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.
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| 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. |
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| Kilometers away from civilization and someone was STILL trying to sell us something. |
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| Mike! |
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.
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| Inside an oil cooperative |
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| Argan trees |
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| They used to make the oil by collecting undigested seeds from goat poop. Now they climb the trees themselves. |
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| The City Wherein I Shall Eat Fish |
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| 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.
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| A beach about 20 km away from Essauoira |
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