Rocked the kasbah

Today we are in the region of the Dades and Toudres Gorges and went on a “small, easy” hike. We left at 9:30am and didn’t get back to the hotel until 3pm. Our guide was a 20 year old university student named Mohammed.  He seemed really nice, and he’s handsome, and would jump at any opportunity for a green card. Josie (and Scott) I’m really sorry, but I might have accidentally betrothed you. (Did I mention that he is cute?)

You must understand, Mom and I almost never really know what to expect. Our written itinerary might be a loose guideline for what part of the county we are in, but often when Y conscientiously prepares us for what the coming day will bring… oh, wait. He doesn’t do that.* Even when we pepper him with questions, we still seem to find ourselves thrust into situations with no clear understanding of what is happening, how long it will take, what we are looking at, when our next meal or bathroom stop may be, where we will be sleeping that night, etc. etc. Chalk it up to grand adventure.

THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF:

#3: Surprises!

So this morning we found ourselves in the care of this nice young man, trotting dutifully along after him, hoping we were wearing appropriate clothing. (We knew we were hiking. We knew it would be “nice, easy, maybe three hours. Easy incline, no need to use your hands.”) We did NOT know we were cheerfully embarking on a death march of epic proportion.

I’m skipping over parts of what we talked about, because you are probably eager for the funny-slash-humiliating bits. I will simply state that in hindsight, vacationing on climbing trips with my father ought to have had the warning bells ringing loudly in both our heads. Oh, how fondly we talked about Dad. All. Day.

It became immediately clear that Mohammed is what you call “sportif.” “Legs of rock,” he said proudly. Mom and I do not have legs of rock. Or lungs prepared for a five hour hike in altitude.

Note that while we were gone from 9:30 to 3:00 pm technically the last hour was not hiking. Rather, it was spent in an isolated upstairs room of a kasbah, viewing hundreds of handmade rugs beneath the watchful gaze of a wizened old lady… that Youssef! Leave it to him to 1) never mention rug shopping; and 2) send us on a death march and then spring this moment of “hospitality” on us when we were exhausted, dripping in sweat and longing for our disgusting whole-bathroom shower experience.

(The bathroom is right inside the “front door” to the room, with only a curtain for privacy. The shower is just a spray hose jutting out of the wall next to the sink. No stall,  no curtain. You just stand there showering yourself all over the toilet and sink. Sort of like in a compact RV I guess. Still, my windows overlook nothing but the Atlas and I slept SO well last night. Who cares about a rotten shower? The never-washed wool blankets are also, strangely, growing on me.)

Despite being hard work, the hike was simply amazing. Mohammed was so kind, so patient and considerate… “only 15 more minutes to the top!” was a refrain he encouragingly repeated for at least two hours.

Mom is one tough woman, though I was grateful she was sucking wind badly because it gave me some desperately-needed rest without losing too much face. I was just being a good daughter, pausing a moment to let dear mama catch up, doubled over trying hard not to retch in front of Mohammed.

According to Mohammed, we were still better than the Dutch, who are “boeff” (miming large pot-belly with his hands) and never make it the top. I suspect the Dutch may be the ONLY nation we can claim supremacy over in this unofficial little Olympics.

We declined the “panoramic view” add-on, which was “just over that peak.” Having been climbing with Dad, our instinct for self-preservation belatedly kicked in. Plus, the view from the saddle was spectacular!  And there and back for a panorama in ADDITION to wherever our actual destination was (still a complete mystery, and still “15 minutes away”), was not appealing.

Fortunately, our true destination was not far at all. Over a rise, and impossible to detect, was a tent and several caves where Berber nomads actually LIVE. Really, truly. I choose to believe this was not just a tourist show simply because the  caves were only marginally more rustic than the kasbahs in the village. Or our hotel, for that matter.

An older woman made us tea, with a beautiful little two-year-old girl (Abeisha) to help her. We enjoyed our tea in the company of five-year-old Youssef, completely entertaining and adorable.

The trip back down was just as long although a different route. We were high up among the peaks and I think I may have blown my one good knee. (The other still hurts from La Plata Peak last summer.) Briefly, we heard the distant song of another Berber woman, across several small valleys, singing to herself as she disappeared over a high ridge.

