Spain is a very pleasant place to visit, as I’m sure virtually anyone who has been there will tell you. Arriving under the cover of extreme early morning darkness on a Wednesday and missing a MGMT show in Paris, for which I had already paid precious euros, can make anyone slightly ill-tempered. But, do you know what the antidote is? Swipe a Toblerone from the minibar along with a refreshing Fanta beverage and go take a walk on the beach.
Hey MGMT, sorry I cannot be in the audience to hear your show. But maybe you can use the money from my ticket to buy a shirt, or perhaps an improved scarf.
This week has been filled with its fair share of chaos (as had long been expected), but lounging upon a rock and eating Swiss chocolate while watching a dog struggle mightily to pull a giant piece of driftwood out of the ocean happens to be therapeutic. Also I had numerous opportunities to stroll past that same Spanish door that I had seen during my first Denia visit. I like this door because in a world of normal doors – be they red, white, or just a simple varnish – this door stands up and confidently says “Hey, I know you’re on your way to the schwarma stand around the corner, but check me out. You like glass? Do you like glass that is yellow, green, blue, and purple? Yes, I thought you might.”
Two hundred days in France! During the Spanish – American War of 1898 it took less than two hundred days for the USA to wrest away control of Guam, the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Cuba from Spain but here I am, two hundred days into my assignment, still getting lost on the way to the train station. It makes me a little sad.
But then again, perhaps I have conquered something. Not in the imperialist sense, of course, although I suppose I could stick an American flag in the grounds of Luxembourg Gardens. (Knowing the French, however, I’d probably somehow set off a metro strike in doing so and then have to walk back home.) No, there are few conquests in the traditional sense but just look a bit closer – in the non-traditional world conquests thrive! They abound! Surely dancing with a broom counts for something (besides lunacy), or the climbing inside of a champagne vat…sampling whiskey inside the Dublin Jameson Distillery St. Patrick’s Day weekend, or maybe running to the top of St. Peter’s inside Vatican City? How about writing a Carnovergaard Christmas carole on the floor of an airport, or confusing a French tourist when he asked me where the Eiffel Tower was! In fact, I choose to consider them all conquests despite the fact that they will not soon make the pages of any textobook or Wikipedia link…
I also packed today. That’s something to hang my hat on, I suppose. I have a flight tomorrow evening, arriving in Valencia at 10:40 PM. If you add on some luggage pickup and drive time that puts me into the town of Denia at about 1:30 AM on Wednesday morning. I will salvage this late night / early morning travel experience the only way I know how – with Pringles.
This afternoon I was wandering around the Île de la Cité, considered to be the center of Paris and the spot where the Parisii tribe used to hang out before the Romans came around in 52 BC. There is a little park located at the western tip of the island, looking toward the Pont Neuf, which I had noticed some time ago when walking along the river bank, and I have recently come to learn that this little park is known as the Square du Vert Galant (named after Henri IV, the vert galant king – translated, the “green gallant,” so called because he was a big fan of the ladies).
I made the very bold decision to check out the park, a decision I congratulate myself very highly for given that the Square du Vert Galant has swiftly become one of my favorite lounging areas in Paris. Scenic, calm…in a word, phenomenal. I highly suggest it, especially in the evening as the sun sets. Bring a beer or a bottle of wine and watch the sun go down over the river – it’s a beautiful sight.
The only thing better than listening to the sweet flamenco sound of a jalapeno playing the guitar is sautéing that very same pepper, along with some seasoned beef and pico de gallo, and wrapping it all up in an enchilada alongside a pile of rice.
Excluding that, a Mexican dinner at Nick and Amanda’s apartment fits the bill admirably. In addition to the Americans, lusting for that tantalizing taste found only south of the border or a shady burrito joint at 4 AM, there were several individuals from Germany, France, Belgium, and Spain. While certainly welcome, I equate their presence to that of someone visiting a monkey cage at the zoo. This person may not personally wish to get involved in a scratching contest or experience the merriment that comes only to those who gleefully fling exrement at one another, but there is the hope that such an event occurs; and from this, a better understanding of the mind within.
Please note: due to my surprise at finding an image of a person dressed up as a jalapeno playing a guitar, I decided that a quick search for other ridiculous costumes was in order. The perpetrators…
The potential for disaster in the case of an early morning train ride is severe, even if we discount my propensity to show up at the incorrect station as I did during the Belgian Birthday fiasco. The principal cause resides in my lack of a French credit card, which is needed to pick up my ticket. Without such a card one is forced to go to the ticket office, which opens at 6 AM – and in this specific case, that allows for aproximately thirty minutes to go from no ticket to buying a croissant to sitting comfortably aboard a train heading to the town of Reims. Now, normally thirty minutes would be plenty but then again you have never seen the people that stand in this particular line to obtain a ticket. I kid you not, often it takes five or ten minutes per transaction. God only knows what kind of situation they happen to be in – since I cannot understand a single word, my assumptions flit between option 1 – that they want to take a train that flies or goes underwater or something equally ludicrous – and option 2, in which I imagine the conversation between the customer and the ticket agent goes something like this…
Customer: “Hey, is that an American standing behind me?”
