2013 World Trip Part 9

The next day had an entirely different feel to it. For probably the first time during the entire holiday, it didn’t feel like we had any pressing needs. There were no obligations, no schedules; there was literally nothing we felt like we had to do within a certain time. It was glorious. It was after a hefty sleep in that Ian and I reached the mutual decision that the day would be dubbed

               ‘The Write-Off Day’.

After soaking up the wi-fi, we very slowly began to plan the day ahead. Ian had been told the night before during our dinner date with Paul that he should make getting a padlock for his bag an absolute priority. This was based on some experiences the guys had gone through in the same country, so we decided there was probably some merit to be gained from heeding the warning. There was also a mosque here, a medina there; we were really very uninterested with the whole planning side of things.

During the planning stage of our journey, a curious thing happened. Ian was getting changed in the bathroom when I heard a muffled thump on our balcony window. When I walked out to investigate, I found an exhausted swallow, limping over to a puddle of water that had accumulated under our air-conditioner unit. His beak was agape and he was panting, obviously suffering heatstroke. The poor guy offered no resistance to us as we edged closer, despite him obviously being terrified. Poured more water into the puddle and left with the idea that this bird would either stay and die on the balcony or start feeling better and fly off. We named him Simon.

We headed downstairs with a very vague plan in mind in search of a map. This was beginning to become a necessary routine. After walking up to the concierge, he pointed out our position on the map, as well as some other places of interest. With a cheeky grin, he dropped his finger on the map over the ‘Old Medina’.

                ‘This?’ he began. ‘This not far. Maybe… Ten minutes walk.’ He said with a shrug and a hand gesture that informed us he totally just pulled that figure from his rectum.

                ‘This?’ he pointed at the ‘New Medina of Marrakesh. ‘Not far.’ He said, throwing his bottom lip out, knowingly. ‘Maybe… (he let the ‘e’ hang for the longest time before dropping the sound) ten minutes walk?’ I frowned, cottoning onto the fact that this guy might not ACTUALLY know how long it took to walk the distance. But he wasn’t done.

                ‘Maybe… Five minutes by car?’ He looked down at the map, and with a broad smile, turned back up to look at us.

                ‘Maybe… One minute by air?’ He left his grin on his lips waiting for us to get it. We left.

Instead of heeding another of Paul’s wise words the night before, we decided to go out for our walk during midday. The harsh sun beat a powerful reminder to always listen to Paul into any skin we left exposed. I forgot that we must’ve put on our ‘Please annoy us’ shirts and the multiple taxi drivers that hovered just outside the hotel’s gates descended to do just that as soon as we set foot out the door. Ignoring both them and the heat, we headed for the New Medina.

It wasn’t long before we came to a fixture in the ground emblazoned with advertising and sporting a giant digital display. It showed the time, the date and the temperature on a repeating cycle. It was a little after 12.30pm and the display showed that it was already 45°C. Great time for a walk.

We marched on, and after around twenty five minutes of second guessing where we were on the map, managed to make our way to the New Medina. By this stage we realized we hadn’t actually eaten since our pizza with Paul the night before and ducked into a local KFC to right that wrong. Half an hour later, we left full of grease, poorly cooked chicken and regret. We crossed the street (again, harder than it sounds) and ventured into the New Medina. We found it was really just a selection of stores that made it no different from Rundle Mall. Regardless, we had a mission and we began our hunt for Ian’s padlock.

We had no luck in the New Medina at all and as such, turned our sights to the Old Medina. We thought that surely SOMEONE would have to sell one in the mishmash of knick-knacks. Not wanting to get involved with the taxi drivers again, we decided to walk the distance. We passed some interesting sights – another mosque, though not as grand as the Hassan II. I was sweating more out than I was taking in and Ian didn’t look like he was doing any better. By this time, it was around 2.30pm and the mercury had hit around 51°C. We were not in a talking mood, we were becoming more and more dehydrated with every minute we spent in the sun and I was secretly wishing that we’d never left the hotel.

When we reached the Old Medina where we’d met Paul the night before, I was shocked. The difference between the two times couldn’t have been any more obvious. It was virtually empty compared to the evening before! I was ok with this as it meant that there were less people to hassle us. Don’t get me wrong, people still DID, there were just less of them. When we came up empty handed during our search of the stalls around the immediate edge of the medina, we decided to venture further into the labyrinth of stalls and streets. As we were searching for a padlock for Ian, he led the way. We walked through a never-ending twisting maze that became harder and harder for me to remember the way we came the further we went. Eventually we reached an area that I noticed had absolutely no tourists, just locals and they were unimpressed that we’d invaded – the looks on their faces said it all. I quietly got Ian’s attention and told him what I’d noticed and we made our way in the opposite direction as subtly as we could, so we didn’t draw any attention to ourselves.

We searched and searched but within the hour we were hot, lost and had found no sign of any baggage lock. After a quick chat, we decided to cut our losses and focus on leaving the medina rather than continue the search. I could tell this annoyed Ian and had I been in the same position, I’d have been annoyed too – his belongings were insecure in a foreign country with a less-than-favourable reputation, but I think we’d both had enough of walking and just wanted to collapse in our hotel’s amazing pool. We soon found however, that leaving the medina is easier said than done.

We’d gone and got ourselves TRULY lost. Not just a little bit, but all the way and it began to provoke dormant anxieties in me. Every corner we turned revealed only MORE corners to turn. Even in the back streets, people still hounded us for money. One clever waiter walked in front of us; arms open wide, giving us his best toothy grin.

