Granada

It’s been a very rainy spring here in Madrid. Very. Rainy. Everyone spent so much time warning me about the freezing cold winter (which I thought was rather mild) and the burning hot summer (I’m still waiting) but they somehow neglected to mention the months of rain. Being left to my own devices for a few days, the weekend of my birthday of all times, I decided to find some sunshine, so I headed down south to Granada, in the Spanish region of Andalusia, for a few days of much needed vitamin D. (Click the photos for a larger view.)

Granada is an ancient city. Back in the olden days when the Moors had conquered (what we now know as) Spain, Granada was the largest and most important city on the European continent. In the Middle Ages, and on through the 16th century or so, the giant fortress/palace compound known as the Alhambra, the red fortress in Arabic, was built to guard the strategically important city. It was there, in 1492, that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel agreed to support Christopher Columbus’s journey to find a new route to the Indes. Today the Alhambra is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is considered one of the best examples of ancient Islamic architecture.

The Islamic influence is still noticeable throughout the city, although perhaps most notably in the souvenir shops, which sell almost the same exact assortment of items I saw on display in Marrakech, except without all the haggling. Many of these shops are located in a section of town known as the Albayzin, the old Islamic quarter, another remnant of the rich Islamic ancestry and yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site.

I left Madrid early on Sunday morning, arriving in Granada in the early afternoon after a surprisingly comfortable 5 hour bus ride, most of which I spent ironically listening to the in-bus entertainment – an amazingly complete collection of the best worst English language soft rock songs ever. I found the center of town easily and headed up onto the hillside in search of a place to stay the night. This area of town is known as El Realjo, the old Jewish quarter, and much like the Albayzin across the street, it is a series of narrow, steep, twisting streets and staircases. There are wonderful views at just about every intersection and taking a moment to take them in is a great excuse to catch your breath.

I found my hostel, the cheapest one I could find online, the somewhat ominously named “Funky Hostel”. If you’re really Funky, do you have to name your hostel that? It was fine, though. Actually it was pretty nice, although I was paying a pretty steep (in my mind anyway) 16 euros a night. After throwing my stuff on my bed and changing into a fresh t-shirt (I had definitely found the sun), I struck out right away to explore the city. I was kind of annoyed to have to buy a map (why no free tourist map?) but it turned out to be a very good investment.

First I wandered down a road that runs along the River Darro, which separates the Alhambra’s hill from the Albayzin, at the bottom of the ravine, before walking back into the more modern part of town. There I had a look at the Cathedral, which might be very beautiful if it hadn’t been almost completely blocked in my other old beautiful buildings over the years. Because of this encroachment, the best view of the Cathedral was really from above, not from the narrow corridors leading back to its heavy wooden doors. I also found a small-scale souq, or covered market, which specialized in more Islamic-inspired collectibles for the tourist crowd. Next I walked down Calle Elvira, a happenin’ street on the edge of the Albayzin with many bars and restaurants, where I stopped to have a glass of sangria and a few free tapas. Thankfully the people of Granada still believe in the wonder that is free tapas, unlike many of their Madrileño counterparts.

Soon afterward it started raining (yeah, for real) so I retreated to the hostel, where I sat around awkwardly for an hour until it was time for the hostel’s special 5 euro meal. This was probably the worst part about traveling alone – the awkward what-do-I-do-alone-in-a-hostel feeling. Thankfully it was soon over and I headed up for what I hoped would be a social dinner so I could make some new friends. I did find a few people, most notably an Australian gentleman, Eraj, who was on a three month tour of Europe and Western Africa to celebrate his retirement and recent 60th birthday and a South Korean woman, Minh, who was self-admittedly going through a midlife crisis (it is apparently quite the crisis to be 30 and unmarried in South Korea), as well as a rather obnoxious French Canadian who was mercifully leaving the following morning.

Dinner itself was less than spectacular, a “traditional” potato and cabbage soup, and I think I could have done much more with 5 euros each, but what are you gonna do? Also somewhat annoying was their “no outside beverages” rule, which seems idiotic in a hostel, where people are only staying because they want to save money. What was great was the view from the roof of the hostel, which overlooked much of the new city as well as the Cathedral, and provided an excellent view of the sunset.

