A Whole New World

Overall thoughts on Morocco: The women are not present in this country. To book the Riad, I spoke via email with Maria, and yet I never met her. When I asked Hassan, who works at the Riad, he told me Maria was in France, which is impossible, as none of them have 40,000 dollars to spare for a visa. Even on the street women were veiled, sometimes with just eyes visible. It shook me. I understand there is religious meaning and tradition, however these women glared at me. I felt as if I had the life they in some way wanted. It is dirty. There is trash everywhere, and chickens are packed in small cages and travel on the back of bikes to markets. There are bugs. I bought batteries that must have been used. The city is half friendly, and half people hoping to steal from you. But they need the money. How did Casablanca build the third largest Mosque with the world’s tallest Minaret (200 ft) when right down the street, families live in one room, with old sheets as doors. Where are the priorities? On the ship, a member of parliament was attending a diplomatic greeting. The event was delayed 45 minutes because it is illegal to begin an event if you know a member of the government of a certain rank is coming and is not there yet. The children are taught to beg and steel. From the train I could see houses of mud and shepherds with just one or two sheep. Beneath lush green hills sat small shanty towns, miles away from even a train station. These people cannot leave their country. They are happy, and generally appreciate the tourists, but there is something inherently unfair about the culture. I would not feel safe here without a guy nearby. Throughout my days, I made sure to be in between two guys or at least with one. It’s scary to be a second-class citizen; to have someone else complimented for my good bartering skills, and me, just on looks. 

Below is a thorough account of my days in Morocco. This is as much for my own memory’s sake as it is for sharing. There was simply too much to take in. I am feeling seasick now, and so cannot proofread. Hope its somewhere near legible.

Today the ship photographer told me the way to explain the Semester at Sea experience is: “If you haven’t been on it, you can’t understand it and if you have been on it, you can’t understand it.”Having said that, I’ll do my best.

We arrived in Morocco a day late due to fuelling issues in Gibraltar. We went to bed docked in Casablanca, but for safety reasons were not allowed to leave the boat until the next morning. To entertain us, we had our safety guy (who used to be an undercover something –not totally sure, but told stories of tracking guys abroad) tell us how a pickpocket works. After this, we had the second talent night. This included several rap songs turned acoustic guitar pieces (Nelly’s “Ride with Me”and “I’m in Love with a Stripper”), and most notably, two friends of mine who changed the lyrics of the song No Air, to instead be No Land (“how am I supposed to live with no land/can’t eat, seasickness, I can’t swim”). This night also had our pre-port briefing, where we learned a bit more about Moroccan culture, and survival tips. We were told not to drink tap water, eat seafood, eat dairy or wear open toed shoes. The women were told to keep their hair up or partially pinned back and to look no one in the eyes, unless we were in a conversation. I packed that night for two days in Marrakesh. I was planning to travel with a total of 13 the first night and 14 the second. I had made reservations at a Riad (a Moroccan B&B) for all of us and was equipped with my Lonely Planet guide (they should really love me, as much as I talk about their books) for our daytime ventures.

Morocco is a country of bartering. This began as soon as we left the port to find taxis to the train station. For four of us, one driver asked us to pay 30 euro for the 10-minute drive. We refused, and kept walking. We walked up a block and found another taxi, which charged us 50 dirhams (equivalent to $6.25) for 4 people. He originally wanted to charge us 100. The drivers are insane. The yellow middle lines are negotiable, and pedestrians and bikers are avoided by mere centimeters. We took the ship safetyman’s advice, and followed locals to cross. For a first class three-hour train ride to Marrakesh, it cost us each 125 dirhams ($15.63). When entering our compartments (it was set up like the Hogwarts express…only much, much dirtier), all of the Moroccans immediately took off shoes. They noticed that neither I, nor my travel buddy for the weekend, Aaron, partook in this. It was a stale-smelling and stained car, but we arrived in Marrakesh on time. 

The train station was obviously new. One of the odder sites was a KFC with a menu in Arabic. At that moment, all of us wanted Americana. We ate our first Marrakesh lunch at McDonalds, and yes, that is pathetic. I paid 40 dirhams ($2.50) for a happy meal, and am thrilled with my toy –it’s an Arabic/French travel sized game of Sorry. The happy meal included a drink (fanta with ice –the first of the ship doctor’s rules I broke), fries, a burger, and an ice cream cone (dairy –also forbidden by the ship doctor). After lunch I bought a latte, which of course is made with milk. It was then that someone reminded me of the rules. Oh well. It has been two days, and I have not felt ill. I also forgot not to wash my toothbrush with tap water twice. Whoops.

