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.