Before I forget, ten people lived in those caves, and Mohammed told us that little Youssef’s father is 78 years old. (ICK!)

We teased Mohammed that we were making him late for a date with his girlfriend. Little did we know that it was actually ourselves who were late - - for our date with a rug salesman.

Exhausted, the hotel in sight, I remember thinking how close I was to a shower… But no.

“Maybe now you like to see a family and how they live in the kasbah?”

I’m learning (and clearly I’m a slow student) that when your guide (be it Youssef or his designee) adds a “maybe you’d like to?” … it’s a sure warning that very probably you WON’T like to.

In all honesty, I did truly enjoy the experience, even though we may have walked away as fleeced as the camel fur being patiently carded and spun by “auntie.”

Ali charmingly introduced himself and welcomed us warmly into his home. We walked up some steps to the top floor and sat on some rugs. A huge, vertical loom was set up on one side of the room.

Ali spent a great deal of time courteously and thoroughly explaining the process of creating hand-woven Berber rugs. And threw in the fact that some widows and divorcees from the village work on the rugs as a way to support themselves. (Oh, these Marocs are GOOD.)

After extended pleasantries and two cups of hot tea so we would feel especially welcome, the rug parade began. My goodness! Camel wool, sheep’s wool, even cactus thread… all colors and designs were ceremoniously, one at a time, set before us. We saw maybe 25 rugs, each lovingly described in great detail.

Ali went so far as to get out a scary-looking implement with metal claws. He then positioned himself on all fours on the topmost rug. “You have maybe cat? Small child? No problem!” He raked the evil-looking claws dramatically over a fine rug. And the rug withstood the test. “Lifetime guarantee! (NO, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.)

Then the real fun began. Mohammed looked kind of sheepish and amused as Ali got down to business. Numbers were written down on a small notepad. Outrageous numbers, which were exclaimed over, then crossed out and rewritten. We were HAGGLING! And doing OK at it, mostly because honestly – we didn’t want a damn rug!

Finally, an impasse was reached. Mom did NOT want a rug and we were leaving.

Oh no we weren’t! Now it was MY turn! Despite the fact that I’d been Lead Negotiator for Team Amreekya, I was not going to be let off the hook.

Throwing Ali a major curve ball, I asked to see cushions instead. Cooly, almost totally unfazed, he ordered the cushion parade to begin. After MUCH negotiating, and I must add, ALL of it done with smiles, obvious enjoyment on Ali’s part, and only minor discomfort on mine, I sealed the deal on two cushions (really great and unique!) for just $X.

I leave the “X” out of consideration for my husband, who is encouraged to assume I negotiated a SUPER deal!

The really delightful part is that I shook hands with and PAID “old auntie.” She’d remained quietly in the corner throughout it all, but only at the end did we realize SHE was actually directing negotiations. Ali was the charming, well-spoken sales guy, but this woman was clearly BOSS.

As they packed my cushion covers tightly for suitcase space, attention once again turned to Mom, and her small blue rug was offered to her for $5 less than our most outrageously low offer. How could we refuse?

Whatever we paid, it was certainly no more than we would have in Marrakech or another big city. So I look at it as $X for the cushions, and $X for the EXPERIENCE.  Really, Aaron. SUPER deal!

PS) Josie, saw Mohammed at dinner tonight. (He looked very fetching in a djallaba.) When he learned you were a lawyer, he backed out of the engagement. His exact words, I kid you not Josie, were “A lawyer? Sounds like trouble. She might know her rights and everything.”

Marrakech, Day 2

Or as I like to call it: "I've been peed on by a monkey."

The first day and a half of this vacation were technically travel. And maybe some time change too, but as I’m not smart enough to puzzle it out I’m simply focusing on the here and now. Who the hell knows what day it is back home, much less what time?!