After a long and overpriced cab ride, we all arrived to Riad Mur Akush, which is Arabic for Land of God, a name that it well deserves. Through two alleyways and a large iron door, we saw a small, open courtyard, with three floors of large wooden doors above it. As it was my reservation, I knocked, and I walked in first. Our host introduced himself as Mohammed, and shook my hand while saying in English, “you must be Ann. Welcome.” He led us all to tables set up in the courtyard. A few minutes later, he returned with a full tray of teacups and kettles. Mint Tea is by far the best thing in Morocco. It is incredible, and we had it at least three times per day. From there, he recommended we see the Souks (the Arab word for markets). This was my first time as a pedestrian in Morocco and it was terrifying. The amount of curse words that streamed from my mouth over that 20-minute walk may have set a record. Cars are not afraid of pedestrians, and neither are cyclists. The sidewalks are used as extensions to shops, and can only be used half the time. Even then, they were full of puddles, chicken guts (really), and discarded goods. We arrived at the Souks and were once again overwhelmed. There were vendors with turtles, chickens, monkeys, and of course the snake charmers and storytellers. The snake charmers speak some English, and are there for tourists. There were dancing cobras sitting alongside garden snakes that would be tossed around tourists’necks to solicit photographs and then money. I had no intention of touching a snake. I could hear my mother whispering, “Salmonella! Just think of all the people who touch those snakes! Disease!” But a Berber man ran to me and placed a snake directly on my head. It was not a comforting feeling to see a snake’s head resting at my nose. After giving him five Euro so that he would leave us alone (we were two boys and three girls at this point), we moved on to be bombarded by begging children, women trying to convince us to get henna, and men calling out to us: “hey, skinny!”to my Brazilian friend, “hey gay boy,”or “hey skinny boy”to the guys (they really don’t look gay though...), “hey, chocolat,”to our African-American friend, and “hey Scarlett,”to me. My friend Taylor and I were both called Scarlett over the course of this trip. This is a reference to Scarlett Johansen, which is funny a. because neither of us look remotely like her and b. that they know who that is, and associate American-looking women with her, of all people. 
After a stressful few hours, we headed back to our Riad, for some much needed quiet time to digest our surroundings. We headed up to the rooftop patio to get a bit of air. From the roof, the city looked exactly like Aladdin. So of course, as we looked up at the moon from 100 miles outside the Sahara, we enthusiastically sang the lyrics we know of Arabian Nights and A Whole New World. We all ended up much needed laugher, after an exhausting day in Africa. Dinner that night consisted of more Mint Tea, a Moroccan pizza, and fantas. We planned to be (and were) more adventurous the next day.
With my Lonely Planet guide in hand, we mapped out our route for Day 2. In the morning, we saw the ruined and pillaged Palais El-Badii, constructed 1500 and taken apart by the Portuguese three centuries later. We took pictures of the ruins, but the most interesting part was the storks living atop the buildings. We counted thirty storks in nests at least 1.5ft high and 2ft wide. Next, we headed to the tannery recommended by Mohammed. This was good practice in bargaining for the souks later that day. We had to walk out of the store twice before a price for our jackets was finally reached. With this as well as our taxi drivers, my French proved itself very useful. I could bargain in French, which I believe helped gain sympathy as a student in need of a good price and someone who was smart enough to know what was not a good price. My friend Taylor and I both bought jackets for a third of the original price. We proudly headed to lunch where we tried Tangine (not sure if this is correct) and two of us tried Moroccan beer, which was actually pretty good. One of the jokes of the trip was that this country could not make us as stressed as we were feeling in bargaining and markets and then refuse us a drink. After lunch, we hailed a taxi, and convinced him to fit seven of us in a car meant for three plus a driver. This is a bad idea, except that it was a short drive and that we felt much safer together and squished to the point that we could not move than with no seatbelts and free to slide with the car as it proves its breaks in traffic. It was a hilarious ride, and we overpaid the driver, who was also seemed thoroughly amused by our happy laughter.
That afternoon, we saw the tombs of Moroccan kings and then headed to the souks, with a list of what we wanted. With good bargaining, we all found what we were looking for at reasonable prices. While purchasing handcrafted bowls, I left twice before the shopkeeper finally said, “Okay lady, I give you your price, just keep your smile.” He then looked at my friend Aaron and told him that he must be a strong man. I would have been much more offended had I not purchased four bowls for under 20 dollars. There were dozens of vendors selling fabric. We found one with absolutely beautiful pillowcases. He spoke English to my friends, and I spoke French to him. He responded in French to me, and ended up asking me to hold back for a minute, telling me in French, “Do not tell your friends, but I will give you these for 100 Dirham. You must not tell your friends. Just pay me now.” They had already paid, so I laughed, and we shook hands. 
