellaba (kaftan) is in the running for the most attractive native dress, particularly when accompanied by calf high black high-heeled boots, large round dangling earrings, and ample eye-makeup (kohl). I am by no means a fan of excessive makeup, though I do find that a certain degree of eye make-up does wonders by way of accentuation. As lovely as it is, the jellba can by no means compete with the Sari of India and Nepal (in my somewhat humble opinion) as the most attractive garment.
On the feminist side, there are inroads being made. I have noticed a not inconsiderable number of women dressed in western clothing, sitting in the cafes alongside the men. It is only a matter of time before equality between the sexes finds its way here, hopefully. I shall forever remain in equal parts a staunch supporter of equality of the genders, as well as a great admirer of the inherent beauty of women, and ever the twain shall meet. If you are of a persuaision to find an incongruity in these two traits, I offer my condolences in your rather limited scope, and I wish upon you Allah's blessings and a supreme desire that She may pull your head out of your ass.
Anyway, I am off to bigger, and hopefully better things, many of which, with a little luck, I won't be able to talk about. Maybe a little trip down under, if you will. Wish me luck, adios,
Joel
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All,
Well, I'd like to say that my walkabout with the sheila went as planned, but let's just say I didn't throw another shrimp on the barby and leave it at that. I did however meet an incredibly intoxicated Morrocan guy who was so drunk HE actually forgot how to speak arabic. In the morning I boarded another bus, and a strange one at that. Everyone had a seat, and they weren't blasting Mohmmed's top 10 from the rafters. It was a quiet uneventful trip into Tangier.
I have decided that Tangier is not my favorite place. Everyone, and I do mean everyone is on the make. Everybody wants a little bit of your money, I actually got taken today by this old guy, although he did show me a place to change traveler's cheques, which was worth it. Basically, anyone who approaches you, for any reason, is a) an unofficial guide, b) wants to sell you hash, c) wants to know if you reaquire any of the myriad other "special" things this bastion of seediness has to offer, or d) any combination of the above. At any rate, you know the son of so-and-so wants money from you in some fashion or other. The usual game seems to be taking you to one of the billion or so carpet/clothing/trinket shops in order to get a commision from your purchases, a game I refuse to play. And after three weeks in country, I still get taken, I lust be slipping.
Today, a few minutes ago, I almost got in a fight with this 19-20 year old kid. I was looking for a way to skirt the horde of faux guides in order to send this e-mail in peace. So this little piece of camel dung starts following me. I start walking faster. He is calling out to me: "Excuse me, sir, my friend, sir...blah, blah, blah". I start walking even faster, and so he starts running. I refuse to lower myself by running and he catches me. I am usually a calm, collected kinda guy, though on occasion I do lose my temper. This was the worst occasion of this trip. I told him to go away in Arabic, which immediatly got his dander up, as he is "only a student", who "wants to practice english and help people." Let's just say I called him on these points, and a few others as well. I think I told him that a smart man would have known that my walking fast was a sign that I did not want to be bothered. It degenerated into a yelling match in Arabic, but no further. I have seen it countless times, I even read about it before I came. Arabs will have these crazy outbursts, but they will almost never come to blows, and of course I'm not going to take the first punch. I really wish he had though.
Anyway, I was beyond angry, but managed to calm down a bit and try and talk to him, until the guy tells me that I am doing this because I am American and he is Muslim (a common tactic, though this is the first time I have actually heard it used), then I really went off on him, told him that he knows that isn't true and called him a liar (or a rabbit, I am not sure). His friends did not seem to wish to take sides. It never came to blows, but I finally walked off, and the little shit has the nerve sends these children after me chanting something about Bush. I am actually still a little mad, although walking here I realized that it was kinda cool, having a shouting match in an entirely different language, and rather fluently if I do say so myself. It actually felt pretty good. That is the closest to fighting I have ever come in all my travels (there were a few in Nepal ((of course one of those would have looked more like 20 Nepalis kicking the shit out of one American and a Brit)), and of course the time I pushed that guy in India when he grabbed me and started pulling me toward a bus). I simply refuse to play this stupid game, "You're the Foreigner, This Isn't Your Country, So You Have To Deal With Whatever Stupid Shit We Decide to Pull". Pardon my french, but fuck 'em. Anyway, I am sure I will meet him as I walk the gauntlet back to my hotel, which is good as I was only getting warmed up, maybe the rest will join in, we'll have a little educating the guides seminar. It is amazing what a bad taste a few people can impart. Wow, that was a long rant.
