Morocco: Desert Nights

Continued from my last Moroccan entry:

Once I was mounted atop Coco the Camel, and my new friends were situated on theirs (which included the likes of Harold, Kumar, and Madame), our guides began leading us from Zagora to our Saharan campsite. In total, the trip took about an hour to an hour-and-a-half (if I recall correctly). It may have just felt like that’s how long it took…

Allow me to digress for a moment here: much like the act or riding an elephant—which I've done twice in my lifetime—riding a camel is not fun. Oh, it’s a novelty (from our Westernized perspective) to be sure, and it’s an experience that I’m thrilled to have tucked under my belt...but in practice, it’s quite painful. 

And while I have no first-hand knowledge for making the following comparison, I would suggest that it’s probably at least a bit more painful for men than women, as there is the additional problem of pinching in addition to bruising. Especially for those of us—like me—who may have been wearing jeans that were slightly too tight. 

Ouchy-Pinchy-Hurty!

That's me sitting behind SP (the woman in the blue coat).
[Image Courtesy of: OS]

Regardless, most of us eventually figured out the least-problematic ways of riding our camels according to our varied…physical needs. This process, of course, involved a lot of laughing at one another (which undoubtedly created an even deeper level of intimacy amongst the group), and zero input from our guides (who probably derive amusement from watching tourists undergo this learning process on their own). 

So anyway, we continued plodding deeper into the Sahara (though sadly we never made it deep enough into the desert to completely lose sight of ‘civilization’). 

Gradually, the sun was setting quite spectacularly to our left.

Sunset in the Sahara

And yet, there was no sign of the moon. Just stars. Millions of stars—most stationary but some falling. More stars than I’ve ever seen before. 

The camera wasn’t able to capture it, unfortunately, so I can’t share it with you, but the memory of all of those stars will remain forever etched into my memory. This was also the first time where I was able to clearly understand the whole constellations thing. In the past, it’s always seemed like a dodgy concept to me, probably because I didn’t have access to so much of the celestial tapestry—but that night, 9 March, I was clearly able to make out Orion, the Dippers (which were on their sides, compared to what I’m used to), and even Scorpius. I suddenly understood how people living in ancient times could effectively navigate just by following the stars.

And the stars weren’t all that was in the heavens above. It was so clear that we were actually able to make out the man-made satellites hurtling around the Earth at breathtaking speeds. And planets, too: three of them! One of the planets, to the northeast (I think) possessed a distinctive reddish-brown glow, and we were all pretty convinced that this one was Mars. The other two planets, to the southwest (I think), were positioned fairly closely to one another from our perspective, and we decided that they were probably Venus and Jupiter. 

It was all quite breathtaking…and humbling!

By the time we reached the campsite, it was truly dark out. The moon wasn’t visible yet, and there was no sign of man-made lights for as far as the eye could see. It was into this environment that our guides helped us dismount from our camels…and then disappeared!

That’s right: they disappeared! Here we were, a group of tourists, suddenly abandoned in the pitch-blackness of the Sahara Desert at night. In between nervous titters about what we should do, we turned our attention to taking photos as a means of busying ourselves until we our guides returned.

For whatever reason I am not posed with Coco here, however, that is Coco behind me looking directly at the camera.

The guides did not return, but eventually another voice in the distance began calling to us. Slowly we made our way over, where we were greeted by one of the Berber men in charge of the campsite.

I don’t know what I really expected from the campsite. In many ways, what I got jived perfectly with what I expected—but in some other ways, I was a bit disappointed (and simultaneously relieved) by the ways in which it was geared towards tourists like myself. In regards to the former, the campsite consisted primarily of about 10 tents—each with (sand-filled?) sleeping-mats for four people and illuminated by oil-lamps—situated around a large, communal firepit and equally large communal tent for eating. In regards to the latter, there was a large white tent that served as the bathroom…complete with working toilets, sinks, etc.

We were instructed to put our stuff away in our sex-segregated tents (I bunked with JM, RG, and J), and then to make our way to the dining tent. Once there, in keeping with local customs we were served some delicious touareg tea. The tea was followed by a delicious lentil soup (that I believe is called Harira), which was itself followed by a tajin containing chicken and a host of other ingredients. And, of course, the food was accompanied here (as with all other meals) by a lovely basket of kesra for sopping up any of the delicious juices that were been left behind!

Touareg Toast! [Left to Right: KB, DB, MD, OS, me, JM / Image courtesy of OS]

Post-soup tajin. [Left to Right: host, me, JM / Image courtesy of DB]

After stuffing ourselves, all guests were invited out to the firepit—now ablaze—where our hosts regaled us with ‘traditional Berber songs and music’ (as billed by the company sponsoring this trip). Some of us were even invited to join-in on the festivities, and encouraged to play drums and/or tambourines.

I also 'played' the black and silver drum and tambourine seen here. [Left to Right: DB, me, OS, JM / Photo courtesy of OS]

The night grew deeper, and the moon finally made its dazzling appearance around what felt like 9:00 or 10:00 PM, blotting out most of the stars with its own brilliance (much to my dismay). Gradually, various people began wandering off to their tents for bed, but a small group of us stayed around the campfire, encouraged to do so by our hosts who were quick to remind us of the rarity of such an opportunity. 

While the air grew chiller and the fire dwindled, we started telling riddles, which was itself quite comical because of the various language barriers. Typically, a riddle would be told in its first language, then translated for someone else in a second language, and then re-translated for someone else in a third language (with linguistic clarifications by another party). Then, the process would have to work in reverse once someone thought they had an answer! Fortunately, JM was fluent enough in Spanish and French that he was able to act as the group’s primary translator here—although, I do still think that one or two riddles got lost in translation somewhere along the line.

And then there were three…at about 3:00 AM (or so it felt). After a long while of telling riddles, only JM, myself, and one other gent remained around the campfire, everyone else having gone to bed. The three of us stretched out on the cold desert sands (slightly warmed by a bottle of rum, etc.), and just stared at the sky above, doing our best to take-in the once-in-a-lifetimeness of it all.

Sadly (right around the time we decided that the moon kind of looked like Sid from Ice Age if you squint just right), the cold became too much, and so it was time to turn in…on a pillow seemingly filled with sand, and under six or seven heavy, thick, furry blankets.

Nonetheless, what an amazing journey into the Sahara and first night once there!

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…