Food Poisoning, Palaces, Synagogues, and Four-Wheeling -- Marrakech

Mike took me out to a lovely dinner at an Indian restaurant last week. The view from the roof was spectacular, the decoration was luxurious, the food tasted superb, but the aftermath was less than ideal. I spent an unfortunate couple of hours sprinting to the toilet, where I created a cacophony of rude noises for several minutes, and then brokenly stumbled out. I was unable to appease the Indian seafood/coconut lassi monster in my belly. Mike felt terrible, but I found the situation rather amusing. We'd gone out to a very dirty, authentic, cheap restaurant for lunch and had been absolutely fine. It was the classy, expensive restaurant that destroyed my insides. 

Before the food poisoning...

The restaurant was in the style of a riad. A riad is a very typical sort of Arabic hotel, with a courtyard in the center and the rooms around the perimeter. 

Youssef is a member of a cultural exchange program called SERVUS MOROCCO. It functions similarly to couchsurfing, but is much more difficult to join, so is generally thought to be a bit safer. Not just anyone can create a profile and invite foreign folks to surf their couches. This being said, there are only about 40 SERVUS members in all of Morocco, and there are 574 couchsurfers in Marrakech alone. Not an insignificant difference. Anyway, Youssef had joined Mike and me for dinner the other night, and had participated in a rather spirited, enjoyable conversation/debate about religion, politics, and the history of Morocco. A few days later, Youssef hosted a Jewish couple from Israel using the SERVUS site, and thought they'd be interested in meeting Mike. As Mike is also Jewish, and Jews are generally fairly difficult to find around these parts.  So we spent a few hours discussing Israel, the life of a Jew in Morocco, and wandering around an old palace and synagogue. 

One of the two palaces in Marrakech

The synagogue in Marrakech -- also used as a refuge for homeless Jews.

Some of Mike's friends from Casablanca come into town on Thursday. I'm convinced that Mike has friends/relatives in every part of Morocco, France, Spain, Canada, and New York. Mike is the guy who always "knows a guy." Always. So we went out for an incredible Moroccan dinner with Sebastian and Jeremy (a couple of the Jewish guys Mike knows from Casablanca), and scheduled a four-wheeling adventure for the next day.

Morocco has been unusually wet for the last week or so. It hadn't rained for eight months, but has decided to adopt Ireland's weather as of late. I'm not bitter at all about this turn of events, I swear.

I actually drove this thing. It's the first vehicle I've driven since I crashed Liam's tractor into a fence last August. I am very proud of myself. I ran over nary a scraggly goat or overeager Moroccan child. 

You can't tell just how slowly I'm crawling along in this picture... 

Mike, Sebastian, and Jeremy. 

where we stopped for tea. It's pretty much given that if you go on an excursion in Morocco, you will stop for a mint tea.

The kids were enamored by the four-wheelers

Morocco may or may not be turning me into a biker chick. 

After we finished our two-hour guided four-wheeling excursion, Mike and I went back to his apartment to wash the caked Moroccan red dirt off our hands and faces, and to prepare ourselves for an evening out with Sebastian and Jeremy (in my case, preparation means putting on my one and only "evening out" shirt. Ah, the joys of living out of a suitcase). A new Brazilian buffet had recently opened in the outskirts of Marrakech, and as it promised excellent meat and exotic dancers, it was chosen as the Friday evening restaurant. 

My god, it did not disappoint. I have never dined upon better meat. The servers set out salads to start, but Sebastian wisely warned me to abstain from my tempting plate of greens, saving room in my stomach for the better things to come. I looked at the vibrant, crisp vegetables longingly, guiltily nibbled at a few, and then pushed my plate aside. "They give big starters to make it so you have no room for the most expensive meats," he confidentially whispered in my ear. "You see this?" Sebastian picked up a small coaster next to my plate. "If you want more, keep the green side up. When you are finished, turn the red side up. Okay?"

Okay. 