After some bonding with my fellow hostelers and a little too much information about Eraj’s new girlfriend back in Australia (oh wow, yes, that is fascinating that you “get it on like a couple of 18 year olds”, I’m so happy for you… But I did just meet you, so I think I’ll head to bed now…) a few of us decided to wake up bright and early in order to stand in line for Alhambra tickets. They often sell out and we wanted to be sure to get in.

The line WAS rather daunting when we arrived, but luckily we were among the first to discover the automated credit card machines and ended up having enough time to spare before the gates opened to grab a coffee and a croissant from the little café. This may be something of a tangent, but this seems like the perfect opportunity to reflect on the multitasking abilities of the Spanish, particularly those that work in a service-related field. As a general rule, they are incapable of it. For example, a women in line in front of me accidentally spilled her coffee. Instead of continuing to take orders and make coffee while waiting for their coworker to mop up the mess, the entire workforce had to take a small five minute break to examine and discuss this major event, completely oblivious to the huge line forming. If they were serving other Spaniards this would have been most unremarkable but the mostly foreign population was just unable to understand why a little spilled coffee should halt the entire operation. The Spanish are rarely, if ever, in a hurry to do anything.

Finally, coffee and chocolate croissant in hand, we made our way down to the first palace of many. Now, I don’t normally go in for old buildings, especially churches. Generally speaking, I find them rather stuffy and static, especially when, like the Alhambra, they are crawling with tourists and lack furniture or any other suggestions of human life. And at 13 euros, I thought the price was rather steep. That said, I thought the place was very beautiful, but mostly awe-inspiring. The precision with which these palaces were crafted is just amazing, especially considering that we’re talking about something built 900 or 1000 years ago. It’s all very… mathematical. There are detailed mosaics throughout the main palace, the Palace of the Nasrids, made up of green, blue, yellow, and red tiles. As I learned from part of a private tour I accidentally stole (one of the women was NOT at all happy about that), those colors represented the land, the sky, the sun and, most importantly, blood to the Moors.

The use of water throughout the complex was also quite impressive, especially considering the desert-like climate. A complex series of aqueducts provided the palaces with water for fountains, pools, and indoor water-filled trenches that acted as a kind of ancient air conditioning.

The rest of the Alhambra consists of the Alcazaba, the fortress on the westernmost point of the complex, facing out over the city in order to watch for invaders, and two more modern palaces. I’m not actually sure how many palaces there were, probably more than I realize, because many of them were interconnected, so it’s hard to be sure. As far as I could tell, there were three distinct palace-like structures, the Palace of the Nasrids, which I already mentioned, the adjoining Palace of Charles V, built much later and distinctively featuring a bull ring, and the Generalife, the Nasrids’ “country estate” which is located up the hill from the other palaces.

Funnily enough, after doing some reading up on the history of the Alhambra, it turns out that it never served very effectively as a fortress. It was weakly fortified and the Alcazaba apparently had to be rebuilt at least once. I find this pretty ironic. It certainly looks menacing. Even back when the Moorish Nasrid dynasty ruled from the Alhambra, the idea of the Alhambra as any kind of fortress had largely been abandoned in favor of converting it into a self-contained palatial city.

My favorite part of the whole place were the wonderful views, the beautiful blooming gardens and the omnipresent water features. As a rule, the architecture was impressive and in many cases seemed more modern than it actually is. For example, when visiting the Generalife we were almost disappointed that it didn’t look old enough, joking “oh this is only 300 or 400 years old, what a bore”, when in fact it was built around 1300. I think in large part the almost Spartan architecture and very much alive gardens helped to make the palaces seem much more contemporary.

After we had seen it all and had that ubiquitously inexpensive Turkish delight known as doner kebab for lunch, I set off to see the Albayzin (as well as the Alhambra from the Albayzin), hitting as many “panoramic view” indicators on my map as possible. I retraced my steps along the river from the previous afternoon before turning left up a steep mountain. This part was less than ideal, and since it was quite warm I started wondering if maybe I should have taken the bus after all, just to spare my fellow travelers, but once I got to the top the major climbing was over and I was free to mosey up and down along what must have been the ridge.

First I headed to Sancromonte, an area traditionally populated by cave-dwelling gypsies. There I got my first view of the Alhambra from across the valley and it was just amazing. I also did find some gypsy caves and, although I never found the fabled museum, I did find a gypsy cave hotel with pictures of the rooms posted on the front gate, so I suppose I can claim I’ve seen them from the inside too.