                ‘Please! Please! Come! You eat, you drink! Sit! Sit!’ We waved the guy off but were genuinely as polite as we could be by that stage.

                ‘No thanks, no thanks.’ This obviously irked the man more than I thought it was going to. His voice climbed several octaves higher and he began speaking to us in the derogatory tone that a child uses to bully another.

                ‘NO THANKS! NO THANKS!’ He had a unique approach of convincing us to return. We waited until we were well around the next corner to burst out laughing, to ensure we didn’t antagonize the guy any further. A few twists and turns we realized there was some method in all this madness and fixed to the walls above our heads were bright red and blue signs with areas and numbers under them. The aim being, you follow the trail the signs laid out, the numbers decrease until you reach where you need to be. We tracked one for at least half an hour before a kid of around 13-14 years old stopped us in our tracks.

                ‘You. You lost. Come, follow me.’ Brutal honesty. At that point, it was necessary. We followed the boy, but I felt I had to come clean to him. I had no cash on me. I had absolutely no way to pay this kid for helping us. He either didn’t understand or didn’t hear because he shook his head and waved us on. It seemed he was going to help us regardless which was something we were did not expect here in the least. We followed graciously and the boy pointed us in the direction of the Old Medina. We’d made it. However, despite our constant warnings before (and not entirely unexpectedly), the boy held out his hands.

                ‘Money, money. You pay me.’

I genuinely felt terrible. Here was one person in the country that had genuinely done us a service and we could pay the guy (Ian coming clean to me that he had nothing smaller than 200 Dirham notes and didn’t feel like parting with them). However, people that had sent us on wild goose chasses had received our cash. It didn’t seem right and I apologized profusely, though it did little to mask the look of disgust on the kid’s face and in a way, he was justified in doing so. Ian and continued on in the direction the kid had pointed and sure enough, we made our way into the Medina. We haggled half-heartedly with taxi driver scum before finally piling into one and falling into a sweaty, exhausted pile back in our rooms. We learned a few valuable lessons that day; the most important being ‘Always listen to Paul’.

Eventually, we picked ourselves up and dropped ourselves in the hotel pool. It was a very short-lived experience, with neither of us having any energy to swim properly. We made the most of the time that we had in that wet paradise however, until the DJ at the bar began repeating the same song – a clubby rendition of ‘Miss you’ by the Rolling Stones. It was on the third repeat that we realized the DJ was either in a coma or stuck in a loop himself, either way we toweled off and headed up to our room to get ready for dinner. Rather than braving the streets of Marrakesh again, we decided instead to see what delights the hotel’s restaurant had to offer, having spied the menu the night before.

There were two areas available to get out culinary fill; the bar or the restaurant downstairs. The restaurant opened at 7pm and rather than get shafted like we did in Casablanca by being too late, we decided to make it down there dead on time. The employees, however had other ideas and the doors were locked when we ventured down. Undeterred, we asked the staff at the bar about the situation who simply assured us that

                ‘Yes, the restaurant IS open.’ Feeling confused, I asked them to investigate and obliged; more due to my pestering than any sense of respect for their customers. The look on their faces as three of them each tried to open a locked door by pushing on it one after the other was priceless.

                ‘But it says here it opens at seven!’ said one guy to another, positively shocked. I was sure this was the exact point I’d tried to make initially, but I must’ve been mistaken somehow. Either way, the three men at the door with us each convinced themselves that the door wasn’t open (genius) and that the bar was (again, genius). We were ushered back into the bar and told to wait for an hour. Not entirely keen to do so, I decided we’d just eat in the bar and we ordered whatever meals were the most legible. After forcing them down, we gave far-too-over-enthusiastic reviews of the meal to our equally-over-enthusiastic waiter and retreated to the room.

It was a few minutes after we returned to our refuge that I remembered our friend on the balcony from earlier. Curious, I pushed open the door to see if he was still there. The puddle was empty. More disappointed than I let on to Ian, I came back inside as he went to check for himself. Within two seconds, he’d located the bird – clinging to the back between the wall and the unit. He looked a little better than when we’d initially left him, but not by much. We checked him over and couldn’t see any obvious fractures in his wings or legs. We simply couldn’t figure out why he’d hung around for so long. However it was obvious he wasn’t going to leave unless coerced. Realizing this, I took it upon myself to re-introduce Simon to the world. After the longest period of ‘Should I? Shouldn’t I?’ I eventually picked the little guy up and with the gentlest persuasion, dropped him off our balcony.

I was terrified that Simon would be too exhausted to fly, but he fly he did. I don’t think my heart could’ve handled the emotional turmoil if I’d killed him, but I would’ve had to have lived with my actions. Our excitement over for the night, I turned back inside and shot off a few emails. One of which went to Hassan – our tour guide that was to pick us up to venture out further into Morocco and eventually… the Sahara.

The night rolled on like it tends to do and after we’d gathered our belongings (with a thorough double-check thanks to ‘the incident’ in Casablanca) we zipped up our bags and headed down to the foyer to meet Hassan. Prior to leaving Australia, we’d booked the tour through the Sahara with Hassan’s company ‘Sahara Magic’. He’d been emailing me in the days prior to meeting him asking what room I was staying in at the ‘El Andalous’.This made me quite wary of him (why would you need to know a person’s room?) however all fears were laid to rest almost instantly upon meeting the guy. He stood about 5”10, with a shiny bald head and a pleasant smile. His dark skin held a collection of scars, and the longer we stayed with him, the more we noticed. He never told us about them and we never asked, though it did raise a few questions about his past.

