Majorelle Gardens and Tea with Strangers -- Marrakech

I have now reached the point of my stay in Marrakech where I'm not sure what's worthy of mention and what isn't. I'm not jaded at all -- I'm just settling into the culture of Marrakech and the everyday sights don't stand out as much as they did the first few days of my visit. So I don't think to write about the donkey pulling its load of tomatoes, the roosters cockadoodledoo-ing at all hours (yes, I'm American) of the morning, the prayers reverberating through the entire city five times a day, the women covered up from head to toe, or the crazy cyclists. These things have become normal. 

I've mostly stopped walking by myself, however. For me, walking is a meditative activity. I love going for long strolls and contemplating ideas for plays, creating new life goals, and going back in time to win arguments I'd originally lost. Pretty much everything I do in the shower, as a matter of fact. Walks in Marrakech, especially for single women, are never contemplative. The noise, the exhaust, the dangerous drivers, and the general disregard for personal space makes quiet contemplation impossible. I read snippets of another traveller's experience in Morocco, and he likened the city to a hornet's nest. I think this is a just comparison. I used to walk forty-five minutes to a garden near the main square to journal, but now I don't bother. The last time I went, a young man followed me for ten minutes, trying to force himself on me as a guide through the souk. After I'd repeatedly said, "I'm not interested!" and walked away in a huff, I managed to lose the persuasive young entrepreneur. I sat down in the shade and started to journal. After a beautiful five minutes of peace and (relative) quiet, I was approached by an old man who propped his leg up beside me (to emphasize his masculinity), absent-mindedly scratched his crotch, and invited me to tea. Remembering orange juice man, I politely declined, put my journal back into my bag, and told him I needed to get going. 

I journal, write, and meditate at Mike's now. Whenever I want to go out while Mike's at work, I try to organize meetings with other couchsurfers so that I have good company and am not harassed. 

A few notes:

Madrid is a city for pedestrians

Venice is a city for gondolas

Ireland is a country for cars (and horse trailers)

Copenhagen is a city for bicycles 

Toulon is a city for runners

Marrakech is a city for motorcycles 

While I adore riding backseat on Mike's Ducati, I wish the other motorcyclists in Marrakech would develop some sort of respect for red traffic lights. There are police everywhere, but none of them stop the motorcyclists because they know that they're too poor to pay the fines. So in this case, poverty is a license do do whatever you want on the road.

What I wear when motorcycling with Mike. It's very serious. 

 Mike took me to Majorelle Gardens last Sunday, and I had a lovely time walking through the exotic plants, taking pictures, and practicing various yoga poses. It's a very popular tourist destination in Marrakech, and I was thrilled to be able to visit.

The famous French designer who used to live in the gardens

The Marjorelle Gardens are named after this color of blue. Very famous, apparently.  

I met up with a couchsurfer named Youssef yesterday for tea, an interview, and a walk around the souk. He's a splendid fellow, and I enjoyed his company immensely. Youssef has a degree in philosophy, is incredibly intelligent, very generous with his time, and has a surprising sense of humor. Youssef wants to travel the world, but is having a difficult time getting a visa to do so. Moroccans struggle to get visas to countries other than African countries, Russia, Brazil, and Turkey. It was really sad for me to listen to this well-educated, sensitive, friendly man talk about his travel dreams and realize how difficult they would be for him to achieve merely because he was born in Morocco.

The main church in Marrakech

A mosque in Marrakech -- right across the street from the church

One of the alleys in the souk

Youssef led me through the labyrinth-like souk until we reached his friend's spice shop. Saad brewed some Moroccan tea for us, and I can say without exaggeration that it was the best tea I've ever had. It was a mixture of star anise, fennel, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, and peppermint. I will definitely make this tea in bulk when I get back to Colorado. Saad then taught me a little bit about the spices he sells and inquired about the state of things in America. I told him that things were getting better as far as the economy goes, and this seemed to make him extraordinarily happy. Marrakech is a tourist city. It isn't the independent business city Casablanca is, so if tourism dies in Marrakech, Marrakech dies. So if the economy in America and Europe fails, tourism slows, and vendors like Saad suffer.