I continued from the Sancromonte back into the Albayzin with its tiny twisting streets. It is really amazing what people will try to drive a car through. And fast! By the time I reached the next vista, at the Mirador (cross, shrine) San Cristobal, the last bits of lingering fog had finally burned off and the view was amazing. I could see the Alhambra peeking over the old city walls and then all of Granada spread out before me with countryside in the distance.

I made my way back inside the walls and down to the Mirador San Nicolas, which provided the classic postcard view of the Alhambra. What a nice place to sit and have a little break, even if there are tour groups crawling all over the place. When I managed to tear myself away, I continued my loop, passing through the western edge of the Albayzin, past some truly magnificent graffiti (or should I say murals?) and down to the Gate of Triumph, which looked like a fairly normal gate/arch in the city walls (if such a thing can be “normal”), leading in to nowhere spectacular within the Albayzin, but I’m sure it has a history, even if I don’t know it. I then followed the main street, Gran Via, back to where I started, where I rewarded myself with a nice ice cream cone.

I spent the rest of the day doing some souvenir shopping before heading back to the hostel to do some relaxing on the roof. Dinner was about 4 times more crowded than the night before, so much so that they ran out of food before even half of the people had been served. I lucked out and got some food, I think because they misinterpreted my rooftop sitting as waiting for dinner. At least it was good and the company was lively. After dinner and another lovely sunset Eraj decided to go on a two hour excursion to some “hot springs”. This sounded dubious to me, at best, and definitely not worth the 10 euros. Everyone else decided to go to bed, but I was not content to spend another night in bed by 11, so I headed back out.

I wasn’t really sure where I was going until I remembered the beautiful postcards of the Alhambra at night, so I headed back up to one of the vista points to have a look at it at night. The albayzin was very quiet, even relatively early at night, and most places in Granada seem to shut their doors by 9 or 10, so walking was very peaceful. On another tangent, I never feel unsafe walking in Spain at night, it’s a remarkably safe country. Or at least it seems to be, I don’t actually know the statistics. The Spanish have a remarkably high standard for what makes a part of town “shady”, I have never been very impressed with any of their rough areas of town. I think perhaps Spanish criminals are too laid back for violent crimes.

Anyway, apparently I was not the only one with my idea to see the Alhambra at night and my quiet contemplation was occasionally interrupted by huge tour groups of English, Russian and French tourists, but in between these visits, when they would swarm around me and my bench as if I wasn’t even there, the view was amazing. Eventually I headed back to the hostel, stopping for a drink in the plaza because apparently people who run hostels are incapable of having change.

I slept in until 9:30 the next morning, having thoroughly tired myself out with so much walking the day before. Figuring I had missed the 10:00 bus back to Madrid, I went up to the roof for some toast and coffee before heading out to the bus station. I’m glad I did, because I got to hear all about the “hot springs”. Apparently the swimmers were driven out into the middle of an olive orchard, where a dirt pit was filled with warm-ish water, heavy on the iron and, to a lesser degree, sulfur, that was pouring out from a PVC pipe. Where was this mysterious warm water coming from? Some kind of chemical waste perhaps? Factory runoff? Who knows! What a delightful sounding adventure…

Finally, after one last stroll around town and trip to the grocery store, I said goodbye to my new friends and headed to the bus station. Unfortunately all the buses were full until 3 p.m., Spanish buses do a good business, and after having a look at the suburban wasteland that surrounded the bus station, I caught the bus back into town for a farewell falafel, and then it was adios for real.

The bus ride was nice, the musical selection being a much higher-brow blues collection this time. Looking out the windows, it’s easy to see why Spain is such an important producer of olive oil. The hills are completely covered with olive trees as far as the eye can see… Lovely.

Back in Madrid, it’s still raining…

Escaping the Rain

Hello everyone and thanks for all of my birthday wishes! I had a pretty good day, although pretty "normal" (just how I like it) and had Galician octopus for dinner. It seems like it's been weeks since it stopped raining in Madrid and, since I've been left to my own devices for a few days, I decided to take off and find some sunshine. So here I am in Granada, which is in Andalusia, a region of southern Spain. Granada was once the largest and most powerful city in Europe (when it served as a Moorish capital). Now it is more of a sleepy university city but it still has plenty of history, most notable the Alhambra, a huge castle/fortress/palace compound. It's going to be a little pricey to get in tomorrow but I'm going to have to suck it up. I heard that it was almost considered one of the 7 wonders of the world but didn't quite make it, so I guess you could say it's the eighth wonder.