On a lighter note, I am taking the ferry to Spain tomorrow, then jumping immediatly on a bus, and should arrive well before plane leaves. The only thing I have not done that was on my list is to visit a hammam (publc bath), maybe next time. Oh, yeah, I didn't get to try sheep brain, but I am not terribly disappointed. There is a lot more I want to say, some stuff about the results of my soul searching and a huge rant on (all) religion, evolution, and the meaning of life, but I will spare you for now. I am not going to let Tangier sully an otherwise great trip. Take care, I probably won't write again until I get back, Happy Thanksgiving and all that,
Joel
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Just wanted everyone to know that in my last message, when I typed "I lust be slipping", there was nothing Freudian (or even fraudian) about that, just a little slip of the lisp.
Joel
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All,
Well, I survived. For those of you who harbored no doubts that this would indeed be the case, I feel I must append my previous tirade regarding third world buses. I need to insert a description of what, in India, I refer to as "Karma Driving" (Although, in Arabic speaking countries this would of course change to "In Sha' Allah Driving" or "God Willing Driving"). whereby the driver of the bus hopes that his karma is better than that of the driver of the other vehicle which is rapidly approaching from the other direction. At the last possible instant both drivers swerve, hopefully avoiding a head-on collision, and pass one another with mere inches to spare.
At any rate I am arrived safely and more or less unscathed. The small backpack which was my constant companion throughout my journey is battered, stained, torn, and smells faintly of incense, perfume, garbage, horseshit, and inexplicably toothpaste. Of the two of us, I fear it got the better of it. Though I have managed to wash most of the Euro-stench from my clothing.
I must say that after spending time with various pimps, con men, drug dealers, beggars, and other equally colorful characters life here seems, at best, mundane by comparison. Even the names of our restaurants fail to impress when matched with similar establishments in Morocco. Take for example the aptly named "Carrion", or how about the ever popular "Donner King" where they serve you while they serve YOU. Count your kids before leaving this place. And after a fine meal you can retire at the Hotel Asmaa (Asthma I am guessing), appropriatly located in the mountains. It is equally humorous in Arabic, as asima means crisis.
I cannot express the great joy I experienced at being able to converse in a foreign language. This was definitly the high point of my trip: ordering food, finding accomodation, having everyday conversations. I actually learned of Powell's resignation from a taxi driver, in arabic! How mumtaz is that? I even got a haircut in Arabic (which actually looks quite a bit like a haircut in English). The barber was of Berber desent and, once he knew that I was able to speak Arabic, proceeded to talk incessently about life in Morocco, religion, and countless other subjects, of which I understood maybe 60% of the 40% I actually listened to. I even made up a tongue twister in his honor: Berber Barber Bored a Bunch of Battered Backpackers.
The trip back was exhausting. I began tuesday at about 8 a.m. I had intended to purchase a four volume set of "A Thousand and One Nights" which I had fallen in love with the previous night, but unfortunatly the shop didn't open until 10 a.m. Earlier, however, I had managed to snag a copy of the travels of the famous Tangier born Arab traveler, Ibn Batouta, as well as a wonderful Arabic translation of Indian fables.
Anyway, I headed down to the wharf and purchased a ticket on what the man behind the counter ominously refered to as the "Slow Boat". Two and a half hours later I am in Algeciras on the southern coast of Spain. The name Algeciras is actually a bastardization of the Arabic word for island, though it can also mean penninsula. It is located next to the rock of Gibralter (Jebal Tarek in Arabic, named for the Moorish conquerer of Spain. It actually means Tarek's mountain).
I then ate and purchased a ticket (notice: I bought the ticket, I did not eat it. I ate lunch) on the 4 o'clock bus to Madrid. This bus took about 11 hours, arriving at 3 a.m. As I had about 8 hours to kill before my plane, and since I found the company at the bus station somewhat less than desirable, I decided to take the metro to the Airport. I will pause in my story long enough to explain that in all of Spain maybe two people speak English. I never realized what a profound ignorance of Spanish I am possessed of until I actually traveled to the country. I can say hello, thank you, good-bye, I want a beer, and I can also count to ten. I mean what else do you really need to understand, right? A lot, let me assure you, there is a lot. When I learned to order "cafe au lait" and they actually brought me a coffee with milk, I felt as though I had reinvented the wheel, and "cafe au lait" isn't even Spanish. So, I was changing trains in order to get to the airport, when suddenly the Metro decided to shut down, and the attendants expelled me without so much as a "porfavor"(sp-?). There I am in the middle of Madrid at 3 a.m. in the freezing cold. Fortunatly I noticed a group of Spanish guys huddled near the Metro entrance. With their help, an accent, and a few "a's" tacked onto the end of my words (airpuerta), I was finally in a taxi headed to the airport, and it only cost me the monetary equivalent of two days in Morocco.