Saad's spices

Saad and Youssef

Bonjour, ça va? Hello, how are you? Hola, como estas? -- Marrakech

The perils of traveling as a single lady in Marrakech haven't been too great thus far. There's been no kidnapping, raping, robbing, or poisoning (just a bit of indigestion). I have a wonderful place to stay, great company with Mike, am enjoying the cuisine immensely, and get to ride backseat on a ducati nearly every afternoon. 

But regardless of all the good in my life, Marrakech is in the process of turning me into an asshole. Why? Well, here's an example of a typical walk about town: 

I wear jeans, a modest T-shirt, covered shoes (the streets are filthy), and sunglasses. I leave my video camera and all of my important documents at Mike's, and carry only my iPhone, a water bottle, a notebook, a pen, and Mike's spare set of keys. I take the elevator to floor zero and say, "Bonjour, merci!" to the Moroccan man who opens the door for me. That single, "Bonjour, merci!" is the first and last friendly interaction I have during my solo walk. The harassment starts as soon as I get to the street. 

"Bonjour, madame. Ca va? Madame? Parlez-vous français? Hello? Como estas?" 

In Ireland, people say hello just to say hello, and having friendly interactions with people I meet on the street has become a favorite pastime of mine. Ireland taught me to love asking for directions -- simply because it gave me an excuse to talk to someone (even if you don't really need an excuse to talk in Ireland). However, the Irish also know that when one is journaling in the park, it's best to leave the person alone with his/her thoughts. In Europe and the United States, we generally have a decent amount of respect for personal boundaries, and when we say hello, it's generally just to say hello. In my experience, anyway. 

In Marrakech, people do not say hello just to say hello. Not usually, anyway. When someone says, "Bonjour, madame. Ca va?" and you respond with a friendly, "Bonjour, ca va," you will immediately find yourself being followed down the street by a man trying to sell you something. I've been chased down the sidewalk by men on motorcycles several times because I naively answered, "Ca va."  So within the span of five days, I've learned to ignore all salutations, regardless of the language in which I'm addressed (people here WILL know the language you speak). I don't smile, don't turn my head, don't acknowledge the other party in any way. I leave Mike's apartment feeling on top of the world, and I generally return to it a few hours later feeling tired, hot, and irritable. I've experienced bouts of loneliness and isolation during my nine months of solo-traveling, and I imagine that if I didn't have someone as wonderful as Mike to stay with, I'd be in full-throttle isolation mode now. It's a culture that is very hard for me to adapt to because it's a culture that forces you to isolate yourself (if you want to maintain any level of sanity, that is). 

I am very lucky to be staying with Mike. 

The hissing, honking, and cat-calling is also hard to deal with. I don't last 5 minutes in a public area without being hissed at. It's very unsettling, especially since I know that there's nothing I can do about it. 

I wandered around the souk for a few minutes on Saturday, and found myself accosted by the orange juice man. 

"Ah, I see you again. Why are you here?"

"Just wandering."

"You not come for seeing me? I look for you everywhere."

"No, just wandering."

"You join me in my riad? I make traditional tagine. I make for you massage. Massage so good that you come back to Morocco every holiday. EVERY holiday. Then we make oogie boogie. Not a lot oogie boogie. But a little. You know what means oogie boogie?"

*Frigid nod*

"I make you little kisses, you make me little kisses -- very, very nice. I like you. You make my heart happy. Why not be happy? Why not?" 

"I have to keep walking."

And I bid the black-toothed scalawag farewell and continued my trek into the depths of the squalid, mystical souk. 

I'm harassed a bit more than usual due to these factors (I think): 

I'm foreign

I'm a woman

I'm young

I'm alone

I especially don't like it when I'm walking on one of the many sidewalks lined with benches. Groups of Moroccan boys sit on the benches and stare me down as I pass, and as soon as I'm within earshot, they start addressing me in every language they know, trying to elicit a response. As soon as I cross in front of them, they hiss. I've never felt so objectified and bullied before. My host told me that some women come to Morocco because they enjoy this. Blows. My. Mind. 