After an exhaustive afternoon of fighting with vendors over what literally comes down to about a two-dollar difference, we were ready for a good meal. We recouped time at the Riad, and planned on going out with all fourteen of us to a hookah bar and dinner. I had no intention of doing hookah in Morocco, and was getting uncomfortable with the direction that we were heading. I stuck with the boys. Without my knowledge, one of the girls had agreed to a cab driver who would take us in groups of three to the area of the bar. The price was good, but it meant that some of us would have to wait 20 minutes in the Moroccan dark. We had one boy in each car, and three stayed with me to take the last one. Although I was well protected, we were unnerved by the time we reached our group to discover that the bar had no food. Five of us caught a taxi back towards the Riad so that we could walk about from our dinner, and searched tiredly for a restaurant. We walked the road heading to the center of the Old City. A block away from the Riad’s Alley, I saw an alley lit by tall candles. It was called “Hotel Arabe”and advertised a restaurant and bar. We wandered down the alley, heading towards the well-lit hotel. We walked into the bar looking pretty rough. The one waiter working that Wednesday night greeted us and said, “Please, sit.”He looked at me wide-eyed and said, “You are very beautiful.”I laughed and he said, “No! Seriously!” I should probably preface this story with the fact that the other Taylor came in later that night and he thought she was Scarlett Johansen and her table got a free round of drinks too. He also gave her his email and phone number, so she can send him the picture that they took together. Nonetheless, a compliment, a piano bar, and the Casablanca theme, As Time Goes By playing in the background made the night significantly less troublesome. We were seated as he arrived with a round of shots (called Sex on the Beach) for all of us, and “two for my girlfriend”aka, me. We happily drank wine and ate tapas. Rashid, our waiter, also spoke to the chef, and arrived with free spicy lamb tapas. I do not like lamb, and neither did two other members of the group, but in that case, we all had to eat it. The meal was delicious and well priced. We ended the night laughing on the empty night streets in our Riad’s safer neighborhood. Once at the Riad, Hassan, the other man working there, showed me how to make Moroccan mint tea. I’m so glad to take that knowledge back to the USA with me. Hassan sat with us for a while as we drank our tea. He told us about life in Morocco, from his village in the High Atlas Mountains. He is just 23, but looks at least 35. He loves Shakira and Beyonce and speaks English because he has always been around tourists. He was wearing a shirt that said New Zealand, but explained to us that it is impossible to leave Morocco. To go to any country, one must acquire a visa, which costs about $40,000. I do not want to calculate that in the Moroccan currency. He has never left, and he knows that he will never be able to leave. I do not know how it would feel to be completely stagnant –to be prevented, based on nationality, of travelling anywhere. Why am I worthy of these experiences and not him? He speaks four languages. He seems intelligent, but there is no class mobility. There is no way for him to get an education, to grow out of his existence in Morocco. His experience in the outside world will be entirely based on the travelers he meets. Having said all this, he followed our election and watched Obama’s inauguration. He, like me, finds Sarah Palin very funny. This night ended much better than expected.
Day three, we awoke at 7:30 to our second Moroccan breakfast. Fresh orange juice, mint tea, coffee, pancakes, this thin, crispy, pita bread, loaves, croissants, yogurt…it was a feast both mornings. After breakfast, we piled into our mini-van taxi and all fourteen of us left for the train station. The ride back was unexpected. I sat beside an English couple and across from the ship’s photographer. The English couple was quite conversational. Jeff is a gardener and Jane is a cleaner. They saved for years for a month’s holiday in Morocco. Jane said the most difficult part for her was being unable to hold Jeff’s hand as they walked. She had lived more than thirty years in the states before returning to her hometown outside of Oxford and meeting Jeff. They’ve only been together for ten years (they’re mid-sixties) and say that she’s never been happier. “It’s so nice to live with someone who shares your dreams, your ideals, and lifestyle,”she told me, “he’s my soul mate, and I never believed it possible.”Jeff has a huge gray beard and gapped yellow teeth. Jane has short brown hair, and is plain, with an upturned nose. They both wore clothes that were patched and torn again, and they are some of the happiest people I’ve met. They’ve made friends with the grocery stores in their neighborhoods and collect the cans that they discard and distribute to their friends and others in need. They lived for a while as homeless, to know what it would feel like. Jeff had never left England. Jane had travelled in her twenties and spoke some classical Arabic. I have no interest in living their lifestyle, but found their story enchanting. 
As the train pulled to a halt back in Casablanca, I raced away to find my friends in other compartments. We met and taxied to the Hassan II Mosque, which is the third biggest Mosque in the world, and the first one I’ve been allowed to enter. It is one of two in Morocco open to non-Muslims. The Mosque was only constructed 15 years ago and has a retractable roof, so that when it gets too smelly (imagine 25,000 people inside for hours without shoes in Morocco) they can open the roof and air it out. The tour concluded at 3pm, giving us thirty minutes before Rick’s Café closed, so the Lonely Planet told me. We arrived at 3:10 to find it closed, with a guard out front. I spoke to him in French, explaining that it was my favorite movie, and that all I wanted was t-shirts and when the café reopened, I would be gone. He understood, but remained firm. He pointed to the Café phone number posted on the door and told me that if I really wanted to get in, I could call and speak to the patron. But of course, I have no phone. Soon, there were just three of us left, and I was depressed having missed Rick’s by just ten minutes. I opened up my guidebook, and showed the guard the time it listed. “Please,”I told him,”it is my favorite movie. It is my father’s favorite movie. I just want to be able to buy a t-shirt from Rick’s for my dad. Please.”
I think the guard had kids.  He agreed to check, and called the patron, who looked at my sad eyes and said yes, but only to me. I headed to the gift shop and quickly bought t-shirts and took photos, thanking the patron, explaining that it was one of the things I most wanted to see in Casablanca. After this, we headed back to the ship, saying farewell to land, for another 8 days.