I got to the airport, sprawled out on a bench, and slept. Actually, any sleep aquired in an airport, bus station, or train station hardly qualifies as sleep. I awoke at seven, took a cat bath in the restroom, and proceeded to get properly sloshed at the airport cafeteria. I boarded the plane at 11 a.m. after being "randomly" chosen (along with every other American backpacker) for a baggage check. I had to unload my carefully packed backpack and then cram everything back into it (and all of this drunk to top it off). I of course subtly hinted to the attendant at my mild displeasure.
The plane took about 10 hours, arriving at 10 till three. The bus to Augusta was to depart at four. I waited 30 minutes for my luggage and thought to myself, "Wow, I'm actually going to make it." As I was heading toward the exit and a taxi, a woman stops me ans tells me that my baggage must go thru airport security, and that I can pick it up in the south terminal, at the other end of the airport. No subtle hints here, just a string of unrepeatables and a few backpack tossing incidents. Needless to say, I missed my bus and had to wait 3 hours at the wonderfully atmospheric Atlanta bus station for the next one. For those of you unfamiliar with American bus stations, all I can say is that I am glad there were several large, armed police men in the vicinity. I boarded the bus at 7:30 p.m. and arrived in Augusta at 12 a.m. I then managed to find the slowest cab driver in all of Augusta (and that's saying something). Fortunately, I discovered upon arriving at the barracks that we had the night off. What a trip. Take care,
Joel
Hello All,
Well I made it, I am in Marrakesh now having come from Casablanca yesterday,
and Tangier before that. Everything is going well. I will write more soon. I am
typing on some weird hybrid french/arabic/english keyboard, so it is taking me a
long time to type this. (I only just found the comma). Hopefully I can search
out an English keyboard tomorrow. Take care all,
Joel
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Well, I am in a city called Meknes now, nothing too exciting, though tomorrow I think I an going to Fez. I just bought some camel meat from a butcher and had it cooked at a small sandwich place. It was actually pretty good. I tried snails the other day, which are not as tasty as I had been led to believe. The only thing left is sheep brain...I'll let you know. Otherwise the local food is excellent, and now that Ramadan is drawing to a close I will be able to sample a bit more of it.
All in all, it has been a fantastic trip, hardly anyone speaks English and I have been able to use my Arabic for just about everything (of course most people don't really speak what I speak, but it is close enough). Take care, more soon,
Joel
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Hello All,
Well, I am still in Fez. Probably I will go to a place in the mountains called Chefchaoen tomorrow, because it just isn't cold enough here. To give you some idea as to why typing on this keyboard is so difficult and why I am on the verge of throwing it across the room: the A and Q keys are reversed, as are the Z and W. The M key is where the colon should be and there is a question mark-comma-tammarbuta key where the M should be. Every key has between two and four uses, including an Arabic letter, though I have, as yet, been unable to determine how to use the Arabic. Additionally there is a double arrow key which changes the direction of typing from left to right to right to left, but does not change it back (this is, as you may have guessed, my favorite key). The keys also include: é,ç,²,µ,ù,§, and £ to name but a few. Leave it to the French, not only are they snobbish about their language, they need an entirely different keyboard. Presumably Americans can't even type French correctly. And the English drive on the wrong side of the road (Note: I like both the English and the French, and every other nationality, this is merely my feeble attempt at humor).
I was going to keep a journal, but it took me two weeks to find suitable material (something with blank pages), and when I did, I found I had purchased shoddy pens. Perhaps it is Allah's sick attempt at humor for my not believing in him. I got him back though, I gained access into one of his mosques while he wasn't looking. Chalk one up for the Infidel (I ate bananas during Ramadan, too). So I guess that makes us about even. I mean, sure, he created the universe and everything, but can he find his way through 9400 winding streets and alleyways to the Fez tanneries without a guide, and back (eventually). I say, "Bring it on!" (of course I do still, on occasion, get lost going to the restroom).