Walking with Mike is completely different. All manner of harassment stops and I'm free to enjoy the city for the lively, sensational place it is. I see other tourists (they're very easy to spot here) walking as couples, and they don't seem to be harassed much. So my advice to ladies visiting Morocco is to come with a friend, a boyfriend, or find someone like Mike. Unless being hissed at and asked to "oogie boogie" is what you're after, of course. 

It isn't my intention to disparage Marrakech or to discourage tourists from visiting -- but I thought I'd be a bit remiss if I didn't mention the few difficulties I encounter when walking alone. It doesn't seem dangerous at all -- it's just disrespectful and annoying. 

All in all, my experience in Morocco has been absolutely phenomenal and I have nothing to complain about, but the extraordinary nature of my week is due primarily to the kindness of my host and his friends. 

The tombs across from the souk

I am endlessly amused by the desire people have to carve their initials into things

At the souk. Olives are cheap and plentiful in Morocco.

Dried fruits are also abundant

Grapefruit, lemon, and orange juice stands are everywhere. I do my best to avoid them these days. 4 dh translates into about 50 cents. So one can enjoy a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice quite cheaply. 

I enjoy the shoes. 

A henna artist. These are some of the only women I see at the market. The majority of the vendors are men. 

Morocco is famous for its leatherwork. Too bad it ends up smelling like pigeon shit. Oof. 

The Souk -- Marrakech

The weekend before I left Toulon, Caroline and Jerome shared with me their experience in Marrakech. They said that people would be very persuasive when trying to convince me to buy things I didn't want. They acted out a scenario wherein Jerome played a souk shopkeeper who was trying to sell me one of Bibou's puzzles. They told me that once something is in your hands, you pretty much have to pay for it. Jerome grabbed me off the "street", brought me into his "shop", and practically placed his "goods" into my unwilling hands. All the time speaking nonstop french three inches away from my face.

Jerome and Caroline missed their callings. They should BOTH be actors. 

Caroline advised me to wait three days before visiting the souk. She thought it would be a good idea to get accustomed to the culture before I adventured into such a bustling place. But Mike was at work all day yesterday, so I decided to go for a bit of a walk by myself. After walking forty minutes down the streets and ambling through a city park, I ended up at the souk. As one does. 

The walk to the souk was just as overwhelming as the souk itself. Traffic is insane in Marrakech, and I was very happy to be able to escape into the park after forty minutes of charily zigzagging through the streets. Pedestrians get zero respect from bikes and automobiles alike. Bikers don't respect any traffic signs or lights, so even if the little green man lights up, you still have to watch out for a belligerent biker who might run you over. They also feel quite at ease on the sidewalks and in the souk, so you have to be 100 percent alert 100 percent of the time if you want to avoid ending up in a tangled mess with a motorcycle and the family of Moroccans it carried. People are constantly honking and getting indignant with each other on the roads. It's a loud, chaotic, exciting mess, but the locals seem to enjoy it. It's interesting to contrast the driving here with the driving in Ireland. In Ireland, you salute and smile as you pass. In Marrakech, you honk and shout. Each to his own, I suppose. 

The park on the way to the souk

I had been advised by my host to avoid talking to most people. He also warned me that some Moroccans would grab me and yell at me, but that it wasn't dangerous and I should just ignore it. I wasn't grabbed, but a fair amount of people yelled and honked at me in the souk and on the road. It seemed aggressive and made me feel moderately uncomfortable and anxious, but I think it's a part of life one gets used to and learns to disregard.

Upon entering the square of the souk, I saw a multitude of umbrellas covering the orange juice, produce, spice, and knick-knack shops. There were musicians sitting on rugs, playing their flutes under the scorching MARCH sun. There were men holding monkeys on chains, forcing the sad looking animals to perform tricks for the tourists avidly snapping pictures. I didn't linger long anywhere, as I was afraid that I would be approached and find out that someone had had the time to put something in my hands. I was even afraid to take pictures, as I read online that many performers and non-performers alike demand dirhams if they find themselves being photographed. This seems a bit silly though, and I think I'll take plenty of pictures when I go back to the souk with Mike.

About nearly being hit by a motorcyclist for the 15th time, a man walking in front of me told me I ought to stay more to the right. He then introduced himself, asked where I was from, and offered to show me the tannery and leather district. As I'd read that many Moroccans offer themselves as guides and then charge exorbitant fees (and get you a little lost), I tried to shrug him off. He then told me that it was, "not for money. Just for language. I walk with you and practice my English. Not for money."