He casually strolled outside, beckoning for us to follow him once all of the normal greetings were exchanged. He gave off a genuinely friendly vibe and we knew we were in good hands. We found the vehicle that would basically be our home for the next few days and I was incredibly surprised. It was a brand new Toyota Prado; it couldn’t have been more than a year old. I was expecting and almost hoping for an old rust-bucket with no air-conditioning and no suspension. I was not complaining with what I received.

We pulled out of Marrakesh, bidding it a very quick farewell while Hassan described our route for the next few days. On the first day, we’d travel east, through the mountains and stay somewhere within them that night. The next day we’d push on further south-east and nip into Algeria for a cheeky view of the Sahara where we’d camp. The day after that, we’d drive north until we hit Fes. Hassan seemed to have everything under control, so I sat back and let a pool of sweat accumulate at the base of my back.

Hassan wasn’t very chatty on day 1, asking us every now and then:

                ‘Matt-yoo. You OK?!’ to which I’d spring out of the coma I’d slipped into and shout an enthusiastic response. Satisfied, he’d ask Ian next.

                ‘Unn! You OK?!’ and Ian would reply in much the same way I did. We repeated this cycle basically the entire first day. Barely two hours into the journey, we’d already left Marrakesh far behind. Mountains simply rose out of the flat ground all around us and with skillful (if heart-stopping) expertise, Hassan guided us around the twists and turns now posed to us by the altitude. We pulled into a road side café for a spot of light lunch. It didn’t look much from the outside but the view from the rear of the shop was AMAZING. Behind the shop was an area to sit and enjoy your meal and drink in a breathtaking view. 

This was the first time (of many during our time together) it hit me that Hassan was REALLY good at his job. He’d found this random place on the recommendation of other tourists or locals and taken people there since. It was good for his business and obviously good for the café.

Sitting there wolfing down my cheese omelette, I couldn’t help but be stunned at where I’d found myself. Breakfast on a cliff. We were perched at the top of a valley and could see for miles and miles in either direction. A few cheeky photos later, and we were away again.

Hassan threw on some African-infused tunes and we phased out as the 4x4 soldiered on through the terrain which was rapidly changing. The higher we climbed, the different our surroundings became. At the base it was a lot greener, as that’s where the moisture would collect. The higher we got, the foliage lessened but we were treated to fantastic rock formations and little towns tucked away inside them. I couldn’t help but laugh at some of the towns. The mud buildings looked like they were yet to be exposed to civilization, except for the satellite dishes that adorned each and every roof. Might not have clean drinking water, but at least they could watch ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’ every afternoon.

It didn’t feel like we’d been travelling for very long at all, but we stopped again to check out another little store. Hassan guaranteed us that we’d find it interesting. It was a store that made and sold products using the oil of ‘Argan’ nuts. Hassan was particularly proud of this store due to the fact that a woman ran it, which he told us was quite impressive out in the Moroccan sticks.

It was dark inside as we entered, but our eyes soon adjusted and settled on a lady coming towards us with arms full of warm greetings and smiles. She was incredibly nice and showed us not only what they made with the nuts, but the process they go through to harvest the oil. 

We sat and listened to stories about grinding the nuts, I got to ‘help’ (I played with a stone contraption that was a mortar and pestle at heart) and before long she was showing us what the store sold. While we were perusing these, a lady from outside began wailing and moaning. Our gracious female host departed and promptly pointed the crying lady in a direction. I couldn’t understand what she was saying to the lady but the message was fairly clear:

Get your SHIT together!

To her credit, she did. The wailing ceased and she was back within minutes at the mortar and pestle, getting back to business. Ian and I bought a few small things to be polite, made our farewells and jumped back into the 4x4 where Hassan was waiting with a smile on his face.

                ‘She was beautiful, no?’ I had to agree. The lady had 90% of her body covered, but she had gorgeous eyes and seemed incredibly nice. Hassan was pleased with my response and promptly issued me a proposal.

                ‘You come to live here in Morocco and marry and come work for me.’ I told him I’d think about it.

The mountains began to spread out and the foliage began to thin slightly. The environment started hinting at a more arid landscape as we pulled once more into a car park a few hours later. We were treated to a few local merchants trying to pawn their wares, but more importantly, a fantastic vista. We were looking at a valley and in the middle sprouted a little island of sorts. On the island lay Ait Ben Haddou, a fortified city made of bricks and mud. It was oddly recognizable and strikingly beautiful. A young lad joined us in the car and Hassan informed us that now we’d seen the place from afar, we were going to see it up close and the kid (named Mohammed) would be our guide.

We followed Mohammed once Hassan had driven us closer. He took us through a dry river bed and led us up to the imposing walls. We found out they were made of little more than dirt, water, manure and hay. We began our trek up through the twisting stairs and he explained that while in the past this had been an important city, now it hosted two hotels and had been the setting of many movies. I knew now why the place looked so familiar – it’d been used in films like ‘Gladiator’ and ‘Prince of Persia’. 