Take care,
Joel
P.S. If you received another, very similar message, it is due to my having to retype the entire, wonderful thing again, due to a lovely computer error. On the plus side, this version is, I think, the better of the two.
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Well, I did it. I changed locations. I know you didn't think it was possible. I am now in Chefchaoen, a nice, quiet little town. All the buildings here are white and the doors are painted blue. It is a shame that I do not have more time here. It is getting close now, just when I am getting into the swing of it. I think it takes about three weeks to acclimatize oneself to traveling, then the rest is gravy.
So, I took a bus here, and if you have never taken a bus in the third world, you can but dream of the experience. It started out well enough, at about one thirty in the afternoon. Of course before boarding the bus I had thought to maybe take a grand taxi. The only grand taxi I could find wanted 800 dirhams (about 100 USD). Needless to say this was on the extravagant side, the trip should have cost 40 DH tops (a bit over4 dollars).
So, I boarded the bus. Things were going well, until the seats filled up, then the aisle, and I think they would have started cramming people into the luggage racks above the seats, but alas the hour of one thirty struck and we were off. The first bus ride was not so bad. four hours or so. It was during the second that things took a turn for the worst. After waiting about an hour for the second bus in a lovely little hole called Ouazran, we boarded. This bus was also filled to the gills and I, of course, had given my seat to a rather elderly lady. Chivalry would not permit me to do otherwise. It is fortunate for most of the rest of the world that I do not control the buses, for if I did, none would be permitted to travel an inch until every women and child had been secured a seat. I will never understand a country that does not put women and children first, though the general rule throughout most of the world seems to be everyone for him/herself. Fat, spoiled baby boys and deprived baby girls. Of course I am a bit biased, girls are much lovelier, softer, and rounder (in all the right places). But I (always) digress. So there we were (some of us standing), on board the bus. It is only after we had been packed like sardines and the bus had started moving that the little ticket taker guy decided to start checking tickets. At this point, such a strategy actually seemed to make a sort of sense. As he pushed and squeezed past us, first from the front to the back and then in reverse order, I asked him if this brilliant tactic was of his design (in my best MSA Arabic). I think my inquiry was somewhat less than welcome. Of course by the look on his face you might have thought I had asked him his favorite color. The interesting thing about saying things in another language is the very liberating feeling of being able to to spout utterly surreal, potentially iconolastic phrases, and then to completely distance oneself from actually having said such a thing.
Fortunately the driver had a liking for (extremely loud) chantings from the Koran, and as luck would have it he just happened to have a copy of his favorite chanter. This was actually quite atmospheric at first, very Indiana Jones (with a third rate sound track): We have the intrepid adventurer, adrift in the vast sea of foreigners. It had something of the feel of the end of one of those movies in which the last scene finds the hero on just such a bus, and there is much the same melancholy, thematic music in the background. The scene slowly fades to black and we see the little blurb telling us that the bus crashed and the hero died during this trip, and how much good he had done for the world, etc. And finally the little dedication: In Memory of Joel Hardin 1973-2004. I was rather engrossed in the moment, actually, picturing my own end, the fragility of life, how it can end so suddenly, so easily. This feeling lasted, on the generous side, maybe 10 minutes. An hour or so into the trip, I was thinking that maybe it just isn't that easy. Would death end this? Or would the music continue, after death. Perhaps my own little private hell would involve listening to the very last thing on earth that I had heard for the rest of eternity. Truly, it had become an entity in its own right. Corporeal, you could taste it. And just as suddenly as it had come, the "music" ended, replaced by a sound that could only have come from heaven itself, the static-filled noise indicative of the ending of a cassette tape. Undaunted, our driver did the only logical thing, he flipped the tape. I wept tears of pure ecstacy, oh blessed auto-reverse! Oh wondrous, exhalted technology! My observations (mostly in English) were totally lost on my audience. Casting out pearls and not getting so much as a pork chop in return (I lifted this phrase from Ayn Rand in the Fountainhead by the way, but it is one of my favorites).
