After just a few days of pure nothingness (and one day getting over the fact that I'm really not 18 anymore), Kelly E., Anna R., and I quickly packed our bags and flew across the pond to Marrakech. We had an uneventful drive to Charlotte, where we boarded a plane to JFK. The three of us happily checked one piece of luggage each to Casablanca, where we would pick it up before taking the train south. However, upon arriving at JFK airport, we found out our flight to Casablanca was cancelled. The plane "was malfunctioning." No problem; we could catch the next flight out... which was tomorrow. It was a slight snafu in our itinerary, but hey, this was Africa (TIA).
The fun began as we waited "in line" for three hours attempting to solidify our new flight. I put "in line" in quotations because 99 percent of the world doesn't seem to understand that concept. We were pushed, cut in front of, jabbered at in who knows what language, and pleaded with, in order to move ahead. So hold your damn horses, people. All of us waited; in fact, those in the front of the line (us), waited the longest. We met many characters along the way, including "wack-a-mole" (a short, stocky lady who kept popping up in different parts of the line, complaining earnestly), and LeBron James (or at least his double), who was content to post up on the wall and let his minions do the grunt work.
I was waiting less than patiently at the front of the desk, flagging people down with our three passports, using my height to its full advantage, when we heard someone yell, "Hey tall white dude, over here!" James (affectionately known as "Jimmer" from here on out) was another 20-something with an American passport. Apparently Air France was allowing U.S. citizens to take a flight to Paris, and then connect to Marrakech. Jimmer's call was like that of a siren, and we went running. With seconds to spare, a lovely French lady proffered a new itinerary: Air France would fly us to Paris, and Royal Air Maroc would have a bus waiting to transfer us to the Orly airport (qualified by, "they won't really have a bus, so bet on having to transfer yourselves"). There, we would catch our final plane. Air Maroc did not have working computers in JFK, however, so they relied on carbon copy paper for all these transactions. Somehow, our luggage would arrive in Marrakech.
Not likely. It really wouldn't have been that bad, except when we called Air Maroc the next day, they told us in perfect English, "We have no idea where in the world your bags are." But we'll get to that later.
After a 4 hour train ride from Casablanca to Marrakech, we were delirious. Jimmer was speaking in nonsense, and I hadn't slept in 36 hours. By the Grace of God, Mohammed picked us up at the train station and brought us to our hostel. It was gorgeous. In the middle of the Medina (old city), we had the top floor of a four story "town house." That night was capped off, however, by a lack of air conditioning. Heat rises, so we sweltered. This wasn't ameliorated until the following day. The next morning, we found that the streets and buildings were so packed together like a maze that we had to pay a small child to lead us out to the square (he wanted more; we said no, a dollar was enough).
So Saturday and Sunday didn't quite go as planned. Undeterred, the three of us set out for the market. We shopped, we haggled (Anna bought a T-shirt for one-fifth the $40 asking price, not bad, but they still profited), and we met the Moroccan Denzel Washington. We visited the Marrakech "museum," walked around the medina, and observed the architecture. The center of town was alive. Snake charmers ran after foreigners who tried to take pictures, clamoring for money; old ladies tried to grab our hands and paint the traditional "henna" on the dorsal surface with an old syringe; freshly squeezed orange juice was sold at dozens of stands for 50 cents; and, restaurants magically appeared in the middle of the square for a quick dinner. We ate at 1-1-7, which apparently "takes you to heaven" with its delicious cuisine. "Where are you from? USA? Barack Obama! Michael Jordan! Come here and see my shop! Eat here, my friend! How can I take your money today, sir?!" The city was exhausting and exciting, and we were finally on vacation.
That night was when we called Air Maroc. It was a miracle that they had our claim numbers, but we lost hope of ever getting our bags back. We had to start over... we had to find the Moroccan Walmart.
Marjane.
Westerners' paradise. Travel backpack: $17. Socks: $2. And most importantly, capris: priceless. We stocked up on the pure essentials, and enough clothes to make it the rest of the way. A trek through the Moroccan mountains was planned, so we had to be ready. Excited to be in new clothes for the first time in four days (really, I could have gone longer, but a change of socks was welcome), we haggled our way back to the medina via taxi and chugged a few glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice before packing it in for the day.
We moved on... to the traditional hamam. Mohammed and I went to the local bath, where we sat in a steam room to let out all the excess worry and relax. The relaxing part didn't last long because he began to vigorously scrub me. Yes, man on man scrubbing. Apparently, after getting a nice sweat going, one washes with hot water from a bucket. Hair is washed with clay, and soap is spread all over one's body before the vigorous, vigorous rubbing begins. Mohammed said that since all my skin was peeling off mid-scrub, that meant I was "very relaxed." If one is too tense, the skin remains taut. He was telling me all this as I tried not cringe while my sunburn got sandpapered away...
Then it was off to the mountains with Global Basecamps (I love you, you are my everything). GBC never fails me. Up and down the mountainside the three of us went on our trusty camels. Food was served to us in the Berber village; mountains rose beyond mountains on either side in the valley; the food kept coming: tajine after tarjine (look it up, delicious); bread, bread and more bread; and always fresh squeezed orange juice. The people in the village (and everywhere else for that matter) are what made this country special. Everyone asked and affirmed, "Where are you from? America? You are welcome here!" Literally, the only people I disliked where the snake charmers, aggressively charging after foreigners asking for payment. Marrakech is a city I will miss, and the people I will not forget. I will miss the spice salesman yelling, "Bonzai! You drink this and you last all night long! If your women don't drink it with you, they cry! BONZAI!" I will miss riding Nick Saban (my donkey) with capris on, of course, roll calling and rolling tide. And, I'll miss haggling with the slipper man, and being offered pot by the shoemakers above the store (no, MOM, I didn't inhale).
It was a wonderful city, this Marrakech, and I would love to go back. At some point I will climb Toubkal, the tallest of the Atlas mountains and the highest in North Africa. Apparently though, I did not truly experience Morocco. A man told me on the plane to Cairo, "You didn't sleep with a Moroccan woman? Then you don't know Morocco. Their women, muah, yes, they are professionals!"
I think my experience was just fine, thank you.
For your reference, items of note:
- White Russian - a disaster, and by far the worst white russian I've had in any part of the world. I understand, though, that mixing alcoholic drinks is difficult in an Islamic country. My explanation of how to make it was clearly not interpreted correctly. It was a cold latte with vodka, no ice. I should have used Jimmer's French, "Yo... je... kahlua, vodka, and cream please??"
- The Beer - again a disaster. Tasted like Miller Lite.
- McDonalds - the ketchup was good, at least in the airport. But stop with the damn olives already!!
- Book of the Week - "Emperor of All Maladies," a fantastic biography of cancer. I recommend it to anyone medically oriented. One of the better books I've read in a while.
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