K-Day, First Day of Trek: Kids, Car Wrecks, Porters and Poptarts

9/10/2011

Today was my first day on the mountain. This morning Thabit picked me at 8:00am.  We started the actual trek at noon from Machame Gate. Before breakfast Thabit told me that the Canadian and Norwegian whom I was to trek with postponed for 3 days in order to acclimatize. I’d be trekking alone. Alone is not really the right word, since I have Enoch the cook, Saidi the porter and Bryson my new guide (*I later learned there was an additional porter name Melak). I also learned about Bryson’s existence in this conversation, and that Thabit would not be my actual guide. “Be free, Doug,” Thabit told me, sensing my hesitation. “Don’t worry. There are many people on the mountain.” OK…

After I bid Elyse and Facebook farewell via Kindle, we set off in the car for Machame Gate. We had to make several stops for supplies.  I only found baby wipes just before the gate (apparently they’re vital for any trek). Fortunately we didn’t leave Machame before I informed Thabit that I still didn’t have a water bottle (apparently they’re vital for any trek). We went back to our rental place to get me one, and I saw YellowShirt (see previous post) there, still rubbing his head.

The closer we got to Machame Gate, the more verdant the area began to look. The base of Kilimanjaro is essentially a rainforest. The road was like most asphalt roads in third world countries: narrow, bumpy and driven on with no regard for safe speed. This was especially true when it came to our driver.

As I sat in the passenger seat trepidation grew. I began to think of a TV show that was playing last night in the hotel restaurant. It was the first program I had heard in English while in Tanzania. I half-listened as a panel of talking heads spoke about random issues facing the country. One old man insisted on talking about the dangers of driving in Tanzania. “Too many of the productive generation are being killed on our roads,” he said.

Zipping past pedestrians on this rural road, with honking as our only precaution, I wondered if we would add to the old man’s statistics. There were dozens of people of all ages walking alongside and on the narrow road. At the speed we were going, it seemed to me that they took way too long to move out of our way . Nevertheless, everyone involved, whether pedestrians, our driver, or the other passengers, seemed unconcerned, so I tried to relax.

After awhile, I began snapping photos of people, landscape, houses, and whatever else caught my eye. In the distance, I spotted a pretty young woman and a small boy of about 2 years old walking along the road. All children and babies are beautiful, and without fail they bring a smile to my face. This young boy was smiling himself, and looked like he had only learned to walk fairly recently by the way he stumbled along. As we drew closer, I couldn’t help but grin at this little Tanzanian boy with the wide eyes. When we were about 10 feet from him, still smiling, he lunged in front of the car.

“JESUS!” I shouted at the same time that the others in the car yelled in Swahili with equal vigor. A fraction of a second later, the driver swerved and slammed on the brakes. We skidded past the boy, missing him by about a foot. As one, all five of us in the car turned and stared incredulously at the woman and boy now 20 feet or so behind us.

The driver reversed and pulled up alongside them. I rolled down the window. A stream of angry Swahili flew from the driver’s mouth at the woman. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand. She shyly picked up the boy and began carrying him on her hip as the driver kept yelling.

I was amazed we hadn’t killed the boy. His bright smile wouldn’t have even been recognizable. His head was about level with the headlight. Such an accident would undoubtedly haunt me for the rest of my life. Never mind continuing the Kilimanjaro trek, or even beginning it for that matter. “My apologies, donors,” I imagined myself writing. “I was unable to begin the trek because my expedition killed a toddler before we could get started. Still, your donations will directly benefit children in the US who are still living.”

We continued onward, and my premonitions of an accident returned. WE reached the gate, and pulled up a crowded cobblestone drive through dozens of trekkers loitering around. The steep driveway led to a small parking lot, and the driver pulled in behind a safari-style SUV that was ascending the short driveway as well.

All of a sudden the SUV began rolling backwards towards us. We were surrounded by people and couldn’t back up.  Our driver laid on the horn, but it was too late. The giant SUV crashed its back left corner into the front right of our car with a resounding crunch.

Our driver was livid. He leapt from the car and began arguing his case to the observing public by yelling at the other driver. Thabit surprised me, opening my door. He ushered me to a covered area to get me out of the light drizzle. Fortunately, the unavoidable accident occurred at the very end of our drive, and didn’t involve any injuries to small children.

