Morocco 2002-2003

Morocco Meanderings

December 2002 – January 2003

Marjorelle Gardens, Marrakech

David and I took off for Casablanca on December 21, 2002, not quite sure why we were doing this trip.  The original idea was to take a mid-winter trip to Senegal – a friend was on assignment there, but when we thought over the practical aspects of how it would work more carefully, we were not sure it was a good idea at this particular time.  But meanwhile, we’d discovered the best way to get to Dakar was flying Royal Air Maroc, with a change of planes in Casablanca, so we said to ourselves, how about stopping in Casablanca instead of Dakar?  We more or less “fell into” the idea of Morocco.

What that meant was that we didn’t really think much about the trip and it just came upon us without our full-bore preparation.  David had been to Morocco 25 years before on a brief visit following a professional meeting in Spain, and liked it, and I had never been there (though by now I had been to all the other North African countries except Libya.)  So, that gets back to flying over, half wondering how we got ourselves into this, and a tiny bit anxious to be visiting a Moslem Arabic country during such uncertain times as these.

 Those feelings, however, set the stage for a very positive experience, since we began by expecting little and wound up being extraordinarily positively surprised.  This was also a trip that crystallized some lessons on independent travel for us (more later).

 Morocco turned out to be a very pleasant country to travel in.  I suppose it is Third World, but it is definitely at the top end of Third World.  I am sure there is extensive poverty, but overall our impression was of a country that worked pretty well and efficiently.  Clean cities, trains and buses that were easy to use, handsome parks, friendly, helpful people.

 We had been warned of the aggressiveness we would find in Morocco – people hustling us and latching on to us to buy, buy, buy.  Yes, there was a bit of that, but it was quite manageable.  Besides, for anyone who has traveled independently in India, for example, Morocco does not even register on the “in-your-face” index.  So, it was pretty smooth going all the time.

 I had several exciting epiphanies in Morocco.  First, was a sense of the cultural transmission that followed this pathway: Morocco >>> Andalusian Spain >>> Mexico >>> Northern New Mexico.  Hence, the surprise to recognize the cultural interconnectedness of the New Mexico I live in with an ancient culture that began over a 1,000 years ago in North Africa.  Let me give the most vivid example of this pathway.  One of the unique cultural elements (unique in the U.S.) about New Mexico is the system of irrigation ditches known as acequias.  These are community ditches, with a complex cultural structure supporting their management and operation – the annual spring ditch cleaning that users (known as parciantes) are asked to turn out for, the scheduling of who gets how much water when, the majordomo who has lead management responsibility for the local system, and on and on.  Well, when you think about it, the word acequia does not really sound Spanish, and I’d never heard that word anywhere else in the Spanish-speaking world.  Not only did I see irrigation ditches in Morocco that reminded me of ours here, but I then mentioned the word acequia to several Moroccans and they understood because it is actually derived from their Arabic word, which is sounded, phonetically, as sahkia.  Just think of the transmission of that one word from Africa all the way, and by a circuitous route, over the centuries, to New Mexico.  I found it quite amazing.

 Another enjoyable element, likely more coincidental than anything else, was how much Marrakech reminded me of Santa Fe.  Admittedly, Marrakech is a far larger city than Santa Fe, but there were a number of similarities.  Both are built of reddish-tan adobe – there is that overall look to both of them.  In fact, the wood outlines of windows and doors used blue in Marrakech as does Santa Fe (along with deep turquoise), heightening further the sense of resemblance.  Marrakech’s surrounding landscape is a bit reminiscent of the high desert country of northern New Mexico – whereas Santa Fe is backed up by the Sangre de Cristo range of the Southern Rockies, from Marrakech (though further away) you see the imposing wall of the snow-covered high Atlas.  And then both cities are tourist destinations (by far the greatest tourist presence anywhere in Morocco was in Marrakech, though it was mainly European, with some Australian and Japanese and not a lot of Americans), though they somehow manage to retain a sense of uniqueness, despite the impact of visitors.