We ducked into a small building where another teenage boy around the same age as Mohammed was creating works of art that were plastered all over the walls. He’d paint desert-themed images with vibrant colours, then hold the picture over a flame. The paper would darken, making the image stand out against the colours he’d chosen. It was awesome to watch.

We kept walking and soon we’d reached the top of the hill. Like Mohammed had been saying the entire way up, what lay at the top of the hill wasn’t that impressive. There was a small building with very little in the way of decoration or anything that made it stand out. The scenery however spoke a different story. We were treated to a 360° view of the valley and Mohammed pointed the direction we’d be going to reach the Sahara. First things first though, we needed lunch.

Mohammed guided us for what seemed like the longest time but twenty five minutes later, we were off the hill, out of Ait Ben Haddou and sitting in an awesome little restaurant chowing down on some pizza with a local flair. After we finished, we momentarily lost Hassan. Once we found him, we lost the 4 wheel drive. Wits gathered, we all sheepishly jumped into the vehicle and pushed on, bidding farewell to Mohammed.

We drove for hours, stopped for coffee and kept going. I saw my first and only few Moroccan rain drops when we got back in the car. Hassan seemed quite puzzled that I didn’t expect to see rain falling in North-Eastern Africa. Pushing on, Hassan took us back down through more valleys, stopping at a few impressive lookouts when he noticed them. Hassan (and we) were loosening up now and conversation was beginning to flow a little easier, though still a little fractured due to the language barrier. Hassan spoke amazing English however, so this problem barely ever came up. We were passing through what I thought was yet another random hillside town when Hassan came to what would be the final stop for the day.

                ‘This is where we stay tonight!’

The place was called ‘Auberge Chez Pierre’ and like most other things on the holiday thus far, completely defied expectations. I hadn’t fully understood the plan initially and thought that we’d be camping on the side of a mountain. I was ready for that. I was excited for that. When I saw where we’d ACTUALLY be staying, I nearly had an aneurism. (A good aneurism, not a bad one – if there IS such a thing.) The entire hotel was built on the side of the valley. To get to our room required scaling 5 or 6 staircases. On the way to our bunks for the night I passed a pool. A POOL! AT THE TOP OF A HOTEL ON THE SIDE OF A VALLEY WALL! I couldn’t believe this place. Once more, I felt incredibly lucky and not for the first time that trip – incredibly spoiled. We were left alone in our room by the hotel attendants who told us that dinner started at 8.30pm near the reception we’d walked past to get to our rooms. It was two seconds after that Ian and I were in the pool. 

The water was FREEZING but refreshing and had beautiful views of the valley running each way. The mountains that lay across from us were dotted with goats, rocks and a little goat herders hut. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if you tried. We picked ourselves out of the pool and lounged nearby until the sun had sufficiently warmed our bones. Two families joined us at this time; one German, one French. We decided to clean ourselves up for dinner and we ended up rejoining the lot of them when it was being served. It was a good thing we went down at the allocated time. Dinner wasn’t served from a menu. Lots of little ‘mystery dishes’ were brought out over the course of a few hours, each of them more delicious than the last. The sun had set long before the final course was taken away and two young lads sat down in front of us with African drums. Together, they proceeded to drum and sing long into the night. Ian and I left politely after watching, impressed, for half an hour. There’s nothing quite like drifting off to sleep to African drumming.

AND SO ENDS PART 9!!! And I'm just about to return to Australia... Huh... Ah well, stay tuned if you've liked this so far!!! 



Follow the link to part 10:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com.au/2013/08/2013-world-trip-part-10-delayed-much.html

2013 World Trip Part 8 (Part 8?! REALLY?!)

A bit of swearing in this one folks. Sorry, but (sh)it happens.

I held no real expectations for the place, but even then I was being disappointed. I couldn’t help but feel nervous as thousands of pairs of eyes ogled us as we walked past. To his credit, Ian looked like this didn’t affect him in the slightest, but it creeped me out more than I’d care to admit. Men would literally stop what they were doing – walking, talking, whatever – to glare at us, these two foreigners. Obviously we were the worst-case scenario they’d all been warned of their whole lives, but now we were here, and with no warning! They must have been stunned! Regardless, we pushed on, guided only by our pixelated map that had been ripped straight from ‘Google Earth’ and branded with the hotel’s logo.

We reached an intersection of about five or six roads that formed a plaza of sorts, the area began to open up and we had a few more precious inches of breathing room. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something seedy was going on and that we’d made a mistake coming here. It was glaringly apparent to me that we hadn’t been exactly clever about our preparation for the holiday, particularly here. We were basically wearing outfits that screamed

                ‘OUTSIDER! TOURIST! TARGET!’ Complete with matching backpacks and a ‘look-at-me’ camera hanging from my neck. I tried to push all of these thoughts from my mind and focus on the task at hand. Over the rabble and rubble, we spied the top of what we assumed was the Cathedral and made a beeline for it. We didn’t consult the map at this point because

a.       It made us an even bigger target (not just tourists, LOST tourists) and

b.      How could we miss a giant tower sticking into the air above everything?

We pushed on through the plaza and came to our first major hazard as pedestrians – crossing the road. As stated before, the drivers in Morocco are balls-to-the-wall crazy. Suicidal even. Everyone needed to be first in some unspoken race, regardless of what crossed their path so this also added homicidal tendencies to the heated mix of skills the drivers drew from regularly. What I’m trying to get across here – if you haven’t quite cottoned on yet – is that crossing the road was a daunting task. It sounds stupid but these drivers simply did not care if we were in their way, they were NOT stopping. They had a race to win you see.