I'll post more when I get home on Tuesday and have time to post pictures and go into more detail. I'm on a public hostel computer right now, so I should be brief. Thinking of you all...

We'll Always Have Morocco

**Warning! Extremely long post follows!**

Please forgive the tardiness of this report. I returned safely from Marrakesh on Tuesday night but have been too lazy to write what I imagine is going be a very long post back to the folks at home. Especially since Madrid has been celebrating the day of its patron saint, San Isidro, all week. Saints’ days are incredibly important in Spain; each city and village (not to mention neighborhood!) has its own patron saint (and each saint has a special day reserved for it) and the celebration turns into a week-long affair with free concerts, partying in the streets, traditional costumes, fireworks, bullfighting and everything else essentially Spanish. Unfortunately I have learned that April and May are rather wet months here, which is distressing for me, coming from what is actually a seasonless desert, so I haven’t gone out as much as I ought to have.

Anyway! This isn’t really supposed to be about Spanish fiestas but they are very interesting and extremely culturally important here so I thought I should mention them. The Spaniards enjoy them so much that they will fiesta for any excuse. I hear that from now until September you can find some kind of fiesta somewhere in the city, not to mention the rest of the country.

But back to Morocco. I had a really great time, but it was extreme- ly… chaotic. Our already late flight was delayed by 2 hours, so we didn’t arrive in Marrakesh until midnight. I would mention how quaint it was to have to walk across the tarmac to the terminal, but they still do that in Spain too. The airport was very modern and new-looking, which seemed to be a contradiction of sorts. I came to see third world squalor not some Frank Lloyd Wright monstrosity! But clearly Marrakesh does a HUGE tourist trade, so I guess this was their way of making a good impression on us moneyed Europeans. The customs office was a revealing first look at how the country works: they had one of those huge fancy scanners but there was no one watching the monitor or even checking to see if we all ran our bags through it (or even to tell us whether we were supposed to or not). Instead they seemed to rely largely on the tried and true technique of pulling aside “hippie” looking people for intense, public interrogations. Quite frankly, though, who smuggles things into Morocco?

We had to change our money into the local currency, the Moroccan dirham, at the airport since the country strictly controls it and, therefore, it is unavailable for purchase outside the country. One euro is equivalent to roughly 11 dirham (although we mainly relied on a 10-1 ratio to make calculations easier) and one dollar, about 7 or 8 dirham. Gotta love that weak dollar.

Once outside we encountered one of the country’s native species: the pushy and over- zealous cab driver. These guys flock around any tourist they see and fight each other to ask in any language they can think of (to their credit, they know quite a few; maybe I should be a Moroccan cabbie) if you want a cab. I think the goal is to so overwhelm you that you forget how much they’re overcharging you. The best course of action is to be prepared to tell them forcefully to buzz off and then take a moment to think. You can usually haggle with the cab drivers, but they’re clever and when they know they’ve got you – like from an airport or bus station – they seem to kind of gang up and all have a previously agreed on price, which is much higher than it ought to be. If you can get someone to offer a lower price in this situation, they will probably be shunned by their cabbie brethren. Thankfully we were able to take the bus for 20 dirham each to the city center (something my guidebook, which turned out to be essentially useless, told me not to count on) so we didn’t have to deal with it – yet.

On the dark bus ride to the center, I tried to catch my first glimpse of Africa. What most struck me was how much open space there is and, as an American, I’m usually more accustomed to open spaces than Europeans. It reminded me of Las Vegas actually, you can have a mile or two of nothing, just dust and cacti, and then something, and then more dust.

Morocco is essentially divided into two parts – the old medina (the center) and the nouvelle ville, the much more modern French colonial section outside the old city walls. It is most traditional to stay in a “riad”, which is best described as a guesthouse. They generally have very few rooms which are built around a central courtyard and are supposed to be known for their excellent service and food. Since I had heard that you could find excellent riads at a much cheaper price if you waited to find one until you arrived, I had booked only one night at what purported to be a backpackers’ hostel. It had…dubious reviews, to say the least. The map provided by the hostel to our check in location was woefully inadequate (think unlabeled lines drawn in MS Word) so we wandered into the dense network of streets to see if we stumbled upon anything. It was very late, so the narrow streets were almost deserted except for the many stray cats scrounging in the garbage and the occasional motorbike careening around at breakneck speeds. Eventually we found a Moroccan boy to take us to the place, guiding seeming to be one of the primary occupations of youngish Moroccan boys, where he then extorted us for 50 dirhams, which was way too much, but I was not in charge of the money at this point.

