Dispatch #2

31 May 1998

So I decided that I would go to Morocco.

There was nothing else much to do with my time. I was in my fourth excruciating day in Lagos, Portugal, where the dominant activities are tanning and drinking. I was sleeping until late morning, going to a cove to sunbathe, then napping again until dinner, when the beers began to pour. I know, it SOUNDS fun, but you must remember I was doing it with heaps of post grad Canadians. Not quite exotic.

And since I didn't want to go to Morocco alone, I tried to convince Ria and Jessie, the two Kiwi girls who shared my hostel room to come with me.

At first they said no. But then a surfer dude from San Diego overheard our conversation and decided he wanted to come, too. Suddenly they were persuaded, and so was their Aussie friend Emily. After backtracking to Seville, where we stayed in the most antiseptic hostel this side of the penal system, we met up with one more willing compatriot, the daffy blonde New Yorker Jessica, at the bus station.

We left everything but our light daypacks at the station. Then we went to Algeciras, Spain, which is just opposite the famous Rock of Gibraltar (a British protectorate and home to the famous monkeys). Ferries leave to Tanger (or, as we know it, Tangiers) every 90 minutes. We got to Morocco after dark.

Suddenly we were in Africa. Instantly everything was different. Fewer lights. Closer air. People wore cloaks and veils and kept their distance. There were no women around at night. This is because women are considered the underclass, existing to serve their husbands only. They stay indoors much of the time and must wear coverings all over their bodies--arms, legs, faces, hair, everything. On the most religious women, only ankles, hands and eyes are showing. There are a few women dressed like Westerners, but not many. Naturally, since my four female companions were wearing shorts and tee-shirts, some Moroccan women (particularly the Berbers) gave us some pretty nasty looks. After all, to them, we were obscene. It would be like a topless Nigerian woman walking around Walt Disney World with a camera as if she didn't have a care in the world.

We had heard that Tanger was way past its prime as a city--it has never been the same since Morocco got independence from the French and other countries, back in the '50s--so we hurried to the Gare Tanger to take the night train to Marrakesh.

"Night Train to Marrakesh." Isn't that a song?

The moment we got on board, a grubby man rushed into our compartment and started putting our luggage on the racks for us. In broken English, he showed us how to lock the door, open the window, switch off the light. After his useless demonstration, he held out his hands for money. This, we would soon learn, is the way of the Moroccan when it comes to Western tourists. The Moroccan currency is worth very little compared to American dollars, and poverty and unemployment are at very high rates there. When they see six young backpackers, they naturally see opportunity.

The entire time we were in Morocco, we couldn't shake the people. There are very few beggars--that wouldnt be seemly--but instead they offfe a variety of services. They promise to guide you through the maze of ancient city streets, or show you the best souks (neighborhoods) in the markets, or find you a cheap hotel. In return, a little tip is always expected. Trouble is, you never know who is honestly wanting to help you and who might lead you down a dark alley.

Our hotel in Marrakesh--in the middle of the old part of town, the "medina"--cost us each the equivalent of $3.00 a night. Dinner, which was couscous with fresh vegetables, olives, and green mint tea (a Moroccan specialty), was $1.00. Every price is negotiable. The listed price is usually twice what you eventually wind up paying. If you look wealthy, the shop owner doesn't bring the price down. If you look less rich, you can haggle. Marrakesh was alive with water sellers, snake charmers, buzzing mopeds, fresh orange juice sellers. Lots of smiling people, everyone wanting to get a piece of the Americans wallets. At 3:00 am, we were awakened with the sound of Islamic chanting coming from a loudspeaker on the mosque adjacent to our room. The Islamic faith follows a strict pattern of prayer, at specific times, all while facing the holy city of Mecca, in Saudi Arabia.

After Marrakesh, we took a bus into the middle of the country. Contrary to what you might think, Morocco is not a dusty desert. In the middle, there are mountains and scrub. In the north, it can be quite lush. But the south is part of the Sahara Desert, with sand dunes as high as 12-story buildings.

We were in the heart of Morocco, at a town called Azilal. 36km out were the flabbergasting Cascades d'Ouzoud (Waterfalls of the Olives). In the middle of nowhere, miles from anything but rocks and low bushes, nearly a dozen creeks spring from a mountainside into the valley below. We stayed the night next to the falls, and in the morning, a local boy named Said convinced us to take him as his guide. He led us down to the bottom of the falls and then downstream for about an hour, where the river poured into an underground cave and then down a rock slide into a pool. We swam right there, while mountain goats climbed down to drink beside us.

Of course, then we ran out of money. No ATMs. No McDonalds. Not even anything in English. (Arabic and French only.) So in order to move onto the town of Beni Mellal, I had to change some American dollars on the black market--in this case, a man who ran a trinket store out of a tent who was eager to have some American dollars in his wallet. After more hijinks (in which one of the Kiwis--that's a New Zealander--lost her passport in the back of an Arabs car and had to be driven to his house to get it back), we hired a grand taxi, which is basically a guy with a car who is willing to drive you to the next town for a price. In this case, the next town was two hours away, and the price was less than $20.In Beni Mellal, a guy latched onto us at the train station again, but this time wanted not money, but merely the company of our four lovely Western women. He found us a hotel and sat with us while we ate. I caught him trying to get a whiff of Jessicas hair.

Anyway, that's Morocco. We went to some other places too, like Fes, which was an incredibly picturesque city in the north. But my internet time is running out. And I have grown ill. Morocco is not only known for its mosques and its beauty--some 70 percent of people have or have had TB there. My lymph nodes are swollen and my throat is sore, but this ought to be enough grist for the travelogue mill for tonight.

For those of you who wonder, the toilets in Morocco are evil affairs: a hole in the floor and two places to put your feet. When you finish, you throw some water in the hole. Bring your own toilet paper. The six of us had a pet name for going to the bathroom: "Feeding the pigs." That's because we heard of a place in India where the toilet dumps down a chute into the yard, and whenever anyone goes into the room, the pigs come from all around to have dinner. It all sounds scary and gross, I know. But travel can be fun.

I think of that wonderful night near the waterfall when we sat around a courtyard eating couscous and drinking tea. Or watching the goats kneel down to drink. Or wandering through the markets of Fes. Pretty soon I will be off to Greece, and then Turkey. I still have my toilet paper.

Hopefully my nodes will go down soon. Until then, don't let the pigs hear you coming! Love, Jase

One month, five countries, two continents!!

--- Right now I'm in: Madrid, Spain