Ticket Agent: “It appears to be. He looks lost and slightly nervous.”
Customer: “Awesome. How about tell me about the weather, and I’ll gesture about wildly with my arms for a while.”
Ticket Agent: “Deal, I’ll give you this month’s entire forecast and then tell you what I had for breakfast. Make sure you slap the ticket counter every now and then.”
Fortunately for me, today I encountered very few problems in ine and even managed to pick up a copy of the International Herald Tribune for the ride. This, and the picture of my mobile phone that I sketched during the four hour morning meeting conducted entirely in French, constituted my victories for the day.
You know what is exciting? Leaving the office today, and not returning to Paris until Sunday May 18. Eleven day trips are a rare occurrence in my vacation book, what with things such as vacation days and cash money always getting in the way. That, by the way is one thing the French don’t need to worry about – paid time off. Most folks have probably heard (and punched a wall in jealousy) that the French work week is thirty-five hours, but did you know this little bit, which I skimmed from a UK newspaper back in April:
“The scale of President Nicolas Sarkozy’s challenge to “get France back to work” was underlined yesterday by a poll crowning the French world champions for the amount of annual holiday they take. The average working Frenchman spends 37 days en vacances, with Italy in second place on 33 days, according to Harris Interactive, the American polling institute.
While almost half of Italians declared that they would be prepared to work more, 80 per cent of the French were not prepared to do so.”
The eleven day extravaganza was planned around several French holidays – as I always say, vacation smarter, not harder! The French have eleven national holidays compared to ten of the USA, although the American company I work for respects only eight. It’s a bit easier to take scheme a trip like this when you know that you don’t have to take a massive vacation hit, hiding instead behind the safety of a couple public holidays.
Roma!
The first leg of the long journey for Missy and I was the flight from Paris to Rome. The plane landed late in the evening at an airport an hour or so from the city, where we took part in the customary frantic flailing about for train ticket - an activity which seems to accompany every arrival in a foreign country. Except the USA, where most people don’t know what a train is. I was doubly happy with ticket in hand and the discarded newspaper on my seat…not only could I ride into Rome in locomotive style, lounging comfortably in my seat while the couple directly across from me alternated flipping through their guidebook and studying Missy and I when they thought I was looking out the window, but I could also get caught up on all the important Italian news like Jenna Bush’s wedding.
And the front page news in Rome is…Jenna Bush got married and Obama wants you to vote??
One of the better discoveries during my previous visit to Rome had been the magical suppli, a fried ball of cheese, sauce, and rice, all for a mere euro. It is true, they are as good as they sound! I had found them outside the main train station near the hostel I was staying at, and conveniently tonight’s particular train had just arrived at this very main station! It was good to see that the suppli business had been thriving since I had been away – after finally finding the station exit Missy and I were able to track down the same little shop I had frequented in the past, still doing a brisk suppli business and staffed by the same indifferent waiters that had been there previously…
Everyone knows that coming back to work after a vacation is often a dismal undertaking. You have the obvious physical negatives, such as waking up prior to 8 AM and garbing oneself in khaki, in addition to activities which, normally bothersome, may become hellish once you have had the chance to spend some time away from them. Activities such as maintaining perfect silence as you ride an elevator seven floors up with a stranger or discovering a late afternoon meeting called for by a malicious co-worker.
Raphael, French Christian, Bethany, David (background)
Into this particular day was added the bittersweet departure of a fellow American expat. The “sweet” constituted a going away party in the Champs de Mars, commemorating her exodus from Paris, while the “bitter” served as the reminder that as an exapatriate you have temporary friends. Or perhaps contract friends? Meaning that as soon as one’s contract expires, one heads back to the USA. It’s kind of like living in a reverse jail, where you count down your days and then are sad when you are released.
Regardless, this is one of the unexpected things that one experiences while living overseas. Before accepting an assignment most people’s thoughts, mine included, lingered on exchange rates and language barriers (also, getting lost on the subway). These happen to be very valid reasons, but focusing on those bad things abandons one to surprise when something like a departure occurs. People worry about not knowing anyone in a different country or different city, but forget that individually they contain a bit of resiliency. And most likely a bit of personality - which makes the tough part not finding a few people to spend some time with, but wishing those peope good luck when the leave.