At some point, (somewhere between singing Elvis Costello songs to myeslf- "Mohammed's Radio" for those buffs out there- and total insanity) the driver actually changed the music to the pleasant chanting of a choir of women. Fortunatly I understood maybe every 10th word of this new music, where as before I could understand most of it, but I would usually miss the most important words. "For Allah said those who ___ will ___ forever, and their ___ satan. And we must fight __ great differences between them ___ the prophet of Allah." Over, and over, and over. We did finally arrive, by the way. A mere 6 and a half hours later we had covered the entire 60 miles or so. It staggers the imagination, really. Of course when you think of it in terms of dollars verses miles, it is not such a great deal. I paid about 45 dirham for the entire trip, this comes out to around 10 cents a mile. But when you look at in terms of time, it is more like a dollar an hour, a bargain really. You can't pay for entertainment like that. Take care,
Joel
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Hello again,
Well, what started out as a trip to a ruined mosque turned into a mountain climbing expedition. I climbed up this small hill to see the mosque, and thought to myself, "I can go a little further up the mountain." So the next thing you know, I am almost at the top. I didn't quite go all the way as it was becoming a bit steep and the footing was not the best. The view of the city was amazing. Took some great photos, if they turn out. These (the Rif Mountains) aren't the highest peaks in Morocco, but they are tall enough to be called mountains.
It is a good thing I did not make Chefchouan my first destination, else I may never have left. It is great here, the town is beautiful and very clean, compared to some. The white wash with the blue make the Medina (the old part of the city enclosed within walls) quite striking. The air is crisp and clean, which is a welcome relief from the horrid air pollution of the other cities I have visited. I think most Americans have no idea how clean the air is in America (The air of Moroccan cities is by no means as polluted as say that of Kathmandu or Xi'an, however).
Joel
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I know I spelled third incorrectly on the header of my last message, but that is hardly any reason not to write, now is it?... Anyway everything is still going well. I spent most of today just walking around, browsing the many shops and markets. I am torn, half of me wants to come home, the other half wants to stay. Tomorrow I hop on yet another bus, this one to Tangier. Tuesday I should be on the ferry to Spain and then on to Madrid and finally home Wednesday. We will see how that goes. Had a few drinks last night with a lovely Austrailian woman, and with a little luck, maybe I can find her again tonight (there is only one place in town to get a drink).
Speaking of ladies, there are some absolutly gorgeous creatures here. Of course, as it is a Moslem country, I have not been able to talk to many (one Berber lady on a bus who decided that we should elope to America). It is not quite as conservative as I had thought, but much more so than the west. What a racket. These guys have these amazing ladies walking around all covered up, and don't want to share. Can't say that I blame them, though. As for the dress, the usual Muslim cotume for females is about as becoming as a potatoe sack, but the jellaba (kaftan) is in the running for the most attractive native dress, particularly when accompanied by calf high black high-heeled boots, large round dangling earrings, and ample eye-makeup (kohl). I am by no means a fan of excessive makeup, though I do find that a certain degree of eye make-up does wonders by way of accentuation. As lovely as it is, the jellba can by no means compete with the Sari of India and Nepal (in my somewhat humble opinion) as the most attractive garment.
On the feminist side, there are inroads being made. I have noticed a not inconsiderable number of women dressed in western clothing, sitting in the cafes alongside the men. It is only a matter of time before equality between the sexes finds its way here, hopefully. I shall forever remain in equal parts a staunch supporter of equality of the genders, as well as a great admirer of the inherent beauty of women, and ever the twain shall meet. If you are of a persuaision to find an incongruity in these two traits, I offer my condolences in your rather limited scope, and I wish upon you Allah's blessings and a supreme desire that She may pull your head out of your ass.
Anyway, I am off to bigger, and hopefully better things, many of which, with a little luck, I won't be able to talk about. Maybe a little trip down under, if you will. Wish me luck, adios,
Joel
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All,
Well, I'd like to say that my walkabout with the sheila went as planned, but let's just say I didn't throw another shrimp on the barby and leave it at that. I did however meet an incredibly intoxicated Morrocan guy who was so drunk HE actually forgot how to speak arabic. In the morning I boarded another bus, and a strange one at that. Everyone had a seat, and they weren't blasting Mohmmed's top 10 from the rafters. It was a quiet uneventful trip into Tangier.
I have decided that Tangier is not my favorite place. Everyone, and I do mean everyone is on the make. Everybody wants a little bit of your money, I actually got taken today by this old guy, although he did show me a place to change traveler's cheques, which was worth it. Basically, anyone who approaches you, for any reason, is a) an unofficial guide, b) wants to sell you hash, c) wants to know if you reaquire any of the myriad other "special" things this bastion of seediness has to offer, or d) any combination of the above. At any rate, you know the son of so-and-so wants money from you in some fashion or other. The usual game seems to be taking you to one of the billion or so carpet/clothing/trinket shops in order to get a commision from your purchases, a game I refuse to play. And after three weeks in country, I still get taken, I lust be slipping.