As Thabit made arrangements, I sat among other trekkers. I met Dahlia and Daniel, an Israeli brother and sister who recognized me from the Buffalo Hotel in Moshi. They were surprised I was American because they didn’t think I spoke with an American accent. They were right. Whenever I’m around people that speak English differently, I accidentally adopt their speech patterns. When those people are non-native speakers, I slow my speech and alter my speaking to make it easier for them to understand. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be called out on it. They were friendly though, and I thought maybe we’d trek together.

Thabit came and took me to pay the fees and register. I was the only American that I could find in the registry today. Under “Occupation”, almost everyone had listed “student.” One Belgian girl from NYC had written “lawyer”. I wrote “Marine.”

I lost track of Dahlia and Daniel when Thabit took me to change into my trekking clothes. We took some pics and I officially met the crew, even though we had already almost killed a child together. Thabit told me to start out with Enoch, and Bryson would catch up. I bid Thabit farewell until the end of the trek, and started off with Enoch. Enoch was young and well built, but carrying much more than I was. Usually my tendency is the opposite of “pole pole” (“slowly slowly”) while trekking. But I tried to be considerate to Enoch by slowing my pace. Enoch and I were together for the entire 4-hour trek. Bryson did not catch up until we reached our campsite.

As we walked, I contemplated the lot of the porters. Here I was with all my gear and clothing, and even though it was used and old for the most part, it was still better than what most of them wore. In mostly street clothes, the porters carry all of our gear up the mountain, without hiking poles and without complaint. They stop for rest breaks, smoke cigarettes or weed, and then keep going. I met two American guys, Aseem from San Francisco and Steve from Pittsburgh at lunch. We discussed the porters.

“If they get by with so little, why is everyone so worried about us?” I asked.

“Kinda makes you feel like a pussy,” remarked Aseem. Steve and I concurred.

We reached Machame Hut-Camp just after 4:00pm. Enoch and I sat and waited for the others. I ate the two tiny bananas leftover from lunch and split my muffin with Enoch.  Bryson arrived before long, and I again signed in as “Douglas Martin, Marine”. I was hungry, so I asked when we’d have dinner. “It is up to the cook,” said Bryson as we walked back to our tents from the hut.

Saidi pointed at one of the tents, smiling broadly and said, “Ready.”

“Me and you?” I asked.

“No, just you,” replied Bryson.

I laughed with Saidi as I mimed rolling around in my sleep because of so much space. I climbed inside and sought out a pack of Pop-Tarts that I had stashed. I resolved to eat only one of the two in the pack. After devouring both of them, I re-resolved to have more discipline with the other packs.

About 5 minutes later, Saidi came by with a green cloth and announced, “Tea and popcorn!” with his big smile. I shouldn’t have jumped the gun with the Pop-Tarts. Saidi set up the cloth on the empty side of the tent. Apparently he is also my waiter. Over the course of the evening, he has brought me tea, milk powder, Milo (a fortifying chocolate powder “for strength!” he says), popcorn, condiments, tea, cookies, a hot water dish with soap for cleansing, and is now setting up for dinner in stages. He even brought me a candle to have dinner by.

As I look at all of this, I feel more and more like some British imperialist on expedition. It’s not luxurious, but being waited on while camping is not something I’ve experienced before. I’ll be sure to tip better than the old “mzungu” explorers though.

Kilimanjaro Journal Day 0: Prep Day

9/9

Today after a cramped minibus ride from Arusha we arrived in Moshi. Thabit set my up in the Buffalo Hotel, and we set out to get my clothing and gear for Kilimanjaro. Even though we’re near the equator, in sub-Saharan Africa, it’s quite cold on the mountain and I’ll need lots of warm clothing. The clothing is just about what I would wear skiing. Considering that I began my traveling in Morocco at the end of July, I’m not quite prepared for such weather.

Thabit took me first to a little place where a large woman greeted us warmly. In a small room she had quite an impressive array of gear stocked, which although used, would certainly suffice. Thabit left me with her to find stuff that fit, and she turned out to be quite friendly. As she handed me different items to try on, I asked her if she had climbed Kilimanjaro. “Yes, but I climb Marangu route. It’s Coca-Cola route. Machame route is whiskey route.” I wasn’t sure whether to be proud that I was doing the whiskey route or intimidated since I hadn’t actually begun it yet. In any case, after about 30-45 minutes chatting and fitting, we had quite a pile of clothing and gear assembled. I was happy with the whole lot except for the boots. The only ones she had that fit well were quite heavy since they had steel toes. I didn’t look forward to carrying them up the tallest mountain in Africa. But they were the only ones that worked.