The remainder of last night’s drive to Marrakech took place, predominantly, during an extraordinary part of the day. It was around the time the sun was beginning to go down, a period Mike appropriately refers to as “the golden hour.” Where no photo one takes can turn out badly, the scenes infused with the fading light, tinging the scene with a beauty that just doesn’t happen in the middle of the day. It was during this golden hour when we entered the Atlas Mountains – and as lame as it sounds (and I do anticipate this sounding lame), there was a magical quality about it. Scattered groups of villagers peppered the road, returning home after the day’s toils. The women carried ludicrously large bundles of long, freshly cut grass on their backs, passed from time to time by small children riding atop a donkey. As we weaved along the mountain roads one could see robed men driving herds of little goats along the rocks, shunning the asphalt and choosing instead to follow roads which I can only assume to have been there since people with goats have lived there. Overhead the sun lingered in its descent…as if saying, “Hey, you two gents in the Picanto attempting to listen to Weezer out of one iPod…I know you may never be back through these mountains so I’ll just stick around as long as I can…”
And finally, today, Monday the fifth of May, the Moroccan expedition draws to its conclusion. And, of course, there is some drama and chaos to be involved. It just wouldn’t be Morocco without it.
I don’t want to speak ill of the Kia Picanto. It proved itself to be a powerhouse in its own right, and no finer chariot could one have asked for. But damn if trying to return it to the rental agency didn’t nearly cost Mike and I our flight back to Paris. It started out innocently enough, as all rental car returns should. The whole return process should be fairly standard – dedicated lot for the vehicle, transportation to the departure gates. But oh ho ho no, not in Marrakech! After at least sixty minutes of searching had brought Mike and I no closer to parting ways with our faithful friend. We had looped around the airport complex multiple times. We disobeyed traffic signs, scoffed at traffic circles, and learned to despise the two guards (who we think asked us for a cigarette) who kept trying to charge us for entering the passenger parking lot with each loop we made. We attempted to call the rental company, talked to police officers, and learned to hate the Marrakech city map we had in the car. Even with these valiant attempts we were ultimately forced to dump the car in the general parking lot. We made it to the ticket counter literally two minutes before they were closing it down.
Hard to believe this Djemaa el Fna is the same that one sees on a Marrakech evening…the tranformation from a cacophony of drums and shouts to the quiet of a solitary street sweeper is complete.
The perplexing thing about the situation is that when dropping off the keys to the desk inside, the agent appeared to care less where we put the car. Informing him of where the car was – out in the front parking lot, back up next to a light pole on the right side maybe halfway back – he shrugged, as if he wouldn’t have minded if the car was still in Merzouga.
And herein lies the conundrum of Morocco, the maddening dichotomy of this country. Unbelievably gorgeous at times, frustratingly ridiculous at others. Steeped in customs as fascinating as they are different, and these customs include not caring where you return a rental car. Let me sum up the dual nature of this country with one final story…
We arrived in Marrakech last night under the cover of nigh, parking in a shady lot next to the 12th century Koutoubia Mosque and guarded by a large German Sheperd. The hostel for the night was pretty awesome – imagine what a traditional Moroccan riad looks like and you’ve got it. After depositing bags we departed the hostel on a Mike sponsored quest for a souvenir lamp, stopping to greet a gang of kittens hiding in an alley wall. We entered the bustling Djemaa el Fna square to the sound of vendors and beggars alike shouting at us, the vendors demanding we spend money on their wares while the beggars simply demanded it. The begging strategy in Marrakech differs greatly from what I’ve seen in the USA. Whereas American beggars have a homebase spot, complete with cardboard sign and optional dog, the Moroccans are mobile. I believe the idea is to pass by the same target so many times that he or she gives up and dumps a load of dirhams on the pavement. Duriing such contemplations Mike had wandered into a shop and began pawing through a pile of silvery gray lanterns, which is akin to a fisherman recklessly chumming the waters around his boat. Within seconds two shopkeepers were by his side, one of them extolling the virtues of lanterns, particularly whichever one Mike happened to be holding at the moment.
Moroccan kittens…even they asked for money. Although these poor little guys looked a bit under the weather, so it was probably for some cat medicine.
The second one attempted to sell drugs to us. Hashish? Cocaine? Wait, and a lantern?! Why, this is a one stop shop if I have ever seen one. The gentleman must have assumed I did not believe he had such narcotics, for he swiftly produced a rock of hash from his pocket, insisting that I hold it. I stepped out to the street on order to avoid holding illegal drugs, my presence eliciting calls from other vendors to come browse their leather handicrafts and (presumably) heroine.