Today, a few minutes ago, I almost got in a fight with this 19-20 year old kid. I was looking for a way to skirt the horde of faux guides in order to send this e-mail in peace. So this little piece of camel dung starts following me. I start walking faster. He is calling out to me: "Excuse me, sir, my friend, sir...blah, blah, blah". I start walking even faster, and so he starts running. I refuse to lower myself by running and he catches me. I am usually a calm, collected kinda guy, though on occasion I do lose my temper. This was the worst occasion of this trip. I told him to go away in Arabic, which immediatly got his dander up, as he is "only a student", who "wants to practice english and help people." Let's just say I called him on these points, and a few others as well. I think I told him that a smart man would have known that my walking fast was a sign that I did not want to be bothered. It degenerated into a yelling match in Arabic, but no further. I have seen it countless times, I even read about it before I came. Arabs will have these crazy outbursts, but they will almost never come to blows, and of course I'm not going to take the first punch. I really wish he had though.
Anyway, I was beyond angry, but managed to calm down a bit and try and talk to him, until the guy tells me that I am doing this because I am American and he is Muslim (a common tactic, though this is the first time I have actually heard it used), then I really went off on him, told him that he knows that isn't true and called him a liar (or a rabbit, I am not sure). His friends did not seem to wish to take sides. It never came to blows, but I finally walked off, and the little shit has the nerve sends these children after me chanting something about Bush. I am actually still a little mad, although walking here I realized that it was kinda cool, having a shouting match in an entirely different language, and rather fluently if I do say so myself. It actually felt pretty good. That is the closest to fighting I have ever come in all my travels (there were a few in Nepal ((of course one of those would have looked more like 20 Nepalis kicking the shit out of one American and a Brit)), and of course the time I pushed that guy in India when he grabbed me and started pulling me toward a bus). I simply refuse to play this stupid game, "You're the Foreigner, This Isn't Your Country, So You Have To Deal With Whatever Stupid Shit We Decide to Pull". Pardon my french, but fuck 'em. Anyway, I am sure I will meet him as I walk the gauntlet back to my hotel, which is good as I was only getting warmed up, maybe the rest will join in, we'll have a little educating the guides seminar. It is amazing what a bad taste a few people can impart. Wow, that was a long rant.
On a lighter note, I am taking the ferry to Spain tomorrow, then jumping immediatly on a bus, and should arrive well before plane leaves. The only thing I have not done that was on my list is to visit a hammam (publc bath), maybe next time. Oh, yeah, I didn't get to try sheep brain, but I am not terribly disappointed. There is a lot more I want to say, some stuff about the results of my soul searching and a huge rant on (all) religion, evolution, and the meaning of life, but I will spare you for now. I am not going to let Tangier sully an otherwise great trip. Take care, I probably won't write again until I get back, Happy Thanksgiving and all that,
Joel
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Just wanted everyone to know that in my last message, when I typed "I lust be slipping", there was nothing Freudian (or even fraudian) about that, just a little slip of the lisp.
Joel
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All,
Well, I survived. For those of you who harbored no doubts that this would indeed be the case, I feel I must append my previous tirade regarding third world buses. I need to insert a description of what, in India, I refer to as "Karma Driving" (Although, in Arabic speaking countries this would of course change to "In Sha' Allah Driving" or "God Willing Driving"). whereby the driver of the bus hopes that his karma is better than that of the driver of the other vehicle which is rapidly approaching from the other direction. At the last possible instant both drivers swerve, hopefully avoiding a head-on collision, and pass one another with mere inches to spare.
At any rate I am arrived safely and more or less unscathed. The small backpack which was my constant companion throughout my journey is battered, stained, torn, and smells faintly of incense, perfume, garbage, horseshit, and inexplicably toothpaste. Of the two of us, I fear it got the better of it. Though I have managed to wash most of the Euro-stench from my clothing.
I must say that after spending time with various pimps, con men, drug dealers, beggars, and other equally colorful characters life here seems, at best, mundane by comparison. Even the names of our restaurants fail to impress when matched with similar establishments in Morocco. Take for example the aptly named "Carrion", or how about the ever popular "Donner King" where they serve you while they serve YOU. Count your kids before leaving this place. And after a fine meal you can retire at the Hotel Asmaa (Asthma I am guessing), appropriatly located in the mountains. It is equally humorous in Arabic, as asima means crisis.