 Yet another element of delight and excitement was that in Morocco I gained a greater sense of the richness of Arabic accomplishments in a way I had not been able to in other Arab countries.  Morocco seems to be where the most glorious flowering of Arabic design, architecture, and other cultural elements came together.  When you realize there is a continuity of tradition that goes back many centuries, the fresh intensity pervading Tales of the Arabian Nights, the luxuriousness of the Muslim world, what it must have been like for the few intrepid Europeans in the Middle Ages who discovered it and compared it to their filthy brutish life in Europe at that time.  The exquisite, delicate use of water (and its sensuous tinkling sound), the complex design patterns in tile (known as zellige), the floating of fresh rose petals in a basin of water, the abundance of olives, oranges, dates, and other rich tasting foods, the smells of spices, the abundance of brilliant powdered dyes, the complex patterns of rug weaving, the heavy intense fragrance of perfume essences – after a while, the whole impression whirls together in a blur of overwhelming sensual impressions.  It must have happened to those brave European explorers who stumbled on this world, and it happened to us.

 The Arabic way with using water as a living adornment to human experience was always apparent.  At the bottom end of the scale, this even extended to bathrooms: no matter how simple or poor the place, they were amazingly spotless, sparkling with the cleansing magic of water.

 A fascinating element was discovering traces of the Jewish community in Morocco.  The Jewish presence in Morocco was ancient, but at the time of the Sinai War in 1956, most Moroccan Jews left for Israel and a long-standing cultural traditional disappeared.  Many of the nomadic Berbers had converted to Judaism and we saw numerous secular and religious objects (usually in shops of antique craft items) with Hebrew letters or Jewish icons and symbols.

 A few times we splurged on an expensive dinner – once in Fez and once in Marrakech – each time, set in a riad, a sumptuous former palace built around a central courtyard (now covered over).  My most memorable experience of this kind was at La Maison Bleu in Fez.  See if you can imagine how the senses were heightened and soothed at the same time as I describe it.  You enter into a small lobby area where your reservation is checked off, and then walk down a long, tunnel like hall, which lulls you before the magnificent entrance into the (covered) courtyard – pillars, convoluted arches, walls covered with the most elaborate carved stucco arabesques as high up as you can see, to shuttered windows at the top.  Low sofas and comfortable chairs set around small tables with lovely floral arrangements and candelabras with 5 candles each, all lit.  Live traditional music (for example, the oud or Arabic lute) while hot and cold hors d’oeuvres are brought out, and anything you want to drink (unlimited aperitifs and wine are included in the fixed price).  Amongst these, as at any Moroccan restaurant, is always a bowl of varied and utterly delicious olives, along with local toothsome round bread.

 After an hour of relaxing this way, we were conducted into an alcove-like side room for the formal dinner.  The table had been prepared with David’s last name (the reservation was in his name) spelled out using hundreds of green and red glitter circles!  A traditional Morocco dinner begins with salad, which means somewhere around 9 – 10 separate plates of cooked, prepared vegetables that have been allowed to reach room temperature.  Each prepared in an entirely different fashion, and each delicious – spinach, zucchini, tomatoes, carrots, eggplant, garbanzo, lentils, cucumber, sweet peppers.  A course alone fit for a king.

 Slowly the heartrending sounds of the oud were replaced by a more lively Berber ensemble playing music from the trans-Atlas desert regions.  And then came the tagines, the traditional stews of Morocco.  At this meal we had one of beef and one of chicken, and they were totally different.  They come out in covered clay stands (like a cake stand with an elaborate conical cover) – the waiter pulls the cover off, out comes heaps of steam, and voilà, a marvelous mélange of tastes.  The beef tagine was like a pot roast – the meat simply melted in your mouth.  Then, the chicken, which was cooked with gently caramelized onions and salt-marinated lemon peel in large strips (what an explosion of perfumed tastes when it hits your tongue!) along with pungent green olives.  Hot, fragrant towels followed to refresh the hands.  And then there was desert.  This actually consisted of two components – a pastille or flaky crepe with nuts and powdered sugar, and then, really quite magnificent, sliced oranges powdered with cinnamon, in rose water.  Very, very refreshing.  Combine the setting, the music, the flowers, the absolutely overwhelming magnificence of the riad itself, the sense of having all the time in the world, and the sum total of the experience was memorable.