Mike eventually bargained the shopkeepers down a couple hundred dirhams, with part of the bargain involving me unknowingly donating my pen as part of the price. And why wouldn’t it?! I handed it over to them, expecting they needed it to write down a price or a note - instead they inspected it, gave a grunt of approval, and stuck it in their procket. I really liked that pen, but the entire situation was so unprecedented that neither Mike nor I knew what the proper protocol was. So, we left, feeling confused and hungry but also intrigued by the experience of buying a lamp from two drug dealing Moroccans with a penchant for gel ink pens…and that, in a way, sums up Morocco.
Marrakech is a compelling place. Exotic, by many standards. Spices, mules, twisty alleyways, cats, mosques, mint tea, hammams, snake charmers, riads, and people asking for money abound. Signs are in Arabic and the architecture is hugely different than your typical vacation spot. So, of course it makes complete sense to fire up the Kia Picanto and leave Marrakech again, and drive across Morocco to the Sahara Desert. While the Sahara is the largest desert in the world at 3,500,000 square miles (almost as large as the USA) I sincerely doubt that it has the same stunning collection of stray cats and orange juice carts as Marrakech. But! It did offer the opportunity to sleep on a sand dune.
NASA satellite image of the Sahara. It’s big.
Mike and I left Marrakech early in the morning on Saturday and were almost instantly lost. But we were able to find a radio station that played English pop songs, so at least we were lost to the music of Rhianna’s “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” Believe it or not we managed to find our way out of Marrakech due to my mad French skills…it had to be a good three or four times that we stopped the car and I would pathetically ask a policeman or pedestrian, “Où est Ouarzazate? Est à gauche, à droite ou tout droit?” Incrementally we navigated the streets, correcting ourselves time to time via the aforementioned question, and in a short while were headed toward the Atlas Mountains.
The plan was to take the Picanto over the Atlas mountains, which stretch about 1,500 miles and are as high as 13,671 feet in some places, via highway N9 East all the way to Ouarzazate. From there we would merge onto N10, which goes northeast through Tinerhir and the Todra Gorges, and then jump on 3451/3461 southeast to Merzouga. Sand, mountains, gorges, an oasis or two…all in about eleven hours. The fun part about the drive was that I still have never driven a manual, which meant once again the brunt of the driving would fall to Mike. I was free to eat Moroccan Snickers and take photos out the car window while accidentally falling asleep every now and then. If ever there were an award for most worthless passenger, I surely would have emerged from this trip victorious.
Map, terrain, and satellite views of the journey to the Saharra. From left to right, that’s Marrakech, Ouarzazate, and Merzouga. Thanks, Google Maps.
Despite the pain of a giant day of travel, the trip out to Merzouga was worth it – the landscapes were incredible, and a welcome change from the chaos of Marrakech. It really is a sight to see, driving through desert and dust and then come upon an oasis. As one would expect, the little villages that dotted the scenery seemed to congregate around these streams and palm trees although we often came across Moroccans sitting under a scrawny tree miles away from these oases (oases = the plural of oasis…).
The Picanto takes a rest amongst the peaks of the Atlas Mountains.
A Moroccan boy along the side of the road let us hold this lizard for a couple dirhams.
The Moroccan countryside, complete with oasis and small town. Every once in a while you would see road signs directing you towards a “casbah,” which translates to citadel. Such signs elicited the proper response, chiefly breaking out into the 1982 Clash song which requested the rockin’ of said casbah.
We made it almost the entire way without getting lost – surprisingly, whenever presented with a direction question the advice of pop superstar Beyonce rang loud and true. “To the left, to the left…” became the unofficial motto of this trip, and I’m only slightly ashamed to admit that these words were sang on occasion. I suppose it was our way of paying tribute to Beyonce for her help. There did happen to be one wrong turn as we approached Merzouga, and it resulted in Mike and I surrounded by small children demanding money and candy as we stood outside the Picanto studying a Moroccan map. There were also several men, one of them quite swarthy, requesting that we have lunch in their shady cafe.
Sand dunes take over the road as we near Merzouga.
The plan was to find the Merzougan staging point for the camel expedition Mike discovered in his National Geographic magazine while resting comfortably on a couch back in Peoria, Illinois. When we finally found it, turning…left(!) down an unpaved lane off a small frontage road, we were pleasantly surprised. There were multiple cars parked in the lot outside, and within a low, dust colored building you could hear scattered chatter in English. Perhaps we wouldn’t be stabbed in the face in the middle of the desert, as we had often contemplated on the long drive. Confidence raised its feeble head as strolled inside, and then, then I heard a few words I never once expected to hear: “We are out of camels.”
