Post #301477 by midnite on Tue, Apr 24, 2007 12:28 PM

Morocco 2007

Hope and Crosby sang it in ‘42, “Like Webster’s dictionary...” Now, sixty some years later I was Morocco bound. While Bob and Bing had to deal with the jealous and swarthy Anthony Quinn, yours truly had more serious elements to face. This was Morocco Spring 2007 and the warmer weather meant bombing season was upon us. I’d be traveling solo into that special category of nation state: random police checkpoints and ubiquitous pictures of the Supreme Leader. The police were out in force for several reasons: the King was afoot, smuggling is rampant, and suicide bombing has become a new participation sport. This ought to be interesting.

I set down in Casablanca, the international port of intrigue and cinematic fame. In actuality Casa is more “Athens meets Nice” than Bogie loses Bergman. Yes, there’s gambling in Casablanca but not the typical “hit on sixteen” type. No, one gambles a bit more serious stakes nowadays. Casablanca is a bustling metropolis of several million, full of Art Deco architecture and the world’s third largest mosque. More European than African it has a sizable population of underprivileged, the very seriously poor. The violent counter elements to the ruling class of this society are fomenting in Casa and I fell right in the middle of it. There was a bit of nasty business in March which prompted the UK Foreign Office to issue some rather serious traveler warnings to the British subjects. There was much nasty business the day before I landed and more a few days after I departed. Luckily, I was temporarily confused by another more serious bombing in neighboring Algiers, my minimal French, and pure dumb luck. It was not until after several days in Fes did I put the info together in a coherent fashion and realize there had been several deadly bombings throughout Casablanca surrounding my brief time there.

There is not much to see touristo speaking in Casablanca. I did have sufficient time to take in the Hassan II Mosque. It is an impressive physical structure and is one of only a few Mosques worldwide open to non-believers...and baby, I am a non-believer of the first order. Still, when in Rome, ya dig? They spent a lot of Dirham on this place, if it gets them what they want, more power to them. The stay in Casa was not all glitzy mosques and suicide bombers. Nope, it was club sandwich time, North African style. The verdict? Hey, after traveling about 26 hours and enduring some rather intimidating security measures at the aeroport and hotel...this club was pure ambrosia. I give the Casablanca Sheraton staff high marks for their effort. A quick jaunt around downtown and I was off to the Casa Voyageurs station for a train ride to Fes. Oh, one last bit of Casa fun. My train was “retard” and the platform became rather crowded with passengers waiting for my train and the one arriving after it. I was about the only “Westerner” I could see at this point and was feeling a wee bit...uh...nervous. No worries mate, as the next thing I hear was a dude directly behind me yelling....YELLING.... “Allaahu Akbar!” This was it I thought, the last thing I shall hear before the boom. To my utter and complete relief, save a pair of jockeys that needed immediate discarding, it was one serious believer taking it upon himself to make the noon call to prayer. Hey, Mustafa, lighten up, you’re gonna give me a cardiac here.

After several hours journey on a Moroccan train I found myself in Fes. This would be my first exposure to the medina and its centuries old way of life. Chaotic, bustling, a heady amalgam of busy people, beggars, shops, animals, dust, dung, water, sights and sounds I had never experienced before. This was all in the first five minute walk from the taxi stand to my inn. I was told things were a bit more serious in Fes, the people more conservative, the traders quite aggressive. Whatever, as long the “boom boom” was far away I’d be happy. I stayed in a 600 year old restored home, a riad. I took the grand Kohba suite, enjoyed the design and decor elements, thoroughly reveling in the beauty that was my home for several days. The special Friday call to prayer from the famous mosque nearby was enchanting and mysterious, if a bit tedious after the first ten minutes or so. The medina was a labyrinth of alleys, small squares and mule carts. No motor vehicles can navigate the medina, everything is transported via animal cart. I was sideswiped several times by mules and their packs. One quickly learns that “Balak!” is Arabic for “Get the eff outta the way, hombre!”

My stay in Fes had several highlights: A trek up the hill to the ruins of the Merenid Tombs allowed me to spend a pleasant time talking to a Berber trader. These people are friendly and warm, or at least this chap was. He gave me some marital advice (don’t) and tips on trading in the medina (also don’t). On the way back I was given a ratty old flower by a precious little boy, and spoke to him with my one semester of high school French. His geature was purely a ploy for a few Dirham but he and his brother were adorable little guys, their picture a lasting memory of my stay...and it only cost me about a $1.25. The foul-smelling tanneries, the Medersas, the many many mosques, the non-stop sales efforts of the medina’s shopkeepers. Fes is a deeply fascinating place and I would happily return someday. Alas, it time to leave and take the most famous of trains: The Marrakech Express.