The plane took off and landed right from the tarmac. In Madrid they shuttle bussed us to it. In Marrakech we walked into the terminal, which felt a lot like beloved Belize to me. The passport clerk was icy. Listing “writer” as a profession was wholly unacceptable and needed clarification. (Remind me next visit to list “bureaucrat” instead.) Also, we simply were NOT going to be admitted into the country without listing the hotel we planned to stay at that very night. The only problem was that neither of us had any idea – that was our guide, Youssef’s job to decide. We tried to explain that we were meeting a guide and the clerk just looked at us disdainfully and said again: “Hotel?”

Oh dear. Gathering my wits, I ventured hopefully, “Hotel Marrakech?” The clerk rolled his eyes but was powerless against my lie.

Incidentally, we passed Hotel Marrakech today on our horse and carriage ride. It’s at least 4.5 stars nicer than our actual hotel. I sort of wish we were staying there, but then we wouldn’t have cute policeman TV. More on that later.

Customs made up for the grumpiness of immigration. We were cheerfully waved past. Probably because a whole flock of wealthy looking Germans with stainless steel luggage were ahead of us. I’d rather have peeked inside their bags than my own too!

As promised, Youssef was standing right at the doorway when we came out. He greeted us warmly and we sat down in the airport lounge-slash-mock-bazaar (complete with live sitar music) for a glass of tea. The first of many I am certain. Mint tea runs through Maroc veins the way cheese runs through mine. It’s brewed green tea steeped over fresh mint leaves. They serve it very hot in very small, highly decorated clear glasses, which already I covet.

I like Youssef. He leads an interesting life, he’s extremely smart, and he seems both easy going and reliable. We are his ONLY two charges, which honestly is a treat. No herd of tour group cohorts for us… and no sweating the small stuff either. Youssef may be making a killing off us (more on our hotel soon) but I still think the situation is excellent from our perspective as well. After haggling an embarrassingly long time over a taxi* we rode to our hotel.

*REASONS TO LIKE YOUSSEF:
#1: No haggling over taxis!

Now I’m not going to bore you with a lot of historical detail. You can find that in Fodors, just like everyone else. But Marrakech is sort of split into two cities. There is the old city within the walls (the Medina) and the French, “new” city. The Medina is charming, crowded, dirty, fascinating, frightening and sort of crumbly. It also smells a bit like horse urine. The French/modern city is indistinguishable from any sophisticated European city (I mean the tourist area). Wide, lovely boulevards – public spaces featuring actual vegetation, high rise hotels of every flavor… row after row of balconies with white curtains and doormen in uniform. Exclusive, wealthy, but sprinkled with Novatels and less fancy places.

Guess which of these areas OUR hotel was in? Yes, the Medina. In fact, the very HEART of the Medina. I can look out my window RIGHT NOW (which has no screen, no lock and is letting in tons of honking, shouting, and diesel fumes along with the cool breeze) and see the snake charmer at the edge of the souk. He’s like a long block away.

After being shown our room*, we were to meet Y back downstairs in 30 minutes.

*THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF
#2: No haggling over hotel rooms! They’re shitty rooms… but we didn’t have to haggle!

Mom and I were both on our last legs – serious jet lag and lack of sleep kicking in. Our initial room was rather cell-like. No windows, extra high ceiling, two tiny beds with sheets, two very heavy wool blankets in closet (said blankets highly likely to be infested with crabs), one light bulb in sleeping area, one light bulb hanging in bathroom. No chairs, no towels (toilet paper and damp towels were later provided upon request), no place to hang a towel, a scary little step-into-this-cubby shower, and a sink that drained directly onto the floor at your feet. But the “selling point” was that a large glass door in back led to a “terrace” which in turn led to a rickety set of metal steps to the roof of the building, which Y generously also called a “terrace.”  It might have been charming, had there been any chairs. And were it not for two separate piles (LARGE piles) of rotting food. One of moldy bread (“For the birds!”) and one that seemed to include meat scraps and more savory items (“For the cats!”).

After a quick, rather shocked huddle, Mom and I determined that Y must be playing us. Figuring out just precisely how terrible the conditions would be before we objected. After all… we are paying MORE for this tour than most of the large companies charge.

So, after some hushed commentary, which mostly consisted of variations on: “Do you BELIEVE this?” and “We can’t stay here, we simply CAN’T,” we met Y downstairs and laid it on the line. Better to have these difficult discussions early on in our trip – and be vocal about our expectations.