That’s right, after driving for half a day over mountains on roads covered in sand there were no more camels. But no worries; a concept which at first seemed slightly dangerous – bouncing around uncomfortably atop a camel while we rode into the middle of the blazing Sahara with a group of tourists, led by a Touareg tribesman – was about to get exponentially shadier. Upon hearing the words “no camels,” a mysterious man in blue materialized out of the shadows. “No worries,” he proceeded to tell us in broken English, “Just a short distance a way there are a couple camels hanging out, doing nothing but yearning to put several naive Americans upon their back.” Well, Mike and I be damned if we’re going to let a couple camels like that go to waste, so the three of us piled into the Picanto and drove across some very bumpy ground toward what we thought were some camel stables.
Mike and I and the man with the camel plan.
The building we parked in front of was empty. Not necessarily creepy, haunted house empty, as the windows were not broken and the place was sufficiently furnished. But going from happy, populated building one to empty, dark building two was less than comforting. And there were no camels here. We were told the animals were on their way, like they were just a pizza that had been ordered, and so there was little left to do but change clothes and flip awkwardly through a stack of photos the man in blue gave us.
An eternity later several camels arrived, looking less than thrilled to be there. We were informed that the names of our lucky mounts were Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley, just simply ridiculous names for two Saharan camels. But it made me wonder, what is a common camel name? For instance, one could make the argument that a typical dog’s name is Buddy – what is the camel equivalent? Surely not Bob Marley. And wait a minute…surely our friend in blue wasn’t seriously asking for the keys to the Picanto? Yes, he was. Despite being, like, the only guy around, blue man informed us the Picanto would be safer back at the first building. More people around, you see. Personally I think he just didn’t want to walk back. That’s the logical explanation. Another logical explanation is he wanted to steal the car, although I lend more credence to the first thought. Nonetheless I had a vision flash before my eyes, of this robed blue man picking up some of his blue men buddies and cruising over sand dunes fore a night of fun before taking the Picanto to a chop shop in Merzouga. Despite being a doctor Mike became increasingly open to the idea of handing over the keys to our only means of transportation, 11+ hours away from Marrakech, which was a 4 hour flight from Paris, which was a 9+ hour flight from Chicago. Bottom line – we were very, very far away from anyone who could help us get out of a desert. At least we both spoke Arabic and Berber extremely well.
About the time that I convinced Mike not to give away the keys we were informed that in fact we would not be joining up with the group we had seen at the first building. This was a surprise, and again conjured up images of being stabbed in the face and robbed. But Mike and I determined that between the zero amount of self defense we know and the complete absence of a weapon amongst our posessions, we would be ok. If we were to get stabbed, at least it would be by an accomplished guide who knew the sand dunes like the back of his hand.
Our accomplished guide turned out to be a small boy who looked to be about fourteen. It is remarkable how far away from reality Mike and I were when imagining how this excursion would play out. I’m not sure two guys have ever been more wrong about one thing. To add to the already comical and slightly unsettling scenario, our guide could speak no English. In French, I could basically count to 30 and direct a taxi driver to my apartment. Mike let us all down with his complete lack of Arabic. We were incapable of communicating until I recalled reading a Wikipedia entry some time back, which had indicated that Spain once controlled the northern part of Morocco (they actually still possess two cities on the coast – Melilla and Ceuta – so it would be like if Britain still controlled Boston). I tried some high school Spanish, and bam! We could communicate with our prepubescent guide.
Christian, Bob, Mike, and Jimi.
After perhaps an hour of riding Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix through the sand – our poor guide walked ahead, holding a rope that tied the two camels together – I arrived at two conclusions. Two conclusions that I am sure everyone who has ridden a camel has come to. The first, that camels shit almost constantly. The second, if you are a guy and want to have kids ever, don’t ride camels for long periods of time without stopping. They walk in a jerky motion which makes it quite rough. Spirits had rebounded during the jaunt through the dunes, despite the persistent, rhythmic crushing of the genitals that Bob and Jimi had inflicted via their camel walking style. It was very beautiful, in a “I hope I never get lost out here” kind of way. But those spirits took a hit upon arrival to the campsite. Do you remember those scenes in the movies (specifically, horror movies), when the hero drives up to a house or building or abandoned space station, surveys the scene, and says something like “People died here.” Although entertaining in cinematic setting, it is slightly frightening to say them for real.
Enjoy your night’s stay!
We parked Bob and Jimi a couple hundred feet away from the tents and wandered over to inspect the amenities. Rather than get into a long, drawn out description of the night’s lodgings I will simply say it was a good thing that the tent hotel had to only support two guys who didn’t require plumbing and a bed which consisted of more than two blankets. The photo in Mike’s National Geographic was a picture of pure luxury in comparison. As part of the night’s deal our guide boy was also to cook dinner for the three of us. When I was 14 I could barely stew up a box of Kraft macaroni. He began his culinary preparations soon after arrival, and it wasn’t long after when he came over to the table Mike and I were sitting around and began to gesture and speak (presumably) in Spanarabic about something he was missing. Now, whatever it was, it was apparently life and death that he have it. For at least fifteen minutes we mimed, played 20 questions in English and Spanish and French, used props, anything we could do to try to figure out this kid. Finally, he gave up trying to explain – it was getting dark so he pulled out two flashlights and beckoned for one of us to come with him.