 Another realization (really, it was more a reminder, since this was not a first-time realization) was the pleasure of traveling independently, and how that allows you, at least at some level, to see certain commonalities in travel that make you a more confident traveler, because much of the world (other than the United States) seems to follow certain well-established rules – be it for finding and checking into a hotel, using public transportation, figuring out where the important “sights” are.  We appreciated that each time we travel, the foundation is built a little sturdier for the next trip, and while each country may be different, the skills you need for managing the experience are surprisingly the same.

 A pleasant aspect of Morocco is that it gives you a little taste of France – a kind of France on the cheap.  First of all, everyone, literally everyone, seems to speak two languages, Arabic and French.  Signs virtually everywhere (at least in cities) were always in both languages.  So communicating was never a problem.  Then the bakeries (“boulangeries”) had baguettes in the morning, just as in France, and in the afternoon and evening, there were the sidewalk cafes and patisseries.  Roadway curbs were painted in alternating stripes of red and white, as you would see in France, and the highway signs looked just like the ones in France.  Roads had lines of trees, the base of their trunks painted white, and the mileposts (kilometer posts really) were small stone posts painted white, with the kilometer notation in black and the top of the stone (a semi-circle) painted red, again, just as you would see in France.  Morocco was colonized by France for a relatively brief period – 1912 to 1956 (the Protectorate), and it appears that a comfortable relationship has been worked out between the two countries.

 Having only two weeks, our primary focus, for this, my first trip, was on what are known as the Imperial Cities.  We saw them in the order Meknes, Fez, Marrakech, and at the end, ever so briefly, Rabat (the capital).  We stayed in Marrakech for one week of our two, using it also as a base – for a one-day trip to the wonderfully evocative coastal city of Essaouira (originally Mogador) which has the same romantic, seedy air as decaying Havana (from the pictures I have seen), and then for a two-day mini-van excursion up and across the High Atlas Mountains to the Draa Valley and the edge of the Sahara Desert.

 While in Meknes we made a day excursion to the greatest Roman ruin in Morocco, Volubilis, and the nearby hill-hanging town of Moulay Idriss, named after one of the great early rulers of Morocco.  Volubilis was dreamy – first of all, the winter months are the wet months in the Mediterranean climate of Morocco north of the Atlas chain, so the countryside was brilliantly green (or so it seemed to a resident of New Mexico!).  Volubilis has magnificent floor mosaics still in place, grand streets, and the bases of what were luxurious private palaces, as well as some public buildings, all set on a gentle hillside above an unspoiled agricultural bottomland.  For me, the plant-lover, one of the surprising delights was to discover paper-white narcissus growing in wild clumps amidst the ruins, some in bloom, with that overpowering, drowsy fragrance.  There were also carpets of calendula in bloom, and the asphodel, a flower mentioned in Greek poetry and by Shelley.  It all made my own Western cultural heritage, introduced to me in high school and college as a literary world apart, one found only in books, take on living form.

 Unlike other Arab countries, Morocco, which is, overall, very un-fundamentalist in its practice of Islam, does not permit non-Muslims to go into all but a very few active mosques.  This apparently was a policy introduced by the French to keep friction between non-Muslims and Western colonizers to a minimum.  All the same, there were great palaces to see and the jewel of great decoration, medresas, or Koranic schools for forming youth.  These were elaborately decorated in intricately carved stucco and cedar wood.  They were, invariably, stunning to walk into.  There was usually a pool or a fountain in the central courtyard, and these places gave off a peaceful sense.

