Morocco: Goodbye, Sahara! I'll Be Back!

It was so warm beneath the mountain of furry blankets in my desert tent—I didn’t want to get up on 10 March. Nonetheless, I had a modicum of hope that I’d be able to catch the sunrise. Little did I know when I finally cast aside my blankets that the sun had been up for quite a while. Ah, well.

Around the same time, one of our hosts poked his head into our tent and informed us that breakfast was ready (another good excuse for getting up). So, after taking a few minutes to brush away the rum-, smoke-, and sleep-induced fuzz from our teeth, and then taking a few more moments to absorb the stunning starkness of our campsite and surroundings by daylight, we made our way once more to the dining tent.

Campsite

Two of the four beds in my tent. Mine is the one on the right, next to my bookbag. (The blankets are all piled on top of J. in another bed, in an effort to wake him up.)

 Breakfast was rather simple compared to the meal we had the night before, but delicious nonetheless. It consisted of bread, some kind of thick but creamy sweet-butter, apricot jam, and coffee.

Now, gurl, lemme tell you ’bout the jam and the coffee: Best. Damn. Coffee. And. Jam. Ever. 

Well, okay, in all honesty the coffee wasn’t the best ever—merely the best I’ve had since leaving the States. But the jam…my goodness, was it amazing! 

I’m not typically a fan of jellied things. (Stop right there—get your minds out of the damned gutter!) For as long as I can recall, I’ve eaten peanut butter and butter sandwiches because the texture of grape jelly grosses me out. Orange marmalade, in very small doses, is occasionally permissibly on hot, fresh morning biscuits, but that’s about it. 

During my desert excursion, however, I discovered that bread was merely a vessel for the consumption of apricot jam! First I went back for seconds…then thirds…and then, oh yes, I went back for forthsies. And don’t think that I didn’t take the last piece of bread during that final trip, because I damn well did.

At any rate, after breakfast it was time to get ready to head out, sadly. We returned to our tents and started to pack-up. I also asked JM to help me re-tie my tagelmust (which is a skill I still have not mastered even with the help of YouTube videos), resulting in the picture below.

Tagelmust: Before Photo

Now, I point out how my tagelmust looks here because, as you will soon see, it looked nothing like this only a short while later…

Which brings us to the next part of the story: Camel Ride (Part II). 

Sadly, by the time I made it to the area where our camels were housed for the return-trip, Coco had already been claimed by someone else in the group…meaning I had to settle for a different mount this time. But I didn’t name this camel. Why, you ask? Well, there are two reasons. 

First and foremost, for some inexplicable reason I had the song ‘A Horse With No Name’ stuck in my head. Now, I don’t think I’ve heard that song all the way through but once in my life, so what prompted its presence in my head that day is beyond me! Nonetheless, it was there, and so it seemed fitting at the time not to name my ride (despite the fact that he was camel and not a horse). 

The second reason I didn’t name my camel is because he was a bad camel. But since I didn’t hate him enough to send him to the glue factory (or whatever the equivalent is for camels) I did the next best thing: I stripped him of his identity by denying him a name. 

Now, I know that sounds harsh—way harsh—but you need to understand: he would not allow the saddle to be secured properly, meaning that every time I tried to reposition myself and give ‘the boys’ some comfort, the entire saddle would shift and I risked falling off. At one point, the guides actually made me dismount him completely so they could re-tie the saddle, but he must have been puffing up his belly or something, because it was even worse after that. 

Bruised cajones = bad camel.

 

Fortunately, the trip to where we met the bus was shorter than the trip to the campsite—only about 20 or 30 minutes. But it was a rough trip! I was jostled about so much that my poor tagelmust became hopelessly undone, and I couldn’t take my hand off the saddle’s yolk long enough to even attempt fixing it properly. This is why, in the ensuing pictures you see from this part of the trip, it looks like a ’fro-meets-thundercloud-meets-alien-thing is hanging over my head.