What an interesting turn of events! Here is how this request played out in my mind: “How cunning…he’s using a classic divide and conquer technique. One of us will go with him, and on the journey they will meet a nice little band of marauders. That person will be incapacitated, at which point the assailants will be guided to this shady camp and deal with the other one of us.” This may sound extreme, but if you were actually in the situation I assure you – it is not too crazy of a thought. Look at the scenario: we were two Americans, off by ourselves in the middle of the desert with no one around. We were given an innocent looking guide who speaks no English, and literally no one in the world knows where we are. That’s a little disturbing…
Off went Mike and our guide, just two flashlights in the already extremely dark night. I watched the lights go up a sand dune, then blink out as they went down the other side. It was just me, a campfire, two camels, and an inner voice telling me that we were, in fact, going to be stabbed. In order to illustrate just how dark it was, I’d like for you to perform a little exercise. Get up, go into a room with no windows and turn off the lights. Now close your eyes. It was darker in the desert. Having never been too far from the city / suburban lights, the pitch black of the Sahara is at once inspiring, beautiful, and eerie. I wandered around the campsite for a while, checking out the pot of bubbling something over a burner in the back tent before settling down to look at the stars. Really, simply beautiful. I’m not sure how long I was alone there, but I will admit that minutes can seem like a long time when there is a possibility your friend might be knocked out in a sand dune and ruffians are coming to rob you. I took my mind off this delightful concept by walking around the tents, taking grainy little videos with my camera. Eventually I saw lights, a la the X-Files, coming down toward camp – surprisingly, both Mike and our guide boy had returned. And unscathed, at that. It looked like a casual beating and a burglary weren’t in the cards after all.
The fear of an untimely death by way of scimitar dwindled away as the realization slowly dawned upon me that salt was the reason for the mysterious journey from which Mike and guide had just returned from. It seems that salt is an essential ingredient of any good desert tarjine, and the guide had evidently forgotten his shaker. As resourceful as he was young, he had immediately decided to borrow some from the abandoned tent several dunes away, taking Mike and a couple flashlights along for company. According to Mike, his own flashlight had died seconds after going over the first mountain of sand, and due to his virtually pitch black surroundings he lost the guide. Confronted with the option of wandering around blindly from dune to dune, Mike considered sitting down right there and waiting until morning arrived. This would have been a very long night for Mike and quite a surprise for me when the guide would have rolled into camp a man down. I dare say this would have supported the narrative already formed in my head, the narrative being the savaging of several Americans in a remote part of the world. I imagine upon arrival back to the camp without Mike the young guide would have requested my help to find him, which – if intent had indeed been criminal – would have been brilliant. Truthfully I probably would have ventured out with the guide, if for nothing else that it would have beat sitting around a tent anticipating an ambush.
But thankfully it never came to any of that. The guide ultimately returned to rescue Mike after he lost his flashlight and they picked up some salt, which was the point at whch I saw that sole flashlight come down the dune behind the tents. And it was with this happy ending that we could get down to the real business of the night – awkward Spanish, tajine with salt, swapping hats, beating on drums, and eventually sleeping under the incredibly impressive Moroccan stars.
If our guide wasn’t planning to destroy us prior to the drum variety hour, my guess is that he thought about it after.
Upon awakening the next day I was reminded of the quote from Fight Club, after Brad Pitt’s character had stuck a gun to the back of a convenience store guy’s head: “Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessel’s life. His breakfast will taste better than any meal you and I have ever tasted.” I have always assumed that this was because our friend Raymond K. Hessel had escaped death, and I admit that awakening the next morning, the sun slowly rising and coloring the sand to a brilliant reddish tint, breakfast was good. And it was just bread.
The passing potential of an untimely and perhaps barbarous death took a bit of the luster off the camel ride back, with the most exciting development being Mike bottling some pure Saharan sand in one of the water bottles which had been depleted during the past twenty-four hours. When we arrived back at the supposed camel stable from the day before the Kia was still there, all windows intact and each tire accounted for. This made us both happy, as did the emptying of mini sand dunes out of our shoes. When we finally said our goodbyes there were tears in the eyes of Jimi and Bob the camels.
Sad camels.