Soon Thabit returned, and began the process of negotiation. Since I bargained with him that the cost of my gear and clothing rental would be included in our price, he was haggling for his own money. I sat back and pretended to look around innocently, which was probably unnecessary since I don’t speak Swahili anyway. After some lengthy and testy exchange, Thabit said, “Doug, may I speak with you?” He took me aside.

“This lady is nice, but she wants too much money.” Thabit has been good with me, so I said, “Okay, let’s go somewhere else.” Without hesitation we walked out and around the corner, avoiding the woman’s glance as we left.

“Because it’s high season, she raised the prices. She wanted more than it would cost to buy. We would have no money left for food.” I laughed and told him I would prefer to have food on the trek.

“Have you done business with her before?” I asked, wondering if there was a previous relationship.

“Yes, she’s my sister.”

“Wait, what? She’s your sister? Like…your sister?”

“Yes.”

“And she wouldn’t help you out?”
            “I think she thinks I have more money than I do. I was going to help her out, but she wants too much.”

“Won’t she be angry?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

And so we went somewhere else that was more reasonable. That place turned out to be a shed behind a snack bar where more such supplies were stored. There was a large backyard with no grass, a covered paved area with a pool table and about a dozen men hanging out. We walked through the open eating area that also had a little barbecue to grill meat in order to reach the backyard. Here I was fitted for gear that was not quite as nice as Thabit’s sister’s, but satisfactory.

Afterwards, the rest of the crew began testing out the tents in the backyard to make sure they were ok. As I stood there watching them, I notice about 10 feet away two small Tanzanian men in an argument. Neither of them was more than 5 ½ feet tall, and both looked like they weighed about 110 lbs. But the one in the brown shirt was clearly angry at the yellow shirted one, while yellow shirt seemed to want to be done with him. Brownshirt was having none of this, and eventually it escalated into pushing. None of the other men seemed very concerned, and my crew didn’t even take notice, even though this exchange was occurring not 10 feet away.

Soon they both put up their fists. However, their tiny size and obvious inexperience at fighting made this quite comical. Neither of the them seemed to even want to punch, but in his anger, Brownshirt finally telegraphed a right cross that failed to connect. Since punching obviously wasn’t going to work, they began wrestling. Soon however, Yellow had Brown penned. While he spoke to him in Swahili, it was clear that Yellow was telling Brown to lay off and leave him alone. Even though Brown couldn’t move, he seemed quite defiant.

Yellow got up and walked over to the pool table, but Brown soon followed yelling at him. The other men looked on with a mixture of amusement, but little concern. Some offered their opinions, but Brown didn’t care, and pushed past them to attack Yellow again. They began wrestling again near the pool table, and again, Yellow penned Brown.

After more yelling, Yellow walked away and made a circle of the backyard, while Brown was defiant as ever. Making his way towards the exit, but not wanting to look like he was running, especially since he kept overcoming Brown. Brown was persistent however, and I watched as he followed Yellow around the backyard and towards the exit. It’s unclear how many other watched this, because no one acted to interfere when Brown picked up a hollow metal pole used to support a large camping tarp. This was not the type of fold up pole that you used on a tent, but quite a large thick one for a bigger open air shelter. Yellow didn’t even see Brown coming, but I did. From about 13 feet away, I watched as Brown took quick strides and came right up behind Yellow. He raised the pole high in the air and brought it down hard and fast on the back of Yellow’s head.

Everyone gasped as the loud smack grabbed their attention. Brown hit him hard enough to bend the pole, and Yellow seemed dazed. Brown then grabbed Yellow, threatening to strike him again. Thabit grabbed the pole in Brown’s hand and wrenched it away, but Brown barely noticed. He began wrestling again with Yellow, but he clearly had the upperhand now. Soon he penned him, and began yelling at him. The other men took more interest now, but still mostly just arguing among themselves and yelling at Brown. Thabit moved a large rock out of Brown’s reach before he could get any ideas.

A crowd began to gather in the backyard, arguing seemingly about the best course of action, and which fighter was right. Most people seemed to think Brown had fought unfairly, but one large man seemed to be on his side, arguing on his behalf.