The servers brought out some seductive looking sausages and chicken legs to start the barrage of meaty goodness. Sebastian refrained from ingesting the lowly poultry, but I could resist no longer, and allowed the server to place the sausage and chicken on my sparkling white plate. Sebastian gave me a disappointed glance that clearly said, "You're going to regret that, just you wait." 

"But I like sausage," I responded out loud to his silent criticism. 

I do like sausage. I like sausage very, very much. However, I do not like sausage nearly as much as the rest of the meat they served at that restaurant. The servers brought us skewer after skewer dripping with moist, flavorful meat, placed the skewer point on our plates, and carved off a slice of meat for us on the spot. 

I regretted the sausage. Tremendously. 

The dancers came out about the time we'd all turned our coasters red side up, and were heading over to the bar for a final drink. 

Pole dancing looks really fun. I had no idea just how fit one has to be to do it properly. It's incredibly sexy dance/gymnastics/yoga. Fire dancing also seems nice, but I think I preferred it when all the old people mounted the tables to dance with the foxy Brazilian looking girl for the grand finale. The middle-aged woman in bright pink jeans was priceless. 

Sugar and Sex -- Musings on Morocco

Looking into getting married in Morocco? Are you a Muslim woman marrying a Muslim man? Have you engaged in any scandalous, pre-marital sex? Or perhaps you've grown up using dirty, cotton tampons to help out with that pesky period? If your answer is yes to most of these questions, then you might consider taking a quiet trip to your local gynecologist to get yourself some good ol' virginity surgery. Make that irksome hymen of yours as good as new! With our effective surgery (and some very good acting on your part), even your husband won't be able to tell that you've been "had" before. Yes, you can start over. And when your newly gained relations are waiting outside the "bridal chamber" the first time the two of you make love, they'll happily welcome you into their family upon receiving your blood stained panties. Hell, they might even practice a traditional ceremony wherein your panties are paraded through the streets, that all may know just how chaste you've been.

Aw, you get your very own parade. Isn't that nice?

And don't get all hot and bothered about the surgery, either. It's just a minor operation that consists of hooking biodegradable suture clips on your hymen to provoke bleeding during your "first" intercourse with your husband. Vagina blood = parade. What's not to like?

Can't afford the 3000 - 8000 dirhams it costs to recover your lost virginity? Well, don't lose hope! If your parents gave you the boot upon discovering you'd betrayed them and your religion by allowing a penis/tampon to enter into your holy place, chin up, it's not the end of the world. You may no longer be suitable Moroccan marriage material, but prostitution is always there for you -- thanks to the delightful double-standard held in this country when it comes to sex. Men push their girlfriends to go all the way with them, but require their brides to be purer than their bottled water. Unfortunately, the media is making virgins not nearly as plentiful as the bottled water. Girls now know what they're missing, and sexual liaisons amongst the upper-middle class are increasing in frequency with a rate alarming to the stalwart, lower-class, 30-year-old virgins waiting for someone to just take her panties already.

Are you a man? Are you Muslim? Do you see a pretty girl on the street? Does she look Muslim? Would you like to engage in sexual intercourse with said pretty girl? Well, I suppose you could ask nicely, but know that raping is a solid plan B. If you rape the pretty girl, you'll be cleared of all charges as long as you offer to marry her once you've finished.

There are protests in Morocco right now regarding this law. A sixteen year old girl was raped and forced by a judge to marry her rapist. She committed suicide a couple of weeks ago. Here's a link to her story: Rape Law Reform

The sugar culture here blows my mind. I knew that Morocco offered an abundance of rich spices, but I was caught entirely off-guard by the collective sweet-tooth of this country. Tea is sickeningly sweet, and Moroccans are tea addicts, so that's hundreds of calories of pure sugar every day. They put sugar in orange juice, and sugar in their milk.

This isn't my picture, but the amount of sugar for the size of the cup looks about right. Keep in mind that this sugar is extra. The tea has already been sweetened. And if your tea because supersaturated before you've stirred in your last two sugar cubes, don't you worry pretty little sweet tooth -- I've seen people snacking on sugar cubes after their tea, so feel free to gnaw away at the leftovers. You'll be a true Moroccan. ;) 

It might come as a shock to you that diabetes is one of the most frequent chronic diseases among Moroccans, but I swear upon my "sans sucre" mint tea that it is so.