Leaving Merzouga ended up being notable for several reasons, neither remotely related to the other. Throughout the days in Morocco I had grown quite wishful in my desire to see a goat climbing an Argan tree, which grows in Morocco and produces a goat friendly fruit, not dissimilar to an olive. These goats climb the trees to A) impress tourists, and B) like anyone else, they’re quite anxious to eat the bounty of the mighty Argan before other, greedier goats. Mike, on the other hand, was lusting for a chance encounter with a Fennec Fox. These foxes are little creatures – in the boxing match of life, the Fennec and the Chihuahua would be a pay-per-view fight at the straw weight level, the lowest of the ten weight classes. Both tip the scales at about three pounds and shiver uncontrollably. Perhaps as a reward for Mike’s success in the great salt quest of the night prior, Fate made the decision to place a tiny white Fennec Fox in the path of the Picanto – after, of course, we turned left out of Merzouga.
The second item of note was tilted away from the cute and fuzzy end of the spectrum and more toward the creepy and inexplicable. The day before, while driving through a stretch of road outside of Merzouga, I had spied a strange looking human. To this day I cannot tell you if it was male or female, young or old. This poor soul was sitting on the side of the road dressed in a black cloak, and despite the seated position one could tell that he or she was dwarfish, with a hunch thrown in for good measure. Either the cloak or the actual formation of the body gave the impression that this person was mostly torso and short arms, with an arrestingly large head. Here was an individual that deserved sympathy, but simultaneously inspired gratitude toward the Picanto for its ability to drive quickly past at a smooth fifty miles per hour. I initially thought that I had dreamed up this creation, which didn’t seem that crazy given that Mike didn’t see him or her. Of course, he was struggling to stay awake and focused after a day’s worth of driving so his attention was understandably elsewhere.
The aberration would have remained in that “I must have been mistaken” realm of the world reserved for the sasquath had it not been for the day’s drive, for now we were passing through the same danger zone in which I had seen the cloaked figure the day before. One moment Mike and I were gushing like underage girls at a John Mayer concert about holding a Fennec Fox, the next we were screaming in terror as a bizarre, troll-like creature performed a disjointed, hobbling run toward our moving Picanto. If you have ever watched a Lord of the Rings movie and wondered what it would look like if goblins could dance, this would be it. Still screaming things like “Yoarghhh, what is that,” and “Dude it looks like it’s going to try to open the car door go go go go!” we swerved out of the way of the leaping and (now in the middle of the road) terrifying shape. It may have slapped the hood of the car as we careened by, but I’ll never know for sure – hence forth, I am banishing this episode from memory, along with that time I watched Syriana.
These triceratops bones break up the monotony of the drive. So did fleeing from the family that had been working in the field next to them, after they noticed us taking pictures.
There was just one thing left to do on the return trip to Marrakech, and this was a visit to the Todra Gorge just outside of a village name Tinerhir. They stretch for 40 kilometers through the mountains, and the frigid stream that cuts through provides a welcome respite from the afternoon heat of a late Moroccan morning. The gorge – a geographical splendor indeed - seemed to be a popular destination for tourists and locals alike, although most of the tourist crowd preferred to enjoy the scenery from the interior of their very giant and (presumably) air conditioned buses. The locals, on the other hand, clambered across rocks and up the walls of the gorge, with several groups setting up rudimentry grilling devices on the patches of rock in the middle of the stream. It was, even when combined with the kids who demanded money and my chocolate cereal (in that order), a pleasant diversion from the miles of asphalt.
Two very different views of the Todra Gorge.
Natural grandeur aside, the best thing about the Todra Gorge detour was the photo op. There just so happened to be a little spot to pull over as one rejoined the main highway, and for good reason – this spot overlooked a gorgeous sea of green palms, a little village framed by the rock of the landscape. But this is not the photo op to which I’m referring.
Throughout my time in Morocco I have grown increasingly distrustful of the local population. It began with the sketchy behavior by the taxi driver at the airport, grew with the children guides who led us to the hostel on the first day, was reinforced by the snake charmers who ended up with Mike’s cash, and concluded with the kids at the gorge who had just demanded my cereal. Over the days I have felt more and more like a walking wallet…an unwilling debit card continually begged to splurge on just one more item.
While Mike was taking pictures of the view from the vista I remained in the Picanto. His camera is better, plus I had important fiddling to do with the radio. Neither of us knew that this unassuming outlook had sinister purposes, like the crafty Dionaea muscipula, a plant found natively only in North and South Carolina and more commonly known as the Venus Flytrap. Just as the plant captures its prey by appearing intriguing and innocent, so does this particular Moroccan scenic view. For scarcely had I unfastened my seat belt when a toothless gentleman garbed in deep blue tried to wrap a turban around my head through the open car window.