 The medinas (old city) and the souks (covered markets) were a warren of narrow lanes and lively activity.  The parks and gardens were usually beautifully maintained – this was especially true in Marrakech, with grand boulevards outside the old city, the city walls landscaped with beds or roses running along the outside (all in bloom) for miles on end.

 In the late afternoon and early evening, activity on the streets and lanes picked up and reached a frenetic pace.  Such liveliness, for those of us use to semi-dead American cities, was always a totally exhilarating experience.  Perhaps the grandest of this kind of experience – practically narcotic in its intoxicating effect, was the gargantuan Place Jemma el F’na in Marrakech.  This irregular “square” is so magnetic in its human tapestry that UNESCO has declared it, by itself, a part of the world’s heritage.  Starting shortly before sunset, it came alive (it did not do too badly during the day) as food stands were set up, in addition to the 35 or so juice stands that ran night and day (fresh squeezed, delicious tall glasses of orange or tangerine juice sold for 25 cents and we drank it all the time).  The minaret of the great Koutobia Mosque, the Eiffel Tower-like icon of a landmark that defines Marrakech, was brilliantly lit up a few blocks away.  Snake charmers, musicians with dancing monkeys, lively storytellers (with large crowds gathered around in a circle), sellers of potions and creams, carnival games (ring the bottle), magicians, all were going full-bore everywhere you looked.  Great clouds of smoke and steam rose from the food stands, creating the most incredibly hypnotic effect in the night sky.  These food stands were bunched by type - those that sold only soup (usually harira, a delicious lentil and garbanzo thick soup), seafood and fish, or brochettes (kebabs).  Benches lined the stands where customers could order a meal and sit down to eat it.  Every day in Marrakech involved significant time in the “Jemaa” – it was the human spectacle to beat all.

 In all respects, Marrakech had the feel of a world-class city – one of those special, unique places (I think of Rio de Janeiro, San Francisco, and though I have never been there, Hong Kong or Capetown).  Aside from the great Jemaa, the souks, the architectural treasures, everywhere were gardens – along elegant boulevards, in beautifully-maintained parks, at the world-class Mamounia Hotel.  One of our finest experiences was at the Majorelle Gardens, a French 1930’s interpretation of an Arab oasis garden (it is now owned by Yves St. Laurent).  Aside from the lushness, it is most famous for the building walls and outdoor pots painted in the most intense blue imaginable – a color now known as Majorelle blue.  Adding to the splendor of the city was the stunning backdrop of the high Atlas Mountains, separating Marrakech from the Sahara beyond – the view became intensely dramatic as the sun moved and descended in the west.

 Another part of our experience were the many salons de té – virtually always a 100% male preserve.  The more demotic had TVs with soccer games going.  You could sit outdoors or inside, and with an order for a glass of mint tea (every bar had big bunches of fresh, brilliantly green mint), heavily sweetened with sugar, you could stay, undisturbed, for literally hours.

 Women in Morocco were dressed across the entire spectrum from Western-style slinky-sexy to traditional dress (shawls, capes) with uncovered heads, to covered heads, to scarves across their faces exposing only their nose and eyes, or sometimes, only the eyes.  But one quickly comes to realize that even the most conservatively dressed women laugh heartily and are no pushover, but amazingly strong-willed individuals.

 The medina of Fez became another of the outstanding travel experiences I have had.  It sits in a bowl which you can look down upon from the surrounding hills, where the ruined palaces of an ancient kingdom impart a mysterious air to the city.  The medina is mind-bogglingly large (almost the size of New York’s Central Park), and you are assured that once you go in, you will probably never find your way out.  We did engage a guide to take us through.  It was a very positive experience, because he was well-spoken, well-dressed, knowledgeable, and led us to many of the great architectural sites (medrasas, richly tile-decorated public fountains, museums), but it was also our downfall, for inevitably he took us to some of the beautiful shops there.  Fez has the greatest assemblage of living craftsmen in all of Morocco.  One can also find high quality antiques drawn from the entire country.  We wound up buying when we had not expected to, and though I thought I was a tough bargainer, the Moroccans ran circles around me, and in the end, I am sure we paid considerably more than we would have had to, had I been even bolder than I thought I was being.