Teapots, Ghosts, and Rick's Cafe -- Marrakech and Casablanca

Two months ago, I was jogging around the Mourillon, contemplating my spur-of-the-moment Moroccan travel plans, and wondering how in the good lord's name I'd make my dwindling finances last until mid-May. I would like all of you to know that I'm absolutely horrible when it comes to making money. During my nine months of travel, I've probably earned 200 dollars total. But even though I fail at making money, I'm brilliant at not spending it. So I knew I could afford the plane ticket to Marrakech, and that if I could live on five euros a day worth of food, I'd make it to mid-May just fine. As I'd been told (incorrectly) that food in Marrakech is very cheap, the five euros a day budget for a hunk of meat and a chunk of cheese seemed adequate enough to suit my simple lifestyle. The only unfortunate aspect of this master plan was that I'd be grounded, having pretty much zero money remaining to travel to other cities in Morocco. But I thought that some of Morocco would be far better than none of Morocco, so I bought the plane ticket regardless of the frighteningly small figure in my Wells Fargo checking account, and figured that I'd just get to know Marrakech very well. Very, very well. 

And then I met Mike: one of the most generous, jovial gentlemen I've had the pleasure of meeting on this trip. He purchases groceries, I cook very nice dinners. He takes me on magnificent trips around Morocco, I teach him yoga. 

I do believe I'm the luckiest lady in the land. I really, really am. 

One of Mike's many french friends had asked him to stop by a shop in Marrakech to pick out a table, so I was able to accompany Mike to one of the most beautiful knick-knack/lamp shops I've ever seen. The owner of the store is heavily in Mike's debt, as my host has directed about 200,000 dollars worth of business his way. Mike used this as leverage and was able to procure some free Moroccan leather sandals for me. They're pretty fantastic. 

 Wednesday afternoon, I was able to join Mike and Gad (one of Mike's Jewish friends) to Casablanca on a business trip. Casablanca is massive. It's the economical heart of Morocco, and boasts one of the nicest malls in the world. It also contains slums where people live in makeshift one-room building clusters. The traffic in Casablanca is worse than it is in Marrakech, but both Gad and Mike seemed unperturbed by the testosterone saturated roads (excessive honking is how people display their manhood in Morocco), so I decided it would be silly to worry myself about what Moroccans consider normal. 

I really haven't the faintest idea as to why the government bothers constructing one way signs, crosswalks, and lines down the middle of roads. Seems like an awful waste of time and money when Moroccans prefer to drive down the middle of the road. They're very economical, these Africans. If three cars can fit on a two lane road, why the hell not squeeze 'em all in?

The drive to Casablanca was much greener than the ride to Essaouira, and I was very happy to be sitting in the backseat of an air-conditioned Chrysler as we sped down one of Morocco's main motorways. I enjoy a good adventure, but my ass had just recovered from the 4 hour roundtrip ride to Essaouira, and I was reluctant to relinquish the pleasure of sitting so soon after recovery.

The roadside was strewn with rubbish and dotted with scruffy looking sheep, foraging for lunch amidst the lucy landscape of cacti and colorful plastic bags. The shepherds sat idly by, wearing their flowing djellabas and dilapidated straw hats. A perfectly groomed policeman stood at attention about every other mile, keeping an eye out for wealthy speeders.  People in other countries rely on mile markers to tell them how far they've driven -- people in Morocco can just count policemen. 10 policemen = 5 miles.

People in Casablanca seem to be more focused and a little less crazy than people in Marrakech. Perhaps this is because it's a bigger city and there are more opportunities. Perhaps it is simply because it is more European and the perceived diminishment of crazies is merely my western mentality rearing its well-developed head. It was nice to see more women without veils, though. Casablanca has more of a face than Marrakech, that much is sure.

Mike and Gad had their business meeting just outside of Casablanca, so I waited in the car and wrote/studied french for the hour it took them to conclude their business. After the meeting had finished, we ventured back onto the suicidal streets and haphazardly made our way to Casablanca's famous new mall.