Of course, despite the bumping and jostling, after seeing one of my friends light-up while riding I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to indulge in a Camel while on a camel.

See what I mean about the tagelmust being a wreck!

This was its own hilarity-filled experience—have you ever tried to light a cigarette while rocking every which way on a relatively wild animal? (So help me, I just know that one of my gay friends is going to have a smart-ass answer to that question!) I’m surprised I still have eyebrows left. But I did it…

Watch out for the eyebrows!

 When I finally saw the bus it was a bittersweet moment. On one hand I was beyond thrilled to get off of my nameless camel. But, on the other hand, I was saddened that my time in the Sahara was already at an end.

There was still one final hurdle between us and departure, however: a group of children. 

[Image Courtesy of NJ and SP]

I look like some horrible taskmaster, don’t I? Or at the very least like a tourist who’s totally oblivious to the circumstances of his own life compared to those around him. At least that’s how I’m terribly afraid people will read it. 

And yet, in some regards, I secretly want people to have that knee-jerk reaction because maybe it will force them to interrogate their own social positions, which is why I’m posting it here like this. (Though, admittedly, a better way of inducing such reflection might be simply to encourage others to read Peggy McIntosh’s incredibly insightful and eye-opening White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.) 

With that said, let me now give you the back story:

Yes, children—all trying to sell us homemade camels made out of palm fronds. 

What you’re actually seeing in the picture above is the look of someone (me) who’s incredibly uncomfortable and conflicted. I wanted to help them all, but knew that I couldn’t, so I gave a few of them some money (without taking the things they were selling so that they could hopefully sell them to someone else) and started toward the bus. 

Unfortunately, a gaggle of these kids was blocking my way, trying to sell their wares to my friends who had boarded already. I stood there behind them, both trying to make my way on and also smiling nervously because…well, I smile when I’m uncomfortable, and I was discomfited by the recognitions running through my head of all of the privileges I have in life compared to these children (e.g., the fact that I was able to spontaneously drop a not-inconsiderable sum on an excursion to an area that at least some of those kids will probably never leave). 

And, it was in that moment that my friend took the above photo.

Moving away from the heavy (albeit incredibly important) stuff, once aboard the bus we began the long trek home. There isn’t too much to say about the trip back—the only times we stopped really were at a couple of vistas, and twice for food (the first time at a place I never caught the name of and the second time in Ouarzazate). 

Yup, that's a real-life oasis behind me.

Tagelmust fixed (more or less).

We finally made it back to Marrakech at around 6 PM, at which point we moved en masse toward Djamaa el-Fna before saying our sad goodbyes. I would love to think that one day we will cross paths again.

Afterwards, I made my way back to Waka Waka, where I rejoined the Djellaba Crew on the rooftop. Once again, they immediately pulled me, and made me feel like I hadn’t missed a second.

You know, that’s one of the really incredible things about my time in Morocco—I feel like there were these long stretches of time that just came to an absolute standstill around me, so that you could just soak it all in. It was kind of like that whole ‘perfect moment’ scene from Star Trek: Insurrection. (And yes, I’m aware that from a critical Orientalist perspective that statement kind of plays into the whole ‘exotic-erotic’ myth, but the bit about time seeming to stand still for me is indescribable any other way!)

At any rate, three or four hours (and a few glasses of wine and smokes) later, we made our way back to Djamaa el-Fna for dinner at one of the stalls that’s set-up each night.

It really was a beautiful, fun-filled evening—perfect for my last night in Morocco!

Morocco: Cobras, Shisha, and Djellabas...oh my!

So, despite explosions and extortive measures, I finally arrived at Hostel Waka Waka on the 8th! The owners, Yaya and Jawad, were both incredibly welcoming. In fact, before being allowed to do anything else—including paying for my room—Yaya insisted that I sit, relax for a bit, and enjoy my hot touareg tea (i.e., a mint tea that is a huge part of Moroccan culture, and which is served to guests as a sign of hospitality). 