 Related to that was glimpsing the survival of ancient trades, still carried out as they have been for centuries.  Most noteworthy in this sense were the leather tanneries in Fez – huge, primitive outdoor vats with barefooted men in shorts, dunking, scraping, hauling hides.  Each week one color of dying is carried out, and the skins are laid out on the surrounding hillsides, creating brilliant effects.  The other wonderful sight was the wool dyers section of the souk in Marrakech – watching the dye powders poured in the hot vats of water, coloring them deeply, then the natural yarn dipped, and then hung out, on high poles against the sky, in a variety of dazzling colors.  There were the wood workers, in primitive cave-like stalls in the medina, or the reed weavers making baskets, and every manner of skilled craftsman you could imagine.  There was almost a Biblical quality about it all, which makes the passages from the Bible not seem like some mythical distant concept, but totally alive.

 Whether outdoors, at simple cafes, or fine restaurants, food in Morocco was consistently delicious.  As in so much of the world, one feels a far more direct connection with the food you eat than you typically do in the U.S.  You see the oranges squeezed.  The plate of lightly sautéed sardines comes out with the heads still on.  The tea is brewed from fresh leaves you see as you walk into the café.  It is such a reassuring feeling for a people, like ourselves, who have mostly become terribly disconnected with the support systems upon which our survival depends.

 The nights were chilly, the buildings were chilly (no heat) since they are built to protect against the scalding summers.  But during the day, with the sun up (as it was every single day except one afternoon – our one big travel day) the air temperature was perfection itself.  No Moroccan ever wore just a short-sleeve shirt (as I usually did mid-day) – it was winter, and they bundled up as if it were Santa Fe at dawn in January!  Interesting how one’s sense of hot and cold is largely culturally determined.

 An interesting, if superficial sidebar to our basic itinerary of the imperial cities, was a two-day mini-van excursion out of Marrakech across the High Atlas mountain range and into the Draa Valley as far as the town of Zagora, at the edge of the Sahara Desert.  Given that we did not have time to do a proper journey through the mountain and desert regions of Morocco, this gave us at least an idea of what we might encounter if and when we ever have the time to do it right.  The drive up, over, and down the Atlas range, all snow-covered, was spectacular – particularly the ancient looking small towns and surrounding patchwork farms, nestled in deep valleys, by a fast moving stream.  The Draa Valley was harsh but in its severe way quite awesome.

 Most noteworthy was the detour to Ait Ben Haddou, a small village whose old core displays some of the most spectacular pre-Saharan mud-built and mud-decorated buildings anywhere in the world, so much so that it is on the UNESCO world heritage list.  Animals still live in corrals attached to the buildings, and the whole town is on a small hill overlooking a small stream and the grand landscape.

Building style at Ait Ben Haddou - Decorated mud

 When we got to Zagora, around 7 in the evening, in short order we and our gear (kept to a minimum, wisely) were moved to camels, and we headed out to the desert – under a moonless sky so brilliant with stars that I had to admit, as spectacular as our New Mexico sky can be it took a distant second place.  We had no idea what was really going on and after 1½ hours of riding (led by Berber guides), we wound up at a primitive Berber encampment of tents.  In time, steaming chicken tagines were brought out for groups of us (we were 16 in all) to dive into.  Beds were dirty foam mattresses and even filthier (flea-laden?) heavy woolen blankets.  The night was cold and it was the first time I had slept in all my clothes in a long time.  Fortunately I awoke with first light and got to watch sunrise over this empty, vast landscape.  The camels were all grouped and peacefully minding their own business.  After a simple breakfast of tea, bread and jam, it was back on the camels, and this time, in early morning sun, into Zagora, through interesting examples of desert farming.