The idea was to check in at this place and then walk around the corner to the hostel and stay there. But the lad checking us in, who pretended to speak much better English than he actually did, managed to convince us to stay at this riad instead for twice as much, but it was a private room with a real bathroom, so it was probably worth it. I had the feeling that this was their usual racket though – lure us in with the cheap price at the other place and then convince us to stay at the more expensive one. But maybe that’s a cynical view. The room was nice enough, only one cockroach which was quickly vanquished, but it ended up being too nice to inspire me to go find somewhere better and cheaper, just because it’s a time-consuming hassle to wander around trying to find another place when you have a limited amount of time and you’re staying somewhere that isn’t overtly revolting. We ended up staying there for three nights, which was good enough cause we didn’t really plan on spending much time there anyway, but next time I would definitely plan more in advance and even pay a bit more for the authentic experience, since I got the feeling that our riad, if you could really call it that, was much more of a money-making venture than most family-run riads.

The best part about our riad was the location. The night before, the streets had been deserted, but the next morning we stepped out of the door right into the middle of the vibrant street market that dominates much of the central medina. Storefronts that had been shut tight the night before now spilled into the street. One of the best things about Morocco, I thought, is that you can get real souvenirs. There are very few places that sell what we would normally think of as souvenirs – t-shirts, postcards, magnets, keychains – but many places that sell authentic(ish) Moroccan tea sets, tobacco pipes, clothing, lighting, spices, art and, of course, carpets. Just wandering around and looking at the stuff was the best part.

The unfortunate thing is that many of the shopkeepers are just as pushy and obnoxious as the cabbies so you don’t want to stop to admire their wares, especially ones you would never ever actually want to buy but just want to look at. The shopkeepers promise to offer you a “very good price” (hahaha, right) but find it hard to understand that there is no price you would be willing to pay for something you don’t even want. They also think it’s funny to use English phrases (or German if you’re German, etc.) “it’s bloody brilliant!” but I’m not sure if this is supposed to draw us in or make fun of us.

Blurry, sorry

Historically, similar shops have always grouped together, forming what are known as souqs in the medina. Since it is a desert country, the roads in the souqs are generally covered to provide shade. There is an olive souq, a dyers’ souq, a spice souq, a carpet souq, a clothing souq, even a high-tech souq! You could just wander around all day. The traffic on the street is the crazy part! Cars aren’t allowed in most of the medina – they might not fit down the streets! But there are plenty of tourists, motorbikes and donkey carts (yup) to keep you on your toes. I was nearly mowed down by one especially hurried cart and had the bruise to prove it too.

The food is always my favorite part. I am a huge fan of street meat (that is, meat sold from stands in the street, not meat that has been lying in the street, although I might consider it) so for lunch one day we bought a huge chunk of roast lamb. Leg? Rump? It’s hard to say… you sprinkle a mixture of salt and cumin on it and devour it with some Moroccan bread. The closest thing I can think of to Moroccan bread is the Mexican torta bread. It’s leavened more than a pita, but less than other breads. We had met some American kids in our hostel who were too afraid of the food and water that they had brought their own. Needless to say, they were horrified. But it was tasty. For dinner I had couscous with camel meat, which was good and rather like lamb.

The next day I tried a Moroccan specialty – a chicken tagine. A tagine is a ceramic mini oven with a pointy lid. You put all of your ingredients together inside and they cook together over a single burner. I’m guessing that this is a traditional nomadic way of cooking (as the native Berbers are traditionally a nomadic people) which allowed you to have a nice roasted meal that would cook itself without having to have a whole oven. It probably also helps to keep things cool in the summer. This is somewhat of a tangent, but these people really know how to live in such an extreme environment. The traditional garb for men and women is a long robe with a pointy hood (which was the inspiration for the robes in Star Wars). This may seem hot to us – we take off clothes to keep cool – but really it provides shade and protects them from the dry hot summer sun.