Protests proved futile, even protests tainted with my threats of “Look guy, no matter how many times you wrap that on top of my head I will not give you money.” I was an insect trapped by a Venus Flytrap hell bent on providing head scarves to tourists. Soon enough I was out of the car with a dirty scarf around my ears, Mike ensnared as well. The power to resist is virtually impossible, I tell you – even when they ask you for your car keys part of you just wants to say, “Oh, yeah absolutely – it was rude of me not to offer.” You can’t do anything about it. It’s like knowing that you are going to be whisked away in a flash flood barreling down the Todra Gorge, a flash flood that is also going to want your money, and you just sit there on a rock and wait for it because it will probably be a fun ride. Of course, we ended up giving money to our new gummy friend. Morocco – sooner or later, it will get you!
By order of the prophet
We ban that boogie sound
Degenerate the faithful
With that crazy casbah sound.
The journey to Essaouira began at the Marrakech Hertz rental counter where a group of Italians did their best to monopolize the time of each available clerk. I have no idea if these guys were complaining about the quality of the Moroccan marinara sauce or just whining because they were charged for an extra kilometer, but it was was well worth the wait – and it was a significant wait – when we given our stunning silver chariot, the mighty Kia Picanto. This was the car that Mike and I were entrusting our lives to – screw you Landrover! Get out of here, Jeep! The Gods have spoken, and they have spoken wisely. It shall be the Kia, dominating with 1,086 cc of engine power, that shall lead us across the unforgiving Moroccan terrain!
Here’s a fun fact: this Yamaha motorcycle has the same engine power as the Picanto.
Essaouira is a little town on the Atlantic, about four hours away from the madness of Marrakech, and it was recommend to be by one of my Moroccan co-workers. Apparently it is quite beautiful, with many of the original white walls of the city still standing. The town gained fame in the era of the hippie, when Jimi Hendrix visited, probably smoked a lot of weed, and allegedly wrote the song “Castles Made of Sand” about a crumbling castle on the beach. The road trip out to Essaouira was not too bad – every once and a while there is some greenery but for the most part it is flat and rocky. And hot. One of the oddities I noticed along the road was some grafitti, with the words “Catman.” I feel like I have seen that same message of doom spraypainted all over Barcelona about ten months ago, on my 2007 EuroTrip…perhaps the Catman migrates south in the winter.
Cat Man relaxes on his day off from spray painting.
Essaouira was pretty much what was expected – a pleasant laid back beach town with camels galloping on the beach and cannons at the ramparts. Also, a wandering entrepreneurial vendor selling various desserts, each infused with his special ingredient, hash. If a coconut hash cookie, heated by the Essaouiran sun and wrapped in plastic, sold by a chuckling man who has likely been sampling his own merchendise doesn’t sound appealing, my suggestion is to try the fishmarket. It is surrounded by an army of cats (maybe Catman is their leader?), and it holds multiple stalls selling very fresh seafood. How fresh? Well, most of it is still moving. Especially the creepy eel, which the vendors jerked around on a string to prove to us that it was alive and suffering a terrible, terrible death. If you are able to move past your feelings of sadness for the crab weakly waving his claw at you, choose several victims and point them out to the people manning the stalls. They will throw them onto a plate – in this specific case several fish and a couple of big shrimp were selected – and take them to the back to grill them up. Within minutes, that fish that had been laying on a bed of ice and pleading to die will arrive on a plate, cooked up and accompanied by a Fanta.
After a failed attempt to rent a couple dune buggies – try translating that in any language, you will notice it simply is impossible – Mike and I piled into the Picanto and turned back to Marrakech. There was a brief stop to pick up supplies from the Moroccan version of Wal-Mart, a stop necessary given that the plan was to drive to the Sahara the next morning. This would be a bit longer of a trip – about ten hours one way – and any good Saharan road trip requires bottles of precious water, Pringles, and pistachios. On a side note, I am continually impressed with the global presence of Pringles. Seriously I am. They are everywhere. A random Internet search told me that Pringles has global sales of one billion dollars vs. three hundered million in the USA. Equally impressive, but more toward the disconcerting side of things, is this article I just stumbled across…
“P&G [Proctor & Gamble] had argued Pringles were not similar to potato chips, due to their texture, ‘mouth melt’ taste, uniform colour and regular shape which ‘is not found in nature’.
P&G also maintained chips do not contain non-potato flours, and are not packaged in tubes, while Pringles are more like a cake or a biscuit as the snack is manufactured from dough.
“This appeal is allowed because Pringles are not, on the facts found, products ‘made from the potato, or from potato flour or from potato starch’,” said Judge Justice Warren in his judgement.”
Climbing to the top of the “castle made of sand,” the white city of Essaouira in the distance.