Every now and then, we lost sight of the tower we were using as our point of reference, however we’d burned its general direction into our minds and headed that way. It was then that we saw a back alley that appeared to lead straight to the tower we’d seen. So naturally, we dove straight in.

It was incredible. I can say that now, not being surrounded by it all. At the time it was a hot mix of sweat, shouting and smoke. I was constantly patting my pockets to make sure I hadn’t been pickpocketed. The alley held thousands of people and yet periodically, a man on a beaten-up, old motorcycle would tear through at break-neck speed, somehow avoiding everything in his path. Though some of the stalls actually caight my interest, I didn’t stop for fear of being mobbed and once again the realization of exactly how unprepared we were for this trip hit home.

We reached the end of the alley and found that somehow, the tower had changed positions, so we corrected our course and continued. This meant that we now found ourselves pushing through a twisted mess of alleys, however these were less crowded and I began to relax a little. I’ll admit that I tensed up immediately whenever anyone DID come near however. It was an interesting experience, constantly being on your toes. I found myself not actually looking where I was going in favour of constantly watching my peripheral vision for any potential threat. We walked and walked for what seemed like a few hours, but eventually we burst out of the backstreets and were faced with the tower we’d seen back in the plaza. It was no ordinary tower however, it was the incredible Hassan II Mosque. And it was incredible.

I remembered reading about the Hassan II Mosque back when I was first reaing about Morocco years before. It is the third largest mosque in the world. It can seat 25,000 people inside with room for another 80,000 in a courtyard outside. It is also one of the only Mosques in Morocco open to the public and not just the Islamic people. The mosque certainly cut an imposing figure, towering over the entire area. And it was BEAUTIFUL. It was covered with intricate stonework, the kind that makes you feel sorry for the people that had to build it in the first place.

Where we had found ourselves was close to the seaside. Hundreds of people were leaping into water from the ledge next to the road we were on and we edged closer for a look. The waves crashed on a nearby waterbreak and rushed over to the pool the people were jumping into. I was less than tempted to join them, despite the temperature. The pool was not only filled with people but rubbish. Bags, cups, literally anything littered the surface of the water these people were playing in. Realising we’d caught the attention of a group of lads nearby, I led Ian and I away, still wary of the locals.

We made our way across the enormous courtyard in front of the mosque. The sun had begun to set in the distance and from the direction we were walking, it was setting directly behind the building. It was an incredible sight. I moved away to a nearby raised area of lawn to get a better photo. I was about to stand atop the grass when an old man who was seated nearby advised me against it.

                ‘No, no, no,’ he began. ‘You do not do that here. It is frowned upon.’

I took the man’s advice and turned to face the mosque instead of climbing on the raised area. The man continued talking about local customs of the area and how people should be mindful not to offend anyone. I sat for a moment which encouraged Ian to do the same and soon we were having a great conversation with this random man.

His name was Mohammed – which if I’ve learned anything from my time in Morocco, is one of three male names in the country. He told us all about the area, a few things we already knew, a few things we didn’t. It was when he got chatting about his own life that things got REALLY interesting. He had led quite a life, our Mohammed. He was a tour guide around Morocco, so he said. He told us that ‘back in the day’ he’d been caught up in the hippie movement and had rubbed shoulders with the Pink Floyd at some stage. Normally by this stage we would’ve politely bid farewell and made our exit, but Mohammed had a cheeky smile and a firm grasp on the English language and it was nice to chat to someone who understood what we were saying the first time, rather than having to simplify the message and repeat it.

Mohammed pointed to the camera I had in my hands and told us he knew Casablanca quite well.

                ‘I take you to place, you get excellent photograph. Come for a walk, I will show you Casablanca.’

Alarm bells started ringing in my head, the paranoid (or realist) side of me instantly started imagining the ways this man would start trying to scam us, but we ended up going with the man. We walked next to a wall that ran along the coast for a spell while Mohammed rattled on advising us of things to be wary of in Morocco and places that we should definitely visit if we were to experience ‘the true Morocco’. I’ll admit, a lot of it was lost on me as I was too busy quietly hoping to any guardian angel nearby that this man wasn’t going to try and pull one over on us. Eventually, Mohammed stopped, waved his hand at a rock near the wall and announced that we were here. I turned to face the mosque and was actually a little lost for words. The mosque was framed by the city, sea and sky. To his credit, Mohammed HAD led us to a fantastic photo opportunity.

When all photos were taken, Mohammed politely asked us what else in the city we were interested in seeing. When we announced that all we had left up our sleeve was the Casablanca Cathedral (that we’d originally aimed for, and completely missed) he announced on the spot that he would gladly take us. We were faced with a prospect of trying to walk home again or find a taxi. I think in the end, our decision was made by an unspoken

                ‘Fuck it. Why not?’ And soon, we were being led back into the city by Mohammed. He first took us to a café where we sat and he described the country in greater detail. A few cheeky Cokes later, we were back on the road, ambling back towards the Cathedral. Along the way, we passed ‘The twin towers’. Apparently these two skyscrapers (barely 30 stories tall) had been around since the 80’s, but had never received the attention that the two towers in America had. It was no wonder either, as they were just a collection of shops and offices. Hardly anything to write home about, but the Moroccans were proud of it, so who were we to judge?