Getting back on task, my most anticipated meal was at the food stalls in the Djemma el Fna, the famous (world heritage site) central square. I was looking forward to seeing the square in general. Our riad was right around the corner and I had spent weeks reading about the performers who have gathered in the square for centuries – snake charmers, belly dancers, storytellers. I found the square to be rather disappointing in general, though, because it is where the pushiest, most obnoxious, greediest Moroccans seem to gather. One time it cost us 10 euros just to walk across the square. These people will not listen to “no”, they will gather around you and fling their wares or act on you against your will and despite the fact that you repeatedly tell them “no, go away”.

First it was a guy with a monkey. He was cool. He had a product. I didn’t mind paying him for a photo. Then these ridiculous clowns (? I’m actually not sure what they were) tried to accost us. I just kept walking, so they promised me a “free” picture. After I took it, they demanded money! Another time a henna artist came up to me, clenched my wrist and wouldn’t let it go even when I yelled no at her and tried to wrench my hand away. By that time she had already henna-d me and if I kept moving my hand it was going to look like some three year old got hold of some permanent markers and drew all over me, so I let her do it. Then she had the audacity to ask for 300 dirham. I just laughed. Finally I just had to start being rude to them because it was the only way they would leave me alone. That didn’t even always work. These people have thick skin. The best thing I found to do was to avoid the square if at all possible. When it was unavoidable, we walked quickly, with our heads down, around the edge of the square, rather than through the middle. I did see a few snake charmers, but I only dared to steal a glance for fear they might shake me down for everything I had. To be fair, I think the people with actually interesting and genuine acts probably aren’t such jerks, but I didn’t want to risk it.

Thankfully the food stalls were a different story. Each stall did have its own pushy salesman trying to force you into eating at his stall, but they were nothing compared to the others. Every evening these people set up and then tear down these elaborate stalls, complete with benches for seating, awnings, lighting and fairly extensive menus. We had a traditional Moroccan lamb stew known as “bachelor’s stew” and some kebabs along with an assortment of olives and Moroccan salads. It almost made up for my disappointment about the rest of the square. I wish we had cheap, quality food stalls here.

On our second day, we walked out into the Nouvelle Ville, stopping at the Koutoubia Mosque on the way. Quite frankly, I am not normally into seeing beautiful old buildings when I’m on vacation. I only went into one church on the whole camino last summer. It's really just not my thing. Nonetheless, it was nice to see it up close (foreigners aren’t allowed inside most mosques in Morocco). The most striking feature is the tower which towers over the rest of the medina. Although it probably isn’t really very tall by our standards, it looks most impressive rising from a city made up mostly of 2 or 3 story buildings. It was probably prettiest when it is lit up at night though.

The nouvelle ville was much about as different from the medina as it could possibly be, with wide boulevards and French inspired roundabouts. But if you thought that roundabouts were insanity in Paris, you obviously haven’t seen a third world roundabout. In Morocco road traffic is not limited to cars and buses. Oh no. You also have to worry about the motorbikes racing through traffic, sometimes with small (as in 2 or 3 years old) helmet-less children on the back, desperately trying to hang on to their mother or father. Then there are the horse drawn carriages. Don’t forget the slow moving donkey carts. Or the police who pull people over in the middle of the street, leaving the rest of the traffic to swerve around them. There also aren’t really any cross walks. Or at least not any that anyone pays attention to. After observing the natives, the best thing to do seemed to be to follow one of them out into the traffic, moving between traffic like some real life game of Frogger until (hopefully) you finally reach the other side. It’s really hard for me to adequately capture the true horror that crossing a Marrakeshi street can be.

The new city didn’t have nearly as much old world charm as the medina – this is where you can get your Pizza Hut, KFC or McDonalds fix while shopping at some European chain stores. It’s also where many of the real Moroccans live. And since there isn’t a mosque every five feet, like in the medina, there are actually bars and clubs in the new city (no alcohol within view of a mosque, out of respect for Islamic law). Best of all, there is actually real nature – trees and even the occasional grass.