My room was on the bottom level, behind the red-stripped curtain.

Looking Upward, toward the rooftop level.

Now, you might be wondering how long I was allowed to relax before paying for my room. I mean, Hostel Waka Waka is still a business after all, right, and surely they want their money? The answer is about an hour—an hour of doing nothing but relaxing, sitting on the couch, and chatting with the other guests as they trickled in.  (In fact, they didn't even ask for their money until much later in the evening!)

I still can’t believe how many amazing people I met at Waka Waka! They were all so inclusive and generous. In fact, I didn’t meet a single person there—or at any point while in Morocco—that I didn’t like immensely. Practically from the start, it was nonstop laughs and fun, and I’m thrilled to say that I’ve since added most of them as Facebook friends so that we can keep in touch. (Yeah, okay, I know how pathetic I am for being so happy about new Facebook friends—no need to rub it in.)

The first of the awesome folks that I met at Waka Waka was NS, a really nice Canadian gent who immediately started including me in the group conversation and plans for walking around the medina later. Mind you, I hadn’t even been assigned a bed yet—but I already had plans for going out.

Thus, a short while later, nine of us set off to explore the medina

Entrance to the souq

Though we didn’t stop (yet), our journey took us through the souq, which is supposedly Morocco’s biggest traditional market. I haven’t seen the hard data to support this claim, but I readily believe it. It was this massive den of chaotic, magical madness! There were so many shops—some no bigger than a wardrobe—jam-packed with wares that the merchants were trying to sell to any- and everyone!

But I’ll say more about the souq later, because for now I want to turn my attention toward the main square:

Djamaa el-Fna is (again, supposedly) one of Africa’s busiest squares. Now, as loathed as I am to include Wikipedia for purposes beyond the occasional unimportant referent, I will say that the following description is pretty accurate in terms of what I saw at Djamaa el-Fna:

During the day it is predominantly occupied by orange juice stalls, youths with chained Barbary apes, water sellers in colourful costumes with traditional leather water-bags and brass cups, and snake charmers who will pose for photographs for tourists.

As the day progresses, the entertainment on offer changes: the snake charmers depart, and late in the day the square becomes more crowded, with Chleuh dancing-boys (it would be against custom for girls to provide such entertainment), story-tellers (telling their tales in Berber or Arabic, to an audience of appreciative locals), magicians, and peddlers of traditional medicines. As darkness falls, the square fills with dozens of food-stalls as the number of people on the square peaks.~ Wikipedia Entry

The Waka Waka crew (which later evolved into the djellaba crew for reasons that I’ll go into later) made its way to one of the orange juice stalls, where I think I got swindled by the vendor—fortunately, this time it was only out of 10DH / 1€. Regardless, it was a damn fine glass of orange juice, being somehow thicker and creamier than the overly processed junk I’m used to in the US (and also possessive of a darker-reddish color).

A short while later, but still while in the square, my new friend ‘Papu’ (JJWR) was surprised to find a monkey on his shoulder. Yes, you read the right: a monkey. A medium-sized, golden-furred Barbary macaque…which was, sadly, kept on a chain by its handler, and did not look happy. Nonetheless, picture taking ensued, and soon enough the monkey was perched on my own shoulder…with his grubby little hand reaching into my coat pocket in an effort to steal my cigarettes.

Cheeky Little Monkey!

Though I do not condone the way this poor creature was treated by its handler, I probably would have regretted not getting a photo later, and that’s my pathetic excuse participating in this moment.

And that wasn’t my only photo-op from that first afternoon in Djamaa el-Fna, though the next one was far more expensive. 

Now, let me preface this bit of the story by simply saying that people are generally surprised—and a bit horrified—to learn that I am far less afraid of snakes than I am of rodents. In fact, I kind of like the appendageless li’l guys. Furthermore, I’ve always been particularly intrigued by cobras. 