So I agreed to a quick trip around the leather district of the souk, with the understanding that no money would change hands. The leather district is populated with Berbers who moved down to Marrakech from the mountains a good many years ago. The Berbers are actually the oldest race to settle in Morocco, but most of them have been assimilated into the Arabic Islamic culture and have given up their polytheist belief system. They have entire communities that seem very self-sufficient in the Old Town section of Marrakech. My self-appointed guide showed me one of the little communities, and there was a bakery, segregated showers for men and women, and separate mosques for the men, women, and children. The men worked downstairs with the leather, and the women worked upstairs with the sewing.

As we approached the tanneries, a putrid smell began to waft all over us. My guide asked, "You smell that?"

"Yes, I definitely smell that. "

"That is the pigeon shit. It is used to make the leather soft. It is the ammonia in the pigeon shit that makes the leather soft. Now the smell is not so bad. In summer, then the smell is bad. Here, hold this mint up to your nose to take away the smell."

I have never been so thankful for a sprig of peppermint.

One of the largest tanneries

Leather that has been rubbed with pigeon shit and washed in salt to take away the smell of bird feces.

It was around this time that things started getting awkward with my guide.

"I like walking with you. I walk with you not for money, but because I like to walk with you. You make my heart -- my heart happy. I look at you and I smile. You are in Marrakech. How long are you in Marrakech? Two months? You come visit me in the mountains. I rent a Riad, a traditional Berber tent. I make traditional tagine, drink wine -- yes, wine -- why not? Then I make for you a massage. Why not?"

"Well, I'm actually staying with a fellow right across from the Victor Hugo Highschool. I suppose I'd have to run it by him first."

"Where is he from?"

"He is from Casablanca, but he lives in Marrakech."

"But I am from Marrakech. I show you the traditional Marrakech and he show you the traditional Casablanca. You are smart! You can have two boyfriends -- a boyfriend in Marrakech and a boyfriend in Casablanca."

"mmm... So, why do people in a desert drink so much hot tea? Doesn't it seem a bit odd to you?"

"We drink hot tea in hot weather to keep the body cool. A Riad in the mountains -- why not? I like you, you make my heart happy. Why not be happy?"

I was able to steer conversation away from his Riad in the mountains until he led me back to the main square. He then gave me the number of his orange juice stand and bid me farewell. So I got out of that situation unscathed (except for my burning nostrils) and a good deal more informed on the ways of Berber life and leather making.

Part of the square. These poor horses are everywhere. 

Sensory Overload -- Marrakech

I'm starting this post from my host's apartment across the street from Lyceen Victor Hugo. I have my own room, a very comfortable bed, a bathroom, free access to the kitchen, and a lovely dog named Spin to cuddle up with. My host is mind-boggingly generous, very sensitive, and a pleasure to talk with. He offered to put me up for the entire two months of my stay in Morocco, and he's such a wonderful fellow to be around that I'm very tempted to take him up on it. However, as the reason I travel is to meet new people and learn about new cultures, I should probably stick with my original plan of staying with Mike for one week and then moving on. I'll see if I can stay with him again before I leave for Paris, though.

My night at Paris airport was miserable. I arrived at 22:30 and had to wait until 4:30 before they let me check in my bag. It was cold. Frigid. I was so dehydrated that I was starting to feel light-headed, so I bought a liter of water for the exorbitant price of 2 1/2 euros. An hour later, I had to pee. Unbeknownst to me at the time I practically chugged my entire liter of water, all the airport bathrooms closed at midnight and didn't open again until five. That's a long time to let a liter of water hang around.

After dropping off my bag (which is no longer overweight, thank god), I went through security -- assuming there'd be a bathroom on the other side. But Paris Airport seems to be structured differently than other airports I've encountered. In other airports, you pass through security and then have to find your way through a plethora of touristy stores and 6 dollar a cup coffee shops before you finally make it to your gate. In Paris, you pass through security and are immediately at your gate. Do not buy coffee, do not collect 200 dollars, and do not go to the bathroom.