We caught a taxi back to the center. How much will it be Mr. Cabdriver? Whatever Allah wills. Hahaha, you Moroccan cabbies sure are funny…

Back on our rooftop terrace, we pried the tops off our newly acquired beers just as the sunset call to prayer rose up around us from all sides. Five times a day, every mosque broadcasts a prayer over loudspeakers reminding good muslims everywhere to stop, drop and pray. I didn’t actually notice that many heeding the call. But sitting in the middle of four or five different calls to prayer is a pretty surreally awesome experience. Of course when the wind kicked up a little we looked to the beers in our hands and worried that God might be angry with us.

We decided to spend our last night in the beach town of Essaouira, about 100 miles and a 2 and a half hour bus ride from Marrakech. We called ahead to the bus company recommended by my guidebook and they told us that there was a bus leaving at 10:45 in the morning. Hooray! We set out the next morning for the central bus station, the Gare Routiere, in good spirits. Until it turned out that we had been lied to about both the time and the station, meaning that we were not only late for the bus, but miles away from where it actually departed from. Disappointed, but unshaken, we bought tickets with a more authentic (aka shady) bus line for 5 dirham each cheaper. Or so we thought. After ushering us onto the bus, a loud argument erupted between our ticket salesman and the bus driver. Although it was entirely in Arabic, the tone seemed to be that either he didn’t want us whiteys on his bus or that he didn’t think we had been sufficiently fleeced. Next thing we know, they demand that we pay 20 dirhams each as a “baggage fee”. I am not a heavy traveler and we each had only half-filled backpacks. When we explained that we would like to keep our bags with us we were told that it didn’t matter and we still had to pay. But we didn’t really have a choice since they already had our money. It was such blatant extortion. I’m not going to pay you so you can root through my dirty clothes looking for valuables.

It wasn’t the four euros that it worked out to be that bothered us; it was the sneaky, slimy way that they went about getting it from us. It was also almost half of what we had initially paid for the ticket. Then we found out that a Moroccan on the same bus would have paid only 13 dirhams for the whole trip. We ended up paying 70 each. I understand that we’re tourists from rich countries and I understand that most Moroccans are very poor. But something tells me that the ones extorting money from people like me do very well for themselves and that they aren’t sharing with the destitute.

Finally we arrived in Essaouira. After fighting off the vultures (Do you need a hotel? Hotel? Do you need a room? Nice rooms! Cheap prices!) we caught a caleche, or hose drawn carriage to the medina with some newly acquired American friends, Esther and Ann. Strength in numbers. We found a very nice hotel for less than we had paid in Marrakech (and, most importantly, without any annoying guys demanding that you go inside). Once we were settled I could see that I would like Essaouira even more than Marrakech.

The streets were still lined with vendors, but the shop keepers didn’t sit outside imploring you to come in “just to look”. Instead we saw many more actual artisans working on their crafts. In general everything was much more laid back, whereas Marrakech could be described very accurately as hectic. I also found Essaouira to be prettier. Marrakech is beautiful, as well. It is known as the pink city because most of the buildings are painted the same pinkish color, which is designed to blend in with the color of the clay. Essaouira, on the other hand, has that classic Mediterranean white with blue trim look. I’m not alone. Apparently many celebrities have taken a liking to Essaouira, including Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Marley, Orson Welles and Winston Churchill.

We found a nice café to have lunch. Being on the beach, I ordered fish. I wasn’t thinking. They come whole. I’m not sure what kind of fish it was, but it had some massive looking teeth. Once we managed to debone, dehead and deskin it, it was most tasty. Then it was time for a walk out to the harbor and its rocky shore and then over to the sandy beach. I stuck my foot in, just to say I did it, but the water was too Californian to consider swimming in it. Apparently it is a great surf spot, though.

We left around noon the next morning – this time on a nice, reputable, air conditioned bus – and got back to Marrakech with enough time to spare to run back into the souqs for a few souvenirs and grab a bite for dinner before heading to the airport. I got a kaftan, which is a traditional shirt for women. It even has a pointy hood.

All in all, I had a great time. I'm glad to be able to say that I've been there and I can't wait to go to other exotic destinations. I think it's so much more exciting than swank hotels and sterilized atmosphere, even if it sometimes comes with a little more headache.

If you're interested in seeing the complete photographic record, check out my facebook albums:
Here
And here

Morocco

I'm headed off to Marrakesh (or Marrakech, depending who you ask) in a few hours. I'll be back Tuesday night, so stay tuned Wednesday for a very special double issue!

A Sping Haiku

Puffs of pollen in the breeze
Spring is in the air
Achoo! Need more claritin.