Brown kept Yellow down, continuing to yell at him about something, and was clearly unsatisfied with the responses he got from Yellow. He didn’t even seem to notice the other men. Soon an older, better dressed man joined the group, and it became clear he spoke with authority. After some more arguing, and after Brown had held Yellow down for about 10 minutes, several men grabbed hold of Brown. It wasn’t easy to pull him off. Brown was surprisingly strong for such a small man. But two men managed to pry him away from Yellow, and Yellow struggled to his feet. Yellow knew what was good for him, and beat a hasty retreat, while Brown seemed to come to his senses, and noticing the other men around began arguing with them, but less forcefully. He obviously was unsatisfied.

Thabit soon explained. “That man (Brown) says he (Yellow) stole his bag on the mountain.”

“Did he?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Will he get it back?”

“I don’t think so. I think he already sold it to someone else. This is why he (Brown) is so mad.”

I didn’t know what to think or do. I just watched this fight unfold from so close that I had to move several times in order to avoid getting physically involved. I watched one man bludgeon another over the head hard enough to bend a metal pole. There were allegations of theft that seemed to be fairly well established. And for the most part most people seemed unconcerned, and even unsurprised that it was occurring.

As I pondered this, Thabit left to go make more arrangements. I didn’t know what to say. I looked at Saidi, one of the porters who speaks little English, and said, “Food.” and made an eating motion with my hand. He smiled, nodded agreement, and indicated for me to follow him.

Everyone’s gotta eat.

“What’s the Matter, Old Cock?”*

I arrived in Dar es Salaam on 9/4, early. I had a room reserved for two nights at Safari Inn in the center of town, a “budget” hotel. The idea was to land, spend two nights and one full day getting my bearings, and then set out for adventure. Everything was going fairly well until the night of the 5^th. I had a bus ticket for 6am in the morning for Arusha. I heard that it would take anywhere from 9-12 hours to get to Arusha from Dar. Sounded wonderful. But it was quite a bit cheaper than a flight.

I had eaten every meal for a day and a half around the corner at Jambo Inn. Should have just stayed there, since I also went there for internet and directions. Nevertheless, I was tired of eating the same tired old Indian food that they served there, so I asked the woman at the front desk of Safari where else I might eat. She recommended walking down a nearby street and trying another establishment, the name of which I forget. That night I set out and soon found it.

After sitting, I asked what was good. “We have chicken biryani,” the waiter replied. “I’ll have that then,” I said. I would regret that decision.

By midnight that night my stomach was churning. I stayed up late speaking to Elyse via Kindle and Facebook, allowing me to chart the progress of the sickness. By the time I decided that it was more than a little bout of stomach problems, and broke into my stash of Ciprofloxacin, it was too late. The antibiotic quickly came back up. I packed my bag and made my way downstairs. I called for a taxi, and when it arrived, I told the driver to take me to a hospital. “Which one?” he asked. “The best one,” I said hurriedly.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was doubling over in pain. I was admitted to the ER and instructed to pay the admittance fee before seeing the doctor. The doctor soon realized I needed to be admitted to the night ward. Before I could be, though, I had to pay the fee upfront. Once I was laying down, the nurse brought me the list of prescriptions, and explained what each was for: hydration, antibiotic, painkiller, etc. Before she could administer them, however, they had to be bought. By me. Now. Clutching my stomach in pain with one hand, I fished in my bag for the third time that night to find money. I grabbed a handful of Tanzanian bills and tossed them in her direction. I didn’t even care anymore. “Take whatever you need,” I moaned. I just wanted the pain and regurgitation to stop.

Eventually both did, but it took another several hours, 4 bottles of IV solution, two doses of paracetamol, and both an injection and oral dose of Ciprofloxacin. Needless to say I missed my bus. I slept a little in the hospital ward, but it was difficult since it was just one big room with sheets hanging to separate about a dozen beds. A child screamed bloody murder occasionally when her IV had to be inserted or adjusted.

By midday I was feeling better enough to make small talk with the nurses. “Why do they call you all sister?” I asked, thinking maybe the hospital was run by nuns. “Sister? Hmmm. Because the first nurse was Florence Nightingale, and she was a sister, so they call us all sisters,” my primary nurse told me. Sounded reasonable enough. Since it was only my third day in Tanzania, I didn’t yet realize that every woman was referred to as sister. I’m still not sure why she gave me that answer though.

Obviously I was looking a little better, because they began to question after the second IV solution bottle when I could leave. The doctor didn’t think I was ready though. Still, the nurse insisted I eat something, which sounded ludicrous to me. They brought me toast and chai tea, of course after I paid for it, but I only nibbled at the bread and barely sipped the tea.