It has an aquarium inside. If you're willing to dish out a few Dirham, you can take the glass elevator inside the aquarium  all the way to the food court.  

Stores in which this couchsurfer/volunteer will probably never shop. 

The mall's backyard

A really gorgeous mosque near the ocean

After we'd dropped our bags at Mike's father-in-law's apartment, we went out in search of Rick's Cafe. I understand that Casablanca was filmed in a studio in LA, but the romantic side of me still wanted to sit in a cafe called Rick's Cafe in a city called Casablanca.

So I did. And it was nice.

This is what I was always trying to make my bedroom look like in college.  Perhaps I have some Berber roots. 

I met with Youssef for a cup of coffee and a chat on Friday, but other than that, I've been spending most of my time practicing yoga, writing, and studying french. Mike is an excellent teacher, and makes sure that I practice consistently. We went out for lunch with a business friend, and I listened to the welcoming man speak only french for over two hours. I wish I could have understood more, because the story (as Mike translated it to me) was incredible. Mike's friend is an orphan who had had terrible trouble with business for the first 30-odd years of his life. After his second business had gone bankrupt, he went to stay with his adopted mother for her last two months in the hospital. Before she died, she promised him that she would come back and help him in some way. Exactly one year later, she appeared as a ghost in this man's house. He talked to her, but she didn't respond. A rather reticent guardian angel. Mike's friend decided to take a picture of the ghost to see whether or not he was crazy.

I saw the picture.

He's not crazy.

The next day, Mike's friend won the lottery. BIG time. With both the lottery tickets he had bought.

Mike took me out for a ride on the motorcycle to a nearby dam. We stopped at a gorgeous restaurant for lunch, and then headed over to check on the progress of Jean-Christof's hotel.

Those three words are Morocco's motto: God, People, King

I'm always afraid to take pictures when they're looking. Mike says that he's seen a bearded Moroccan get so angry at seeing his picture taken, that he grabbed the tourist's camera and broke it. I don't take pictures of bearded Moroccans. 

Backseat Motorbiking -- Essauoira

I'm starting this post from the corner of Mike's violet couch in his spacious living room. A light breeze is wafting in through the open sliding door, and the chaotic traffic sounds from the street below do a good job reminding me that I'm still in Marrakech. I had a very full weekend, so I'm spending the day practicing French, studying yoga sequencing, and writing this blog. I'll make a trip to the Acima in an hour or so to purchase groceries for dinner, but that will be the extent of my outdoor excursions for the day. 

I prepared a chicken tikka masala for dinner on Friday night (it turned out extraordinarily well), and after we'd finished eating, Mike took me out to get a taste of the nightlife in Marrakech. Proper nightlife in the Red City doesn't start until about one or two in the morning though, so we had a couple of hours to kill before we crashed the few discos Mike had in mind. So Mike took me out to tea (Moroccans drink almost as much tea as the Irish) and then to watch a band perform at one of the plushest hotels in Marrakech. The hotel was gorgeous, the singer had an outrageously powerful voice, and I was mildly amused to find that this Moroccan band in Marrakech and Maryline in Toulon have nearly the exact same repertoire. This singer didn't allow her  voiced THs to melt into Zs and her unvoiced THs to slip into Ss the way Maryline did on occasion, but I enjoyed it regardless of its lack of sultry French accent. 

 

I might mention that I'd never been to a disco before Friday, and it was a pretty great experience to have my first night out be with someone like Mike. Totally responsible, protective host, and everyone knows him. The music was good, the Grey Goose was grand (yes, I did indulge a little...), and I had a really wonderful time. However, I am convinced that I do not possess the physical fortitude of a party girl, and I have no idea how people are able to spend night after night clubbing and continue to function normally during the day. At two o'clock Saturday morning when things were just starting to get rolling, I found myself nearly falling asleep. After three drinks of Grey Goose, happily falling asleep -- but I was still one pooped American. Lamest tourist ever. 