Ah yes, let’s take the train to Marrakech. The nitwit who thought that would be a good idea should be...oh wait, that was me. Well, you live, and you learn. If you live long enough you learn to never take the train for eight hours to Marrakech. Stupid smelly hippie song notwithstanding, it is hell on rails. Plus, this ain’t even the real Marrakech Express! That portable purgatory departs Tangier. Chalk one up to never ever again. Still, what was agony on the train soon turned to absurdity as I alighted in Marrakech to find the station empty, no driver from my riad to pick me up, no nothing. Again, the king was moving, security was extra tight and no cars were moving in my part of town. So, I got to walk around downtown Marrakech, dragging a large duffel bug, sweating like a pig in a rubber suit, and woefully presenting the biggest “Look at me, I’m a lost Westerner” countenance as possible. Someone wants me to die in Morocco, that’s all I could think. Eventually my driver met me at another hotel and I was driven in a large Mercedes taxi, through the narrow winding alleys of he medina, to my room. Alone in the back, sunglasses on, in my tan suit, I looked and felt like an attache to the consular general being transported through the teeming masses. I have expected the parting and not overly pleased throng to attack the car, remove my imperialistic behind from the Mercedes and drag me to an untimely death...without a watch.

After a relaxing evening in Marrakech I was up early the next morning for a trip to the coast and the beautiful seaside town of Essaouira. Bright blue ocean, whitewashed buildings, the ever present red and green of the Moroccan flag. Essaouira is cool and laid back compared to the hot and frenetic pace of Marrakech. This is a special place, I wished more time was available for me to enjoy it all. I ate a profoundly inexpensive lunch of “right of the boat fresh” seafood. Fish, calamari, shrimp, langoustine, lobster...all grilled a few feet away, messy and delicious. I strolled the ramparts and took it all in listening to Jimi Hendrix through my headphones. It felt good to breath in some fresh sea air, it was what I needed considering I faced a return trip to Marrakech. Along with suicide bombers the UK traveler warnings clearly point out the profound danger that is Moroccan road travel. Allah willing, I would survive. One quickly learns they do not exaggerate at the UK Foreign Office.

Marrakech, or Morocco City, is just about what one expects it to be. I was warned by fellow travelers while in Fes: Fes is tame, Marrakech is crazy. The mule carts and slow paced atmosphere of Fes were replaced by bicycles, mopeds, scooters, cars, even trucks in the Marrakech alleys and narrow streets (ha ha, hardly) of the medina. There is simply no way I can do the place justice, it is chaos on top of a frenzied melange of sights, smells, sounds and...look out!...manic moped riders. Just as you think you’ve seen it all, or enough to suffice for all, there’s more. More of everything to delight and disgust the senses. Marrakech has something for everybody and too much for all.

The maze that is the souks, the scents of grilling uh..meat?...and spices. Place Djemma el Fnaa which by day is all Henna tattoos, “Straight from the Castro District” wildly costumed water sellers, random monkey trainers, and snake charmers becomes at night all that and an outdoor café. From fresh orange juice to snail soup to grilled head of sheep. Hmm, cheeks! It’s an amazing sight but still a bit tame compared to what I read about and came to expect. Then again, I live in Frisco...ain’t too much that surprises me anymore. Marrakech was a city to just experience. The vibrant colors, the light in the souks, the smells...always the smells. They have no real treasures, no famous museums or sights, it’s not Florence or Paris. It’s Marrakech and you simply immerse yourself in the roiling stew that is their everyday life. Then, you take a long shower to remove the layers of dust, mud, dung, and assorted treats of the medina.

It was time to leave Maroc, and I was filled with conflicting thoughts. One, get me out of here and in one piece as the airport was in veritable lock-down, full of grim machine gun toting gendarmes and bomb-sniffing dogs. Two, what a fascinating and exotic place this was, how neat it is to while a way the hours taking it all in. One won...get me back to London! Au revoir Morocco, you haven’t seen the last of Monsieur midnite.

One night in London and my itinerary had been set months in advance. A visit to my favorite fish ‘n chips shop in the land and a few sublime cocktails at my favorite Trader Vic’s. I am easy to please. Just to show what a small world it can be, I was walking down Baker Street on my way to Golden Hinde for my supper when I spied in my periphery a woman rather wildly (“Hey, it’s Paul!”) greeting a man who was walking toward me. Friends randomly meeting on the street I thought...until the guy spoke and I could tell he did not know this woman but was rather graciously introducing himself and asking from where she came. It most certainly was Paul, Sir Paul McCartney. I saw Paul McCartney walking down Baker Street! I had my camera with me, was ready to say “Ahoy ahoy” to the ole Beatle, maybe catch a snappy of the two of us. But man, I was hungry and Golden Hinde and its fabulous fried treasures were still a good five minute walk away. Catch ya next time Macca!

That’s about it for now. Maybe some other time I can relate the story of the veiled woman who assaulted a crew member on my flight from Marrakech to Gatwick, the tree climbing goats near Essaouira, and the best way to remove mule poop from linen trousers.

The long and winding road indeed.

Mara Salama