Just before noon, it was determined that I was well enough to leave. I thanked the “sisters”, gathered my things, and slowly walked out of the ward. I hailed a taxi to take me back to the neighborhood of my hotel. I needed to try and get a new bus ticket without repaying, and make sure I could stay an extra night in the hotel. My hand was bandaged from the IV, and if I looked how I felt, I must have looked horrible. On the plus side, as I ran my errands, my appearance had a bonus effect. The touts, hustlers, and street peddlers gave me a wide berth. In the future, I think I’ll wear bandages whenever I walk through such cities. No one wants to mess with a sick person.

The next morning I got on what turned out to be a 12 hour bus for Arusha. That night I ate my first meal in 48 hours, the last one being the dreaded chicken biryani. Less than three days later I would be climbing Kilimanjaro.

*see Hemingway, Snows of Kilimanjaro

Espana!

Granada

On August 10^th I arrived in Algeciras, Spain via ferry from Tangier. I had a few hours to kill before the train to Granada, so I found an internet café, and grabbed my first beer in weeks. The diner at which I got it was dirty, hot, small, and the bartender spoke no English. I don’t know what brand of beer it was, and it was small. But it was glorious after all that time, and in that blazing heat.

            The train to Granada was about 4.5 hours long, but it was comfy and air-conditioned. Still, once I got into Granada, I was tired and didn’t accomplish anything that day. I had a delicious steak dinner at about 11pm at night, accompanied by some light tapas and wine. The waitress was kind, helped me with the menu, and checked back on me often. She was a bit flirty, and I didn’t mind.

            The next day I had reservations for the Alhambra. It was gorgeous. The gardens of Generalife were my favorite part, but the Nazarid Palace was great too. I walked around for hours, and finished up by reading some of Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra actually in the Alhambra. I’ll have to return sometime though, after I’ve finished the entire tale and can enjoy the settings even more. Unfortunately, the Court of Lions was closed, so I’ll have to see it on this future visit.

I wandered around Granada for the rest of the day, taking photos. That night, I went to a flamenco dance show in Sacramonte. This area was a traditional gypsy neighborhood, where the homes were “caves” in the side of the mountain. The event was a bit touristy, but the dancing was great, and so was the sangria. Two young women danced the most, and the most furiously. A woman a bit older danced and sang, and another older woman participated a little. There was a male singer who acted like the emcee, and a male guitarist who played fantastic Spanish guitar. I couldn’t decide whether to try and take great photos or just enjoy the entertaining sight of the dance. I couldn’t understand a single word that was said, but I suppose dancing is universal. Definitely a good time.

Madrid

On August 12^th, I took the train from Granada to Madrid. It was about 4 hours long, and I tried to sleep as much of it as I could. I knew that my friends Erica, Mike, and Josh would be waiting for me when I got there. They had just arrived from the US that day. I found them all sleeping, and not quite as excited about our reunion as I was, or at least not yet in their jet-lagged state. I walked around Madrid looking for a laundromat, but it was the middle of the daily siesta, not to mention August, when many Spanish leave their homes for vacation elsewhere. Accordingly, there was little open, but I did get some good doner kebab.

That night, after sleepy little chickadees awoke, we took advantage of the Prado’s evening free entrance, and visited one of the world’s premier art museums. I’ve never been huge on Spanish artists, but there was some great work by Velasquez and others there, as well as some Italian pieces that were more close to what I traditionally enjoy.

That evening we got tapas and sangria around dusk, and the wandered until we happened into a shisha joint. The deal was free shisha with a drink, so we took advantage and ordered caiparinhas, mojitos and such.

My friend Rae had ordered me to eat at a restaurant chain called El Asador de Aranda, because she believed it to be the “best restaurant in the world,” even though she ate at one in Barcelona, and I was in Madrid. Accordingly I dragged my friends around Madrid looking for the place, even after it began pouring rain on us. Still, once we found it, and enjoyed the roast lamb that is the only entrée they serve, we all agreed that it was worth the sojourn.

On August 13^th, after a midmorning run through the botanical gardens, we visited the Palacio Real, where the kings and queens of Spain have lived for centuries, but the current royal family only uses for ceremonial occasions. The visit was ok, but it was certainly no Versailles, or even Palazzo Pitti in my opinion. However, it did have an interesting armory, featuring arms and armor from medieval ages through the late renaissance. There are more exquisite suits of armor at the Met in New York City, but the large, almost-cannon style muskets and arquebuses were a unique sight.