So, upon encountering the snake charmers a short while later, it took less than a second for me to request a photo with one of the cobras. The charmer obligingly placed it around my neck!

Papu and I with our slithery new friends!

Post-photos, the snake charmer started demanding 300DH (at least it was less than the 400DH they demanded Papu pay). I talked him down to 100DH (or was it 200DH? I forget). It was still far more than I wanted to pay, but I reconciled this by saying that it was another once-in-a-lifetime thing. What I hadn’t reckoned on, however, was that the guy I paid would then use that amount to help his colleagues extract an equal amount from NS, who had (until that point) been doing a better job of haggling. Whoops.

Following our time in the Djamaa el-Fna, a group of us ventured back to the souq for some exploration. Aside form being tempted to buy a plate of sheep’s brains and face (no lie), and being told that we should all ‘stick [our] fingers up our asses’ for refusing a young man’s navigational services near the tannery, there’s actually not too much that I can report. As I mentioned earlier, the souq is both massive and chaotic—so much so, that it’s hard to actually talk about. 

One thing I definitely do want to mention, though, is how determined the sellers were—it was insane! It turns out I had nothing to fear from the language barrier, because these guys could suss out where you were from in seconds, and they would tailor their spiel to your nationality and language without blinking an eye. 

English? No worries.

Japanese? C’mon a’my house!

Spanish? Holla and ¡Hola)!

 

Furthermore, the vendors would actually remember you and any promises you may have made. For instance, if you promised them that you would come back later to check out their carpets or whatnot, and you didn’t, these vendors would spot you across a crowded road days later and remind you of said-promise. In fact, on my last day in Marrakech I went around with another of my new friends, JE, who informed me that she had made so many false promises that she couldn’t return to certain roads within the souq because they were all looking for her!

Though overwhelming, it really was quite fun. I only wish that I had taken more photos of it—but I simply spent too much time actively avoiding the donkey-carts and motorbikes that were whizzing along the narrow streets.

Following our trip to the souq it was back to Waka Waka for some relaxation. A group of us made our way up to the rooftop deck, and out came the shisha and we toked… I mean talked for what felt like hours afterwards. It was during this shennaniganery that I also enjoyed some really nice apple-flavored tobacco. I’d never had flavored tobacco before (other than menthol, I guess?), but I quite liked it.

[Photo Courtesy of Papu]

 Later that night, part of our group hopped in a cab and travelled about 15km to the nearest liquor store, while the rest of us—munchified and unable to wait for our friends—returned to Djamaa el-Fna and visited one of the many stalls for dinner.

Djamaa el-Fna as night falls

The stall we wound up at was pretty full, and so we were crammed into an area behind the serving and preparing area, right next to the grill. That was kind of fun and interesting…except for the constant grill-smoke wafting into our faces. (Mind you, it did enable me to watch my chicken kebobs being made!) Also, when it came time to pay for the meal things got a bit complicated because the waiter didn’t carry change. In the end, we got it all sorted out though, and even posed for some photos with the staff.

L to R: Cook, Me, Server, AH, Cook. [Photo courtesy of AH]

Satiated, we headed back to Waka Waka, where we met-up with the others…two of whom—KD and Papu—were wearing their recently-purchased djellabas (which were of ‘the finest quality’). Thus was the group’s obsession with djellabas born—by the end of the trip, almost everyone had one. (I, sadly, did not buy one—but only because time ran out and I never got around to it. I really regret not doing so.)

The ensuing hours passed in a blur…or, at the least, I can’t quite recall most of it. This photo may give you an indication of why:

Too Much Absinthe Makes the Brettsy Go Blind [Photo Courtesy of Papu]

It was after 3:30 AM when I finally decided to go to bed—and I had a wake-up call at 6 AM for my trip to the Sahara. But more on that in the next entry…