In no time at all, we found ourselves at the Cathedral, and to be honest were quite underwhelmed by it all. We took our obligatory photos but were nowhere near as blown away by the building as we were with the mosque. 

Mohammed tried continuing the tour by offering to take us further north up the coast to the restaurant district, but by that stage, we’d had about as much of Casablanca as we really wanted to see. We made a polite donation to Mohammed to thank him for his services and weren’t even offended when he asked for just a little more. Alarm bells rang again when Mohammed jumped in the cab with us, telling us he’d direct the driver back as it wasn’t very well known. Within minutes, we were back at the hotel doors, waving goodbye to Mohammed who gave us one last cheeky grin before he took off with the driver. I felt a little sorry that I’d misjudged Mohammed, but I also had to remind myself that I had only been thinking rationally and things could have gone south quite quickly had we NOT paid him for his time.

Making our way up to our room, we couldn’t help but be reminded as soon as I removed it from my pocket

                ‘Do NOT use the large key attached with the chain. It is DECORATIVE!’ I couldn’t help but cringe a bit at the stupidity of the person who hadn’t heeded this warning in the past. We pushed our way into the room and collapsed on our beds, not entirely sure what to make of the day. It had certainly been… an experience. We were still yet to make up our minds as to whether the day had been a good one or a bad one. We decided after we’d pulled ourselves out of our semi-comas that we might be able to decide a little better with something in our stomachs. We decided against any further city searching and opted instead for the in-house restaurant for our first taste of Moroccan cuisine. We’d been advised that the kitchen opened at 2000 through til 2230. The time was 2100 by the time we dragged ourselves into the restaurant. We were guided to a table by some very confused staff members who seemed very unsure of what was going on. We waited for around twenty minutes to be served before one of the staff came back to tell us the kitchen wasn’t actually open. With a sigh and a shake of the head, we crossed the road. Pizza it was for tonight then.

I became more confused than I should have when we came back to the room and tried to figure out how we were going to get to Marrakesh the next day. After far longer than necessary, we decided to take the 11am train and fell asleep with a shaky plan in situ for the next 24 hours.

 

The next day rolled around and I was forced to open my eyes. My sleep was far more enjoyable than it should have been, but I guess that’ll happen when you spend the majority of the day before wandering around in the sun. After gathering our belongings – or so I thought – we made our way downstairs and checked out. We notified the staff that we needed a taxi to the train station as it was ten o’clock already and they said the porter waiting at the door would oblige. I swear to God, the way he hailed the cab was straight out of any movie set in New York. Hand in the air, he literally just yelled

               ‘TAXI!’ with such gusto that one screeched to a halt in front of us. It was magic. The car was a little hatchback and as such, there was no boot to put our oversized bags in. The driver had the answer however, and threw them on the roof-racks. This would have not been a problem if he’d tied them down somehow, yet the man left them unrestrained. We’d seen how these people drive. We knew how insane they were, so you can understand that we weren’t satisfied with this. After a few twists and turns where we nearly gave ourselves whiplash by snapping our heads around to see if the luggage had fallen off, the driver quickly parked, basically did little more than pat the bags and we continued. Much better?

We reached the train station and were immediately approached by an elderly lady. I wasn’t aware of what she wanted at first, but after a few seconds of her shaking her empty hands in my direction and moaning at me, I realized she was a beggar. As bad as it sounds I ignored the woman. I did feel bad about the incident and still do, but we had a train to catch and our window to do so was rapidly closing. We were still yet to get tickets. As such, we grabbed our bags, threw cash at the driver and bolted inside. Before we departed, the driver gave me the fantastic advice to keep my laptop concealed whilst in the country (I’d been carrying it around in a protective case my girlfriend had given me prior to leaving) as it would be very easy for someone to steal it. I made a mental note to find a way to shove my computer in my already bloated luggage somehow.

We forced our way into a queue for a train ticket and quite literally fought our way to the front – people trying to edge their way past us the entire time. We snatched our tickets from the machine and ran to the station. We had mere minutes until it departed. I made another mental note to perhaps leave earlier and give myself the appropriate time to be ready for things like this rather than hoping for the best on the day (a note that was quickly forgotten). After a few helpful Moroccans (an oxymoron if I’ve ever written one and still, they existed) pointed us in the right direction, we pushed our way onto the train (again, quite literally) and settled into our comfortable positions for the three hour journey to Marrakesh – with every seat taken, we were forced to stand in the corridor with our luggage. It wasn’t anywhere near as glamorous as you may think. We were pushed and prodded by people as they shoved their way past, had to perform various yoga poses to allow caterers past and at one stage, Ian had to politely remove a Moroccan hand from his pocket. I’m sure it must have been an honest mistake, the guy must’ve mistaken Ian’s pocket for his own. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with.

After an hour and a half of this, we decided to move down to the front of the car and see if there was a larger opening to stand in than the one we were currently in. There was, and we resigned ourselves to the little alcove next to the well-maintained lavatory. Actually, I’m going to have to apologise; I just told you a naughty fib. It was filthy and the door didn’t close very well so the entire area smelled like… well… a toilet. It was around the two hour mark of our journey that I pushed my hand into my pocket to find my phone. It had a GPS function that could estimate where we were. I thought this would be helpful to find out how much further we had to go. It was at that point that I realized my phone was no longer in my possession.