           

That evening, after our own siesta, we visited the Reina Sofia art museum just before closing. Picasso’s Guernica is housed there, and it was great to finally see it in person, all those years after having seen it in my grade school history book. After that we found a rooftop bar/restaurant called Gaudemus which served delicious, if expensive mojitos, with brown sugar around the rim of the glasses. We ate tapas there, and then wandered the streets. We found a street festival with people from ages 6 and 7 to 67, and maybe even older, dancing and drinking in the streets. It was quite the spectacle. The best part, however, was when a Spanish language version of “Achy-Breaky Heart” came on, and the entire street began line-dancing. This was not even the first time I had heard this song since I’d been in Spain. Apparently the Spanish love Billy Ray Cyrus. After our laughter subsided, we continued on, had a few drinks, and retired for the evening.

Valencia

On August 14^th, we took an ungodly expensive, four-hour-long train from Madrid to Valencia. Should have flown, but Erica has an irrational fear of flying, which she insists is not an “idiosyncrasy”. This non-idiosyncrasy means that she and Mike will be taking a 14-hour sleeper car train from Rome to Paris later on the trip, instead of a much shorter flight. In any case, when we arrived in Valencia, we checked into our four person hotel room, and I quickly decided I was going to the beach. No one else felt like joining, so I had the pleasure of figuring it all out for our joint trip the next day. I took bus 19 to what I thought was near the coast. I asked the bus driver in my broken Spanish if we were near the “playa”, and he responded with an annoyed stream of Spanish/Catalan that the beach was all along the route. He promptly stopped the bus in the middle of the street and let me off. I then walked the direction he indicated until I hit the sand.

I hadn’t eaten, so I thought I might grab a quick bite at a beachside restaurant, then hit the sand. I ended up spending about an hour and a half at a restaurant since the service was so slow. Nevertheless, the paella was good, and the view was great. Afterwards, I spent about an hour on the sand. I then spent about 45 minutes trying to find the correct bus back, since not only did I not get off at a real stop, but the buses travel on different streets going the opposite direction. I finally found bus 20, got off at my stop, and grabbed a souvenir business card from an escort service from the many that were stuffed in the bus stop shelter. Apparently the service was right in the same complex as our hotel. My friends were amused, and only a little worried that I might order an escort to our shared hotel room.

That night, we decided to grab some food and go to the late night aquarium. We stopped at a place that, again, ended up taking about an hour longer than we really had to spare, but with decent paella. Once we left, and wandered for quite awhile through Valencia’s revolutionary architectural, arts, and sciences park, we still couldn’t figure out how to get into the aquarium. And it was about 11:30pm. We gave up for the night, and convinced ourselves we’d try again the next night.

The next day began with a trip back to the train station to attempt to exchange our train tickets to Barcelona for a much earlier time. Our friends Elyse and Chris would be meeting us in Barcelona, but Elyse would be getting in much earlier in the day, and it was her birthday. Our original tickets would have us leave around 3pm, and not get in until 7 something. However, the only other option was for a 6:40am train that got in sometime around 10:30am. Loving Elyse as much as we did, we opted to change our tickets, regardless of how exhausted we’d be.

After the ticket exchange, we met up with Mike (who was running his own silly errand trying to track down our soccer, or futbol, tickets) outside the Valencia Cathedral. At this otherwise non-spectacular church is a relic known as the Holy Chalice. The Roman Catholic church maintains that it is the cup that Jesus used at the Last Supper. Legend holds that the cup used by Jesus there might also have been used by Joseph of Arimathea to catch Christ’s blood after the Crucifixion. In other words, by some definitions, this was the Holy Grail. I say some definitions because Erica later insisted on having an argument with me about the legendary item, and whether or not this was it. I essentially argued that the “legendary” item did not exist, but was inspired by perhaps a real item, such as this cup, and therefore this cup could be called the Holy Grail. The Church itself stated that this cup inspired many Grail legends. Erica’s argument was that since it wasn’t the cup sought after by King Arthur’s knights, etc, then it couldn’t be called the Holy Grail. Since the story itself is a work of fiction, this meant that nothing could rightfully be called the real Grail. Whatever. It was inspiring to me, and quite an experience to view the inspiration for the stories I read endlessly about when I was younger. The others were less excited. Mike didn’t even pay to come in, and Josh regretted having done so so much that he swore off most other churches for the rest of the trip.