 I think we realized one important thing on this trip – something we really knew all along, but this trip helped push us to this decision: we simply are not cut out for group tours.  I think the ones we might conceivably like – small group size, luxury accommodations, top-notch scholar guides – would be totally out of our price range.  Those kinds are always 5-star luxury everything, and we are not the 5-star luxury types anyway.  The affordable ones wind up being large and with an uncontrollable mix of participants, most of whom, to sound a bit snobbish, we probably would not enjoy spending a lot of time with – in these groups, everyone seems to be more concerned with how unlike American junk food the local food is, problems with the hotel and with their stomachs, and on and on.  In the case of this two-day trip, I was constantly swept-away by the many incredible scenes out the van window, but incredibly frustrated because, despite promises, the driver never seemed willing to stop for a minute to let me compose a good picture.  Yet, the 12 friendly but hopelessly fun-loving group of young Brazilian college students who were the major party in our van, pre-empted the many interesting things we could otherwise have done with a constant need for long coffee breaks, one lunch stop in an unattractive location that dragged on for two hours; in short I was at their mercy, and the driver always felt rushed to meet his schedule because of these endless, long stops.

 So, we vowed that even though it may cost a lot more, and even though we may miss out on talks and lectures that are actually good, the serendipity of traveling on our own, making our own mistakes (and learning a great deal from them), of setting our own schedule, and spontaneously deciding on sudden changes in plan, far, far outweigh the purported benefits of a guided trip at any position on the quality spectrum.  I suppose this little excursion was worth it just to finally realize this truth about ourselves.

 I alluded to our day trip from Marrakech to Essaouira on the Atlantic Ocean.  For two guys who live in the high desert, this turned out to be a real delight.  Off the coast at Essaouira, in ancient times, was where the crustaceans came from that produced the famous purple dye reserved for the Roman emperors.  Now, it is an evocative, faded white city with blue window trim, with a boulder strewn shore upon which massive breakers crash.  (It is one of the best surfing stretches in Africa).  We had read about a nice fish restaurant and almost stumbled upon it.  We got there on the early side (people eat late in Morocco) and thus got a table on the terrace, against which the breakers crashed – a memorable seaside setting.  For David and me, leisurely lunches in special places define our idea of the good life, and this one turned out to be a winner.  It was New Year’s Eve day, and we had all manner of wonderful seafood dishes excellently prepared, washed down with a white wine from Morocco’s wine-growing region, near Meknes.  The sun was brilliant, we looked out across the Atlantic to somewhere beyond which New York lay, looked at each other and smiled and thought, “this is the life.”  (I also realized that you don’t have to be particularly well off to have this kind of experience – you just have to be willing to let it happen).

Old Port - Essaouira

 So, in the space of one day to another, we were in Marrakech in a fertile valley, Essaouira on the Atlantic, up and over the High Atlas mountains, and at the edge of the Sahara Desert, all this over land.  It was hard to believe such variety in such a short space of time and distance.  It rather defined the whole dazzling, sense-drenching experience that was Morocco.  It was an awfully easy country to like.

And last, but not least……

Ken’s Little Red Book of Independent 3rd World Traveler Acquired Wisdom

·       Never pass up an opportunity, when it presents itself, to use a clean bathroom (or if male, a not so clean bathroom);

·       Triple check critical information – departure times of buses, directions through narrow, old parts of cities, etc.;

·       Engage in idle conversation with local people – you learn some very useful things to store for future reference as conversational throwaways and spin-offs;

·       Foreigners are almost always treated better than local people – don’t feel guilty about it and allow it to make your life a little easier;

·       If you see something spectacular you really want, buy it now – chances are you will not ever see it again and will regret not doing it when you had the opportunity;

·       Cheap hotel rooms always have inadequate lighting, but don’t worry about catching up on reading at night – if you’ve had a busy day, you’ll conk out early anyway;

·       Always take some reading with you – it makes the time go by when the all too predictable waits, lines, and snafus materialize.