After about 15 minutes of angry-sounding haggling (ahem, that’s US haggling with Y)… we ended up with an ENTIRELY better room. Our sink didn’t leak and we had a balcony facing the front of the hotel (instead of a security-challenged door leading to the charming roof).

To clarify, absolutely everything else about the room is exactly the same.

And what’s even funnier (to me) is that this morning we had to move two rooms down, to a room with only 2 beds. Because that 3^rd mattress on the floor last night was unnecessary and probably cost Y more. Seriously, if this room cost more than $30 a night, I will let a monkey piss on me. (Oh, wait.)

The best parts of this hotel? Real Morrocans are staying here on THEIR vacation. Seriously. A family of 4 had this room last night. Also, this afternoon (to be fair, it was noon exactly – check-out time) a rock-starrish figure came stumbling down the stairs in nothing but very flimsy, authentic looking PJs. Barefoot, disheveled blond hair, sort of stoned-looking… in his 50s I’m guessing. So, aging rock stars and real Marocs. I think we have earned serious street cred already on this trip.

And there have been other plusses. This afternoon I discovered a very fetching police officer working the intersection of death just below our window. He’s quite large for a Maroc (which makes him sort of “average American man” sized) and bears a striking resemblance to Denzel Washington.

I call him “cute policeman TV” and spent a delightful hour this afternoon watching my new favorite show.

The intersection below is one of the most wretched examples of traffic control I have ever personally witnessed. It’s a one way… no, make that THREE one way streets converging, and shortly after they converge, there’s also a strange little switchback that gives access to the (“no cars allowed”) public square. Traffic includes all manner of diesel engine from large city busses (this block appears to be a major transfer point) to beat up VW taxis to scooters (thousands – no, MILLIONS of them), bicycles, and horse carriages. Yes, this square features 20 or more horse-drawn carriages for hire and they plunge RIGHT INTO traffic.

Needless to say, we must cross this intersection EVERY TIME WE LEAVE THE HOTEL. Every single time, we somehow cheat death.

There are no crosswalks here. But if you’re lucky, you position yourself behind a bold young man and use him as your human shield. You shadow his movements EXACTLY. And DON’T look. It makes it easier. Twice now, we’ve managed without the aid of anyone passing by.

My policeman has a very busy job. He’s been out there since at least 3:00pm and it’s 9:00 pm now. He shakes a lot hands. He checks the papers of cars wishing to access the little switchback. Most have a piece of paper and he ushers them through. Those that don’t receive a handsome smile and a firm hand signal for “no fucking way, motherfucker.” There has only been one car-pedestrian accident during the time I was watching the show. It knocked over the metal barrier that the policeman leans lightly on when he’s not tending to police business. His navy blue uniform includes a white hat and gloves. Occasionally, other policemen join him for short periods. Some of these are also very handsome. Others have silly, oversized mustaches. It’s my new favorite show.

Today we ate breakfast at a cheap little café on a side street. (Y’s treat so of course it probably cost 2 pfennigs in pre-WWII Deutschemarks.) However it was delicious. Note to self: 3^rd world countries only recently liberated by the French bake hella good baguette. Bread and cheese and yogurt – Euro style breakfast. And espresso with steamed milk: “café nuss-nuss.” I had three altogether today. After breakfast a quick, fresh-squeezed orange juice from a cart on the square, then a longish walk to a very old palace ruin and another palace that is still lovely. All the colors and architecture I’ve been dreaming of. Last night we saw the major mosque – which is just a block down the street from our hotel. Which, despite being worse than shabby, is RIGHT in the middle of everything.

The twisty, windy streets and amazing street vendors are so exactly as I pictured they would be that had to pinch myself. Spice vendors! Things here smell alternately heinous (diesel, horseshit, monkey piss) and divine (frankincense, myrrh, walks lined with rosemary and verbena).

Americans are NOT in abundance which is a new experience for me, tourist-wise. Lots of French, Spanish, German and many Marocs from outside Marrakech. It’s a school holiday so we’ve seen lots of families and adorable children.