I really, really had to pee.

My flight left at 6:00. Boarding started at 5:30. As soon as I got onboard, I beelined toward the back, threw my bag on a random seat, and thanked the good lord for airplane lavatories.

The seating assignments on EasyJet are random, so I was able to pick a seat near the back by a window. I was just about to celebrate having the full row to myself, when a woman plopped down next to me with the only baby on the airplane. Then she asked me to move to the seat behind her (without a window), so that she, the baby, and her husband could sit together.

I politely obliged, but felt terribly unlucky. I adore staring out windows. Bus windows, train windows, car windows, tall building windows. Airplane windows are my favorite though, and I was disappointed that I wasn't able to stare out at Africa.

Upon arrival at the Marrakech airport, I passed through immigration, picked up my bag, and put on my, "please recognize me" face. My host had told me he'd be there to pick me up at nine, so I positioned myself right in front of the entrance and waited for Mike to arrive. After about forty-five minutes of scrutinizing and double-scrutinizing everyone who entered the airport, a very friendly looking fellow approached me and introduced himself as Mike. He offered to carry my legendary behemoth bag (as it shall hence be called), and we headed off to his friend's car. We stopped for breakfast at a small cafe on the way to his apartment, and I had my first taste of the mint tea Morocco is famous for.

It is very, very sweet. I enjoy the flavor, but will always ask them to hold the sugar. I find it interesting that people who live in a desert drink such hot beverages -- given that the temperature in the summer can hit 44 degrees Celsius. 

I learned a lot more about my host over my cheese omelette and mint tea, and knew immediately that it would be an absolute pleasure to stay with him. He's one of the few remaining Moroccan Jews (most have emigrated, as life can be hard for them in a Muslim country), works as a solar energy engineer, is very well-traveled, and speaks excellent English.

After breakfast, we headed over to Mike's apartment. Spin assaulted me with all sorts of friendly dog kisses, and I settled my things into the extra bedroom. As I'd slept nary a wink the night before, I crawled under the covers of the queen sized bed and tried to get some sleep. The excitement of being in Marrakech was too much though, and I wasn't able to turn my brain off. I'd already seen three camels and an entire family riding one small motorcycle. My brain was on excitement overload.

Mike has a French client who owns hotels in Brazil and Marrakech. He invited me to join him and his client for lunch and to take pictures of the beginnings of the Marrakech hotel. I was more than happy to oblige.

A typical Moroccan salad

My first tagine in Morocco. It was so flavorful and good.

The bread served with tagine. You use your bread to soak up all the oily goodness at the bottom of the tagine. 

Jean-Cristof's hotel in progress. It's going to be stunning.

After visiting Jean Cristof's hotel, Mike took me to a luxurious hotel in the city of Marrakech where he was doing some solar panel work.

We went out for drinks later that evening, and I enjoyed my glass of sparkling water (look at me continuing to avoid alcohol) in the sumptuous upstairs lounge of the bar.

The last part of my first day in Morocco was so surprising and extraordinary that I still can't believe happened. Moroccan food is very popular in Brazil. Jean Cristof wants to bring a Moroccan chef to Brazil to work in his hotel. The chef candidate was preparing a few test courses for Jean Cristof last night.

And he invited us to join him.

Also invited to dinner was a stand up comic, an actress, and a makeover coach. All grew up and worked in Paris, but had Berber roots. They seemed very nice, but I couldn't understand much of what was said. French definitely comes slowly for me. When two people speak, I can understand a good amount of the conversation. When an adult speaks to a child, I can understand almost everything. When there are many adults conversing over each other, I understand nothing. Perhaps I catch the occasional "merde!" but that's it.

The food was spectacular, and I was so hungry that I could have eaten all of it. However, a good deal of the beautifully prepared food remained on the plates uneaten. Mike was feeling quite sick, so he didn't eat much. Jean Cristof didn't eat much (I have no idea why he restrained himself). The girls nibbled. I swear, my childhood lovebird ate more than the three girls combined.

So who was the culprit who ate the majority of the food on the table? The American. Look at me rising to the occasion.

This was all in my first day. One day. I still can't quite believe this is happening.

And just wait until I write about how I spent my day today...