Later we went back to the beach. Erica and I had an interesting conversation with a middle-aged Romanian tourist that insisted that Franco’s tomb outside Madrid was best and most beautiful sight in the country. We decided it was best not to argue.

That night we did actually make it to the aquarium, and saw a corny but entertaining synchronized swimming with dolphins show. The “plot”, if it can be called that, centered around humanity’s destruction of the environment, and the efforts of the “sea nymphs” (dancers) and dolphins to repair it. Wah wah. Nevermind the throwaway concessions sold outside the auditorium, or the cheap consumer crap sold in the souvenir store. But it was still fairly entertaining. Afterwards we visited the aquarium proper, though most exhibits were closed or closing. The sea lions were sleeping in a pile. The seahorse exhibit included rather humorous warnings about trying to limit one’s usage of “traditional medicines” that included seahorses. After we left, we stopped at a doner kebab place masquerading as a fine dining establishment, and went home to get our 4.5 hours of sleep. 

Morocco

Giving a summary of an entire country, especially as the first post on this blog, might seem ill-advised. However, I just finished my 10 days and nights in Morocco, and I don't feel like cranking out 7 separate entries for each city/town I visited. So I'll say a little bit about each, and then conclude with my thoughts on Morocco as a whole.

Marrakech
I landed in Marrakech on July 31st at night. I would have been here earlier, but missed my original flight out of JFK. It was bound to happen sometime. I'd never missed a flight before, and I'd been getting more and more casual about getting to the airport on time over the years. Nevertheless, I still had 4 nights and 3 days in Marrakech, which turned out to be more than enough.

I stayed at a "riad" in the medina called Riad Ziyane Atlas. Riads are former upscale homes, usually with an open air central area and several floors, that have been converted to places for lodging. My green room as awesome. The A/C was broken in the best way, in that it was stuck on cold and wouldn't turn off. I appreciated this in Marrakech in August. I had my own bathroom, wifi, and there was a rooftop terrace where I had breakfast every morning. A honey bee of some sort kept me company each morning.

Mohammed, or Simo as I called him (at his request), managed the place, but only temporarily. His uncle owned it, but he was on holiday in France for a month. His uncle chose him well. Simo was generous, accommodating, hardworking, respectful and friendly. He even checked on me via facebook as my trip through Morocco progressed. He took me to the ville nouvelle (new city) one night, and didn't mind when I wanted to turn in early. Good man.

What did I like about Marrakech? Lots of things. As far as sights and places to visit, 'kech has many, but not necessarily of great quality. The medersa (madrassa) that the guidebook lauded was interesting, to a point. The Dar Si Said museum was okay, but nothing to blog about. However, I loved the Jardins Marjorelle. These gardens had lots of beautiful colors and architecture. The plants themselves were not astounding, but the design of the place, as well as the structures and paths made it quite pleasant. Having discovered that day how to isolate a single color on my new SLR camera, I spent quite a while there.

The hammam was a wonderful experience. I'm not sure how "traditional" it was, because I've never visited one before, but I got the works from the place I visited: sauna, massage, oil down, showers, etc. SO relaxing. Great way to finish a summer day spent walking around in near-Saharan heat.

I also enjoyed visiting the main square, Place Jemaa el-Fna. I loved the plethora of fresh orange juice carts, and must have had several glasses each day. The temporary restaurants that set up each night were also particularly fun, and the street food was delicious. Additionally, if you went to the right ones, you had the opportunity to mix with locals as they ate instead of just more tourists.

Unfortunately, Jemaa el-Fna was also one of the things I disliked. While some of the pictures of the snakecharmers, monkey-handlers, etc were fun, I quickly grew tired of their aggressive tactics and the outrageous demands when it came to payment. Little did I realize at the time that such chicanery would not only become par for the course in Morocco, but would actually get worse.

Nevertheless, I had fun in Marrakech. I didn't need as much time there as I allowed, but having so much time allowed me to relax a little as I got my bearings at the very beginning of my journey.

Essaouira

On August 3rd, I took a day trip to Essaouira from Marrakech, mostly on Jordan Flowers' recommendation. The bus was 3 hours there and 3 back. I spent about 4 hours total in the coastal town.