I didn’t panic or freak out, I just sighed. I couldn’t honestly remember PACKING the damn thing, so I couldn’t jump to the conclusion that it’d been stolen. It was still a horrible feeling for me though; I had a lot of personal information stored on that mess of glass and plastic. The thought that someone might pour through it left me sick to my stomach. I spent the rest of the trip in a solemn silence, trying to smile and enjoy the trip, but I couldn’t entirely convince myself not to worry about something I couldn’t change.

The train screeched to a jerky halt and together, we hoped we’d made it to Marrakesh. The thought crossed my mind that in the rush to get to the train, it was very possible that we’d boarded the wrong one. We stepped off the sweaty rust-box and onto the platform and were greeted by a welcome if dilapidated sign that announced we had reached our destination. Having not eaten all day, I thought it might be a good idea and we tried our hand at some local delicacies. After leaving McDonalds, we faced the next issue – getting to our hotel. We left the terminal (it was a terminal, as the line TERMINATED there, NOT a station, in which the line passes through) and walked out into Marrakesh. First impressions were good, rubble not being instantly apparent everywhere we looked. Like the airport the day before, we were mobbed by a loud group of men, each yelling that they drove taxis. Once more, we chose the most-honest looking of the bunch and once more, we found out that we are bad choices of character.

He led us far away from the terminal and thankfully, brought us to his car. My paranoid alter-ego was dreaming up worst-case scenarios on the walk over of what the man’s true intentions were and attempted to make escape plans for all of them. Once our belongings were loaded into the man’s car, we took out our itinerary and pointed at the hotel and its address. The man looked confused and began mumbling, yet started the car and began driving. It was clear the man had no idea where he was going, but was trying to convince us that he did.

He chose a road that led straight out of town and defiantly headed away from the city. Ian and I were confused, myself especially. I’d had a conversation with Andrea – our amazing travel agent who works at the fantastic Montina Travel with a mix of other wonderful ladies (yes, I just scored brownie points through a journal) – prior to leaving Australia about booking accommodation outside of a city and how counter-productive that would be for the holiday. I found it very hard to believe that we’d talk about it, only for Andrea to do exactly that and questioned the driver, only to have him wave me back to my seat. We reached A hotel and the driver sat back with a smug expression plastered on his face. I say we reached ‘A’ hotel, because it wasn’t actually OUR hotel.

The sign on the building read ‘EDEN ANDALOUS’, similar – but different – to the one we’d booked, the ‘El Andalous’. There was no explaining this subtle difference to the driver, who insisted he’d brought us to the correct place. Fed up at this point both with losing my phone and this man, I pointed at the taxi, told the man to

                ‘STAY!’ and marched inside. The place was BEAUTIFUL. It was at least a four to five star hotel. It would’ve been a great place to stay, but we already had accommodation and I wasn’t particularly keen on shelling out unnecessary money to stay here to please the taxi driver. I made my way to the concierge desk and explained my situation only for her to confirm that we were indeed at the wrong place. She was incredibly helpful, offering to explain the mix-up to the driver and give him directions to the correct place if I could get him inside. With a nod and determination in my eyes (at least I hope that’s what it looked like and nothing untoward) I marched back out into the sun and explained again to the driver what had happened. He refused over and over to talk to the girl inside, and asked once more for the page we’d shown him before that he had ‘understood’ before taking us here. He showed the same look of trying to convince us that he now understood where he was going and beckoned furiously for me to get back into the taxi. I informed the driver quite flatly that I would not be paying for the journey thus far, which he wasn’t entirely impressed about but at that point I simply didn’t care.

He spent the entire journey on the phone being fed directions from some unseen party and around twenty minutes later, we rolled through the gates of our ACTUAL hotel. The driver explained with a sheepish grin that this was the ‘EL Andalous’ hotel, and he’d mistaken it for the ‘EDEN Andalous’.

                ‘Silly me’, I replied. ‘I thought we told you that when we were there, and yet here you are explaining it right back to us. Our mistake.’

We paid the man and wearily walked into the hotel which to its credit was INCREDIBLE. It was equally as luxurious as the hotel we’d come from. I was impressed. I had no expectations of what the place might be like, and this was blowing me away. The man behind the desk informed us that we did indeed have the right place and promptly checked us in. We were tucked away in our room within minutes and I used Ian’s phone to contact the Moroccan House Hotel back in Casablanca to inquire as to the whereabouts of mine. After two less-than-productive phone calls, I resigned myself to the fact that it was gone for good and with a deep breath, got on with the incredibly easy task of enjoying the location.

We changed into our swimming togs and headed back down to the ground level for a dip in their pool. The area was amazing. Loud, bassy music blasted out from the bar across the pool which confused me a little; I was of the belief that people didn’t drink alcohol in Morocco. I decided not to tempt fate and avoid it. I’d never been in a pool that deep before. It was incredibly refreshing, though I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the people swimming near us. Surely, the accumulated sweat and general travel grease must have been slipping off us and into the water. Again, I’d given up caring. We took our time enjoying the oasis and after drying off, returned to our room.

We spent a little time planning the next day before a notification caught my eye on Facebook. One of my friends from Adelaide, Paul Kemp, was in Marrakesh as well! He offered the prospect of catching up for dinner at a pizza bar, a prospect that I was keen for. It was such a small thing, meeting a mate for tea, but it helped drive home the idea that this was indeed a small world. Of all things that could happen, here we were halfway around the world meeting someone from home for dinner. I loved it. Paul told us to meet him in the Old Medina in town and to look for ‘Bari’s Pizza’. Failing that, he’d find us at the orange juice stands which he said we couldn’t miss. He overestimated our navigational skills.