I spent nearly all day Saturday with a charming young Moroccan architect named Amine. We met at the cafe across from Victor Hugo Highschool, drank some mint tea (like you do), and talked nonstop for two hours. He's someone who has been very active in the couchsurfing community, and had magnificent stories to tell. Stories that were inspirational and motivating when it comes to travel and learning about different cultures. Couchsurfing makes travel so accessible, friendly, positive, and personal. It forces you to expect the best out of people. Your interest in someone's hometown helps them realize the good things about where they live, and most are very happy to give interested people a comprehensive tour. Couchsurfing has given me experiences that money could never buy. Even if I had enough money to book the most expensive hotel in Marrakech, I would still prefer to stay with someone like Mike. It's such a good way to exchange ideas, stories, and skip all the superficial chit-chat that normally precedes any sort of meaningful relationship. You suddenly have a person in your house and on your couch. Talking about trivialities seems silly. 

We continued our conversation a few hours later at a shisha bar about 20 minutes away from Mike's. I asked Amine for an interview, but I'm not sure if I'm going to get one. I might have come across as a bit intimidating when I talked about my "lifelong documentary project". I'll have to work on that. 

I prepared a lamb ragout for Mike when I returned to the apartment, and went to bed shortly after finishing dinner. Not only was I STILL tired from the one night of partying (which I primarily spent sitting and smiling stupidly at the pretty disco lights), but Mike and I were heading off on his motorcycle to Essauoira in the morning. Essauoira is a coastal city about 180 km away from Marrakech. Its name is absolutely impossible for me to pronounce, and since whenever I said, "I'm going to Ess... Essa... Esssee..." people interrupted me and said, "Essauoira. You're going to eat fish, right?" I've decided to call it, "The City Wherein I Shall Eat Fish." Even the policeman who checked Mike's papers as we left Marrakech said, "Essauoira -- you will eat fish?"

180 km. That's about a four hour round-trip motorcycle ride. Piece of cake, right? I mean, all I have to do as the passenger is hang on tight and try not to mess with the balance of the bike. Not so. My inner groin muscles are livid and my ass is absolutely destroyed, but "The City Wherein I Shall Eat Fish" was more than worth  having an angry derriere for a few days. 

The drive to Essaouira. At times, I thought I was on my way to Delta. Then I'd see a shepherd watching his flock of very mangy sheep (they really do just stand around and watch), and remember where I was. The burros and donkeys were also good indicators. 

Kilometers away from civilization and someone was STILL trying to sell us something. 

Mike!

Argan oil (as wikipedia tells me) is produced from the kernels of the argan tree, endemic to Morocco, that is valued for its nutritive, cosmetic and numerous medicinal properties. The tree, a relict species from the Tertiary age, is extremely well adapted to drought and other environmentally harsh conditions of southwestern Morocco.  

It may be well adapted to Morocco, but it hasn't managed to flourish anywhere else. Women in southwestern Morocco create cooperative businesses for themselves producing this oil, and share the proceeds among all the women in their Berber tribe. Although it takes 40 kilos of seeds to make one 1 kilo of oil (I think...), they've had tremendous success in contributing to the healthcare and education needs of their communities. So when you see the price tag of 35 dollars on a 5 oz bottle of Argan oil, before you recoil in absolute horror, remember all the Berbers you're helping to support and buy the damn oil. 

It's also very tasty. So there's that. 

Inside an oil cooperative

Argan trees

They used to make the oil by collecting undigested seeds from goat poop. Now they climb the trees themselves. 

The City Wherein I Shall Eat Fish 

Essauoira is famous for four things -- that I know of, anyway. It is renowned for its FISH, its wind (kitesurfer's heaven), its Argan oil, and its woodwork. 

People in Essauoira are much friendlier than in Marrakech. Life seems a bit slower, motorcyclists have more respect, and people aren't quite as pushy. However, the percentage of raving lunatics seems a bit higher than in Marrakech.

After we'd walked around the Medina, Mike took me out to a fish lunch. We got to choose which fish we wanted to eat and they fried it up for us on the spot. So simple and tasty.

A beach about 20 km away from Essauoira