I should really start blogging about my Moroccan experience,
don’t you think? So, here goes…
Technically speaking, my journey began on 7 March 2012. I
say this because I woke-up at about 8 AM that morning so that I could start
working on some last minute things (like, you know, packing and figuring out
how to get to Stansted Airport from where I’m living), and I didn’t go to sleep
again until the 9th. But more on that later...
Nerves prevented even a brief nap prior to heading out for the airport, so that
when I arrived at Stansted at about 3:30 AM on the 8th I was already
tired. Nonetheless, I successfully checked-in, passed through security (after
being told to throw away my hair gel for security reasons), and worked my way
onto the plane for a 6 AM take-off.
(Yes, I’m one of ‘those’ people who gets to
the airport at least two hours prior to a flight—this is, in part, due to a bad
experience coming back from Ohio once wherein I almost missed my flight and
lost a Whoopie Goldberg action figure while rushing down the concourse…but that’s
a story for another time.)
For the record, sleep did not come on the airplane
either. Again, nerves were a factor—but this time there was the added
‘bonus’ of screaming, kicking children in the seat next to me and Ryanair’s insistence on promoting their ‘buy on board’ program over the P.A. system.
Whatevs.
At any rate, about 4 hours later the plane was descending toward
Marrakech. I was able to snag a few photos of the African landscape before one
of the stewards snapped at me to turn the camera off. (I guess I missed the announcement
that all electronic devices had to be turned off). Sadly, this means that I was
unable to capture the most amazing image that I saw on the way in: the Atlas Mountains stretched out alongside Marrakech. Nonetheless, I love the photos that
I was able to get, one of which you can see below:
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| The Moroccan landscape near Marrakech. |
Upon arriving at Menara Airport I breezed through customs, and quickly made the switch from Euros to Moroccan
Dirham (DH). Yes, I know you shouldn't convert money at the airport, but it's almost impossible to find someplace that will 'legally' convert to Dirhams in London—
As a quick side-note about the money: I sucked at using it effectively,
namely because I was always having to convert prices in my mind into Euros and
from there into US Dollars. This shouldn’t have been as complicated for me as
it was—especially since 1€ = 10DH—but I was working on very little sleep the
entire time! And this was on top of having to haggle over most prices, which
I’m equally inept at. So don’t judge me when I start discussing some of my…less
advisable financial decisions in a bit.
—At any rate, despite the fact that breezed through the
arrival and visa process really quickly, it actually took me about 30 more
minutes to work up the nerve to actually leave
the airport.
Yup, you read that right.
In fact, I was so intimidated at that
point by what might happen (I
foolishly watched the AbFab ‘Morocco’ episode an hour before leaving for the
airport) that I legitimately contemplated never leaving the airport.
What did I do during those 30 minutes you ask? Well, first I
walked around the shops. And then I made my way out toward the taxi stand…but
chickened out and circled back. Next I found a place to get some food and a map
(which I never used). Then, finally, I made a second attempt at getting a cab. This second attempt at grabbing a cab was a bit more successful.
However, all of the
cabs were being coordinated by a single man who, after finding out where I was
going, set the price at 200DH (20€; $40). This might not have been a bad
price…if I was going more than 6km. Nonetheless, I was tired and lost, and so I
agreed. (For the record, I tried to talk the driver down while en route, but to
no avail—he wouldn’t go against the other man.)
The ride toward the hostel wasn’t bad. My driver was moderately
fluent in English, and was able to point out sites as we drove around, and the
contrasting imagery of brown buildings, palm trees, and distant snowcapped
mountains was incredible.
Two things worth noting about the ride, however:
(1) The road was clearly divided between incoming and
outgoing traffic…but there weren’t any (visible) sub-divisions, meaning that each side
had about three lanes’ worth of traffic (cars, buses, motorbikes, pedestrians,
and donkeys with carts) weaving in and out amongst each other. That was a bit disconcerting at
first—but I can honestly say that I didn’t see any accidents, and it all
somehow worked.
(2) As we pulled up at one of the only stoplights between
the airport and my hostel, and the driver was pointing out the wall surrounding
the medina quarter (the older, fortified section of Marrakech, in which I was
staying), there was a tremendous explosion!
Yes, explosion!
It was so jarring,
that the driver and I both dropped in our seats and covered our heads (and
probably loosed an explicative or two)…only to realize a moment later that we
were stopped next to a construction site using dynamite. Sigh. Some kind of
warning would have been nice, but at least it added an interesting side-story
to the start my adventure.
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| [NB: This is not my photo!] |
Following that bit of excitement, it was only a few more
minutes until the cab pulled to a stop. Now, we weren’t quite at the hostel
yet, but cars are not allowed into the medina because the streets are so narrow
and densely packed.
But, I was prepared for this, and had directions from the
hostel telling me how to get there from the drop-off point...
Unfortunately, the
cab driver had other ideas, and whistled to a friend of his that was
‘conveniently’ standing not far away.
My driver told the man where I was going, and instructed him
to take me there. I was also prepared for this eventuality, though, having read on another
traveler’s blog about a similar experience that wound up costing them over
200DH. So, after paying for my cab and grabbing my bag (before the second man
could throw it into his cart), I told UnwantedGuide-Man that I was not in need of his
services and that I knew where I was going.
But UnwantedGuide-Man nonetheless took the lead (headed in
the direction which I knew I, too, had to go), and kept telling me that his services
were free and that he would just show me where to go. No charge.
(Sounding
familiar? Perhaps you’re finding this reminiscent of my experience at the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur? Me too.)
In hindsight, it’s probably good that UnwantedGuide-Man was
there, because even with directions I would have probably gotten lost. At the
time, however, I was merely annoyed by his presence because I knew where this
was leading (in both the actual and metaphorical senses). I kept telling
UnwantedGuide-Man that I really didn’t
need his services, and that I didn’t have the money to pay him.
‘No, no, no—it’s free! Come, come…’
M'mm-hmmm.
Sure enough, 5 minutes later we were standing before the
door of my hostel and he was demanding 200DH.
Regretfully, the entrance to my
hostel was tucked into a very tight, very dark alleyway, and in that moment I
was pretty intimidated since there was no one else around, and UnwantedGuide-Man was very physically imposing—also, it was taking forever for someone to
answer the hostel’s door. I reminded UnwantedGuide-Man that I didn’t have
the money to pay, but he kept pushing. Eventually, I (very reluctantly) parted
with 100DH as a means of finally getting rid of him…and of course, the door just so
happened to open at that exact moment, too. Funny that.
So, there you have the beginning of Moroccan experience—it gets
a lot more fun and a lot less extortiony soon, I promise!
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