Taking a taxi in, we pushed our way into the medina. We’d literally made it four steps out of the taxi before we had a local man pestering us to be our guide.

                ‘Look mate’, I said sternly after initial attempts to wave the man away failed. ‘I’m meeting a mate for dinner…’

                ‘AH!’ he cried. ‘Dinner! Yes, yes! Come with me!’

                ‘NO!’ I replied, not once breaking stride. ‘You can either take us to ‘Bari’s Pizza’ or you can go away. It’s that simple.’ The man gave me the same look the taxi driver from the terminal had given us when I handed him the directions to the hotel and nodded his head enthusiastically.

                ‘I know the place, very good, very good. You come this way!’ He quickened his pace to walk in front of me and led us into the square. He took us on a jolly good wander; we passed snake charmers tempting fate with King Cobras, fire jugglers and other street performers. He stopped in front of a random restaurant, a proud smile christening his face.

                ‘HERE! DINNER!’ I let loose an exasperated sigh.

                ‘Look mate…’ I said slowly. ‘Take us to ‘Bari’s Pizza’.’ I made sure to say everything incredibly slowly, regardless of how rude I was being. I wasn’t in the mood to wander the streets while my friend waited for me. ‘If you CAN’T take us there, you get NO money and we leave you, OK?’ Being faced with the prospect of not being paid, the man jumped from his proud trance and shot off in another direction, turning to us as he was walking away, beckoning desperately for us to follow him. With another sigh, we did. Again, he led us in completely and obviously the wrong direction. We were led through markets, past stalls. I tried to keep a mental note of each turn we’d taken to get us back to the market in case the man was trying to disorient us in the back streets. At regular intervals, the man turned to face us and offered us an uneasy laugh and a forced smile. It did little to encourage confidence.

Eventually the man stopped. We were definitely not at ‘Bari’s Pizza’. We found ourselves in front of some quaint little scarf stall, something which I had no interest in whatsoever. Completely ignoring us, our ‘guide’ began to talk to another local, presumably about how he was taking these gullible youngsters on a ride.

                ‘Nope.’ I said out loud. ‘Fuck this!’ and began walking quite fast in the direction we’d come. The man hopped around us, apologizing profusely.

                ‘The man was a friend! I stop to talk to friend!’ It was like the guy was trying to persuade us he hadn’t been cheating on us, honest.

                ‘Nup, fuck it man. We don’t give a SHIT about YOUR friends, we want to meet OUR friend for dinner!’

                ‘AHHHHH!’ said the man, reaching enlightenment. ‘DINNER!!! YES, YES! Sorry, I no understand! Now, I understand!’ Unimpressed, I shook my head, again, not breaking stride.

                ‘You know what? I don’t care if you understand or not! I told you so many times where we wanted to go and you told us EVERY SINGLE TIME that you know exactly where that was. Now, you haven’t taken us there. In fact, you’ve completely led us astray. So now, you don’t get any money and you can fuck off.’ I have to admit, it felt great telling that man exactly what I thought. I directed Ian back out into the medina and we began our own search for Paul. By this time, we were just looking for the orange juice stands that Paul had described on Facebook earlier. The problem wasn’t that we couldn’t find them; the problem was that they were EVERYWHERE.

It took another twenty minutes of aimless wandering and some blind luck, but we literally ran into Paul looking very laid back compared to my mixture of anxiety and anger that our guide had forced me into. After the manliest hug I’ve ever received, he led us back to the pizza bar he’d originally described, and I had to admit that

A.      We’d most likely walked past it on our initial entry to the medina and

B.      We never ever would’ve found the place. Not in a million years.

We stayed for around an hour and a half, meeting his friends and swapping travel stories. The crew Paul was with had been travelling for months and were going to continue to do so for quite some time afterward. We drank in as much travel advice as we could; how to barter (something we hadn’t even thought of at that point, let alone tried) and more importantly, NOT to go walking in the middle – and hottest part – of the day. It was a welcome experience, not only chatting to people who spoke English, but chatting to other AUSTRALIANS! I liked it a little more than I should have. But like all things, this time too came to an end and we bade them farewell. Rather than hang around in the medina, we made the decision to go back to the hotel. Our navigational skills on the fritz, we decided to take a taxi back. This taxi ride was the first time I flexed my bartering muscles and used the advice that Paul had given us – go to a third of the price the other guy is offering and walk away if they don’t accept it. It worked like a charm and with a scowl, the driver took us where we needed to go. The thought did occur to me that the Moroccan currency, the Dirham, is close to worthless and as such we’d probably just negotiated an AUD $3 cab ride to a $2.40 one, but a victory’s a victory.

Sleepy and a little more world wise, we made the appropriate and necessary updates on Facebook when we were back in our room and tried to prepare for the next day. With little to no interest in doing so, we instead opted to drift off once more into the land of nod.

THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS THAT! For now....

Sorry about the length of that one! I didn't realise I'd written so much! I wrote this one in two halves and kind of forgot how long each one was... Whooooops. Ah well, it's keeping you up to date. Hope you're not bored yet! TATA!

Follow the link to Part 9:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.sg/2013/07/2013-world-trip-part-9.html