I cannot express the great joy I experienced at being able to converse in a foreign language. This was definitly the high point of my trip: ordering food, finding accomodation, having everyday conversations. I actually learned of Powell's resignation from a taxi driver, in arabic! How mumtaz is that? I even got a haircut in Arabic (which actually looks quite a bit like a haircut in English). The barber was of Berber desent and, once he knew that I was able to speak Arabic, proceeded to talk incessently about life in Morocco, religion, and countless other subjects, of which I understood maybe 60% of the 40% I actually listened to. I even made up a tongue twister in his honor: Berber Barber Bored a Bunch of Battered Backpackers.
The trip back was exhausting. I began tuesday at about 8 a.m. I had intended to purchase a four volume set of "A Thousand and One Nights" which I had fallen in love with the previous night, but unfortunatly the shop didn't open until 10 a.m. Earlier, however, I had managed to snag a copy of the travels of the famous Tangier born Arab traveler, Ibn Batouta, as well as a wonderful Arabic translation of Indian fables.
Anyway, I headed down to the wharf and purchased a ticket on what the man behind the counter ominously refered to as the "Slow Boat". Two and a half hours later I am in Algeciras on the southern coast of Spain. The name Algeciras is actually a bastardization of the Arabic word for island, though it can also mean penninsula. It is located next to the rock of Gibralter (Jebal Tarek in Arabic, named for the Moorish conquerer of Spain. It actually means Tarek's mountain).
I then ate and purchased a ticket (notice: I bought the ticket, I did not eat it. I ate lunch) on the 4 o'clock bus to Madrid. This bus took about 11 hours, arriving at 3 a.m. As I had about 8 hours to kill before my plane, and since I found the company at the bus station somewhat less than desirable, I decided to take the metro to the Airport. I will pause in my story long enough to explain that in all of Spain maybe two people speak English. I never realized what a profound ignorance of Spanish I am possessed of until I actually traveled to the country. I can say hello, thank you, good-bye, I want a beer, and I can also count to ten. I mean what else do you really need to understand, right? A lot, let me assure you, there is a lot. When I learned to order "cafe au lait" and they actually brought me a coffee with milk, I felt as though I had reinvented the wheel, and "cafe au lait" isn't even Spanish. So, I was changing trains in order to get to the airport, when suddenly the Metro decided to shut down, and the attendants expelled me without so much as a "porfavor"(sp-?). There I am in the middle of Madrid at 3 a.m. in the freezing cold. Fortunatly I noticed a group of Spanish guys huddled near the Metro entrance. With their help, an accent, and a few "a's" tacked onto the end of my words (airpuerta), I was finally in a taxi headed to the airport, and it only cost me the monetary equivalent of two days in Morocco.
I got to the airport, sprawled out on a bench, and slept. Actually, any sleep aquired in an airport, bus station, or train station hardly qualifies as sleep. I awoke at seven, took a cat bath in the restroom, and proceeded to get properly sloshed at the airport cafeteria. I boarded the plane at 11 a.m. after being "randomly" chosen (along with every other American backpacker) for a baggage check. I had to unload my carefully packed backpack and then cram everything back into it (and all of this drunk to top it off). I of course subtly hinted to the attendant at my mild displeasure.
The plane took about 10 hours, arriving at 10 till three. The bus to Augusta was to depart at four. I waited 30 minutes for my luggage and thought to myself, "Wow, I'm actually going to make it." As I was heading toward the exit and a taxi, a woman stops me ans tells me that my baggage must go thru airport security, and that I can pick it up in the south terminal, at the other end of the airport. No subtle hints here, just a string of unrepeatables and a few backpack tossing incidents. Needless to say, I missed my bus and had to wait 3 hours at the wonderfully atmospheric Atlanta bus station for the next one. For those of you unfamiliar with American bus stations, all I can say is that I am glad there were several large, armed police men in the vicinity. I boarded the bus at 7:30 p.m. and arrived in Augusta at 12 a.m. I then managed to find the slowest cab driver in all of Augusta (and that's saying something). Fortunately, I discovered upon arriving at the barracks that we had the night off. What a trip. Take care,
Joel
posted by Joel Hardin | 12:12 PM
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