Lunch was on our own. Tajine of chicken, preserved lemon and olives. Note to self: Learn how to preserve lemons (something about curing them in saltwater). We sat for HOURS at a café, eating and drinking more café nuss-nuss. Then back to our room to relax and watch policeman TV (me), write in journal (mom) and learn Arabic (me – Salaam, Amreekyah, Barouk something-something). I plan to practice more.

Dinner across the crazy square of carnies, also known as the Djema al-Fna. What else can you call it? There are thousands of bodies! It’s about the size of Madison’s capitol square (but no capitol building – all open air market leading to twisty souk streets). In fact, it looks a LOT like the protests against Governor Walker at their height (100,000 people?)… if the protests had included snake charmers, fortune tellers and cross-dressed male belly dancers. (There are no female belly dancers here.)

Last night, following our tasty though charmless “welcome dinner” (which, may I point out, was billed as the “special welcome dinner” in our itinerary – was I alone in picturing an entire dinner theater experience, complete with music, costumes and flaming dessert?)… anyway, our tea after dinner was on the third-story terrace of a huge restaurant overlooking the chaos below. What a spectacle!

While we were up there we took note of several nearby restaurants with terraces and headed straight for one tonight. (Dinner on our own.) The food was good (simple pizzas) but the view was incredible as the sky grew dark and the call to prayer sounded. Following dessert, we were torn between wandering the carnival or just going back to our cozy (hah!) little room… let’s just say I am scared of the souk at night and doubly scared when I look at my hand. (That story must wait.)

I did, however, have my heart set on a photo with a monkey. Who wouldn’t, right?

I’d noticed the monkeys the night before, along with the cobras, small dogs and occasional half-diapered old man selling good luck charms. There are probably 50 different blankets spread out around the actual merchant stalls and they’ve all got their schtick. Finding a monkey was going to be a piece of cake.

“I want a really, really small, harmless looking monkey,” I told Mom, who was already scanning the crowd.

Yesterday there was a monkey running around loose, his lead skittering behind him as he raced circles around the dogs, getting them all worked up. I didn’t want THAT one, that’s for sure.

“Oh no,” Mom replied with complete conviction. “You want a big, fat, SLOW monkey. The big ones are mellower.”

By GOD. She was absolutely right.

Just as we feared all the monkeys had been packed up and taken home, a nice young man thrust one right into my face.

“Amazing!” I grinned. “It’s like you can read my mind!”

The (large, calm-looking) monkey climbed aboard (me) after a polite monkey handshake.
Shit.

Y always says “get the price FIRST. I’m going to tell you ONE THING to remember. You negotiate the price of everything FIRST.” Too late, I started negotiating.

“You take as many photo as you like!” The monkey daddy was now really mostly focused on Mom and her ability to operate my camera. “No! No! Her eyes closed! Do another!”
Monkeys can be kind of heavy. But this one was also surprisingly soft and pretty nice. He was sort of leaning back, chewing on the 10D coin I’d tried to hand to his daddy.

If there’s one attitude that sums up all of Marrakech, it’s this. “Hey! You look vaguely uncomfortable with that monkey in your arms! You will be delighted to have two!”

Suddenly, a second monkey was thrust eagerly at me. This one was also not at all shy and immediately climbed up onto my head. Monkey paws were shoving my hair into my eyes. The first monkey daddy is arguing loudly with the second monkey daddy – telling him to get away, I already have a monkey. The second monkey daddy briefly attached his monkey to my mother, who vehemently declined. She was busy learning how to operate the flash feature on my camera and practically wetting herself as the first monkey, still nestled into the crook of my right arm, is literally wetting itself. All over my arm.


This all took less than two minutes and the photos are pretty great.

The second monkey pusher didn’t get paid, although that’s probably not fair, since really it’s the monkey on my head that truly makes the picture.

And getting pissed on dramatically turned negotiations in my favor. I let monkey daddy number one know that technically, he now owed ME money. With the most poise and charm I believe anyone has ever mustered in such a situation, he grandly cleaned my arm with the sleeve of his fleece. (I ended up giving him about 5 times what you’re supposed to… 50D or $5.)

10:30 PM UPDATE: Cute policeman TV STILL on. Now he’s donned a white lab coat over his uniform.