My first impression was how much cooler it was, which was nice given the heat of the last few days. After leaving the bus station, I went immediately to the beach. I had worn my board shorts under my slacks, and brought a beach towel, so my intentions were apparent. However, when I saw the beach, I changed my mind. It's not that it was bad, but there were several factors that kept me from lounging. First, the sand seemed more like dirt than the beachy sand I've been spoiled by so far this summer in Brighton, Carolina, Miami, and Hawaii. There were plenty of people on it, and some sunbathing, but it seemed to mostly be kids running and playing. Additionally, it was extremely windy, which makes sense given that Essa is known for its wind-sports. Finally, there was a charge for admittance (or at least it seemed that way), and I was tired of paying for every single thing I did in Morocco. As much as I love the beach, I refused to support it becoming a commercial venture in and of itself. Thus, I turned and walked towards the harbor.

At the harbor the fisherman were crowded around their catches, even this late in the day (mid-afternoon), haggling over sales. One got angry at me for taking photos, so the rest of my pics of this were on the sly. The place stunk to high heaven. There were all manner of fish on sale, as well as eels, and at least one small shark.

Nearby the harbor, past where the young boys were swimming, was the fish market. While the market itself was closed, the nearby stalls where fresh fish was cooked for you were not. I went and looked at the raw fish and shellfish on display at one of the little tents. When asked, I selected a large crab and a couple scampi. The man threw in a few sardines for good measure, and showed me to my seat.

The fish wasn't cheap (300 dh, or about $40), but I was expecting it to be delicious. I ate with a young British couple who similarly got scampi, but also a sea bream. When my meal was brought to me, I was disappointed. The food was well cooked, and fresh, and I bet the sea bream was fantastic. Unfortunately, the crab legs (which was the lion's share of the meal) were prepared by smashing them several times with a mallet. This, paired with the lack of the tiny fork, made eating it extremely painstaking and difficult, and eventually I gave up. Thank God for the sardines. Afterwards, I bought a few cookies from the local kid who had been bugging me my whole meal, and satisfied myself on that for the rest of the afternoon.

I didn't do much else in Essaouira. Walked around, snapping a few photos, and just soaked in the town. I did get a haircut and shave there. The men in the barbershop were all mesmerized by the live trial of Hosni Mubarak on TV. I couldn't understand it, but I was fascinated myself.


Casablanca

On August 4th, I took the train from 'kech to Casa. By the time I got there, it was too late to visit the grand mosque, so I resolved to do so in the morning before I left again. I headed there however to take some late afternoon/evening pics of the edifice. Afterwards I headed to the beach. While this beach was similar to the one in Essaouira in it's "sand", and had hundreds of different men of all ages playing dozens of different soccer games on it, there was a free section, and I went down to the shore. I parked next to a European couple, and we seemed to be the only people on the beach not playing soccer. Still, I laid out for about an hour, dipped my Aggie ring in the Atlantic (as is my ritual), and got some great action shots of the players.

After socializing with some German girls at the riad over Moroccan mint tea (thé a la menthe), I cleaned myself up and headed for Rick's Cafe. This place is only 7 years old, so it is of course not the inspiration for the movie Casablanca. Rather, it is life imitating art. However, it's a good recreation, and the food was delicious, if a bit expensive. What I didn't like was the service. They were very accommodating, but the place took itself a little too seriously. It would have made a great upscale restaurant if it wasn't for the fact that it was made to imitate a movie from half a century before, and one which tourists come specifically for the gimmick. Hell, they even had the movie playing in a room upstairs. But the waitstaff seemed to think they were in the actual Rick's of the movie, frowning upon photos and working with an air of self-importance that was annoying. The sole was great though, and the cheesecake decent.

The next morning, I went to the Hassan II mosque expecting to take the hourly tour. Unfortunately they were only allowing one tour that day, and I had missed it. This was not a normal occurrence, and in fact even locals didn't believe me when I told them there were none left that day. At least I got to see the underground level the day before with the little old man who took me down there... for a small fee of course.

Meknes

The train from Casa to Meknes was godawful. It was 3.5 hours long, without A/C, crowded and hot. As we drew close to Meknes, a middle-aged Moroccan man sat down across from me, and struck up a conversation about my travels. He told me he was traveling with his family. He offered to give me the number for his guide in Meknes, whom he said was a "good man." I told him I would consider it, but I didn't know where I was staying, and needed to get my bearings. I made the mistake of telling him that I thought I was staying at the Riad D'Or. He then said he would call for me, and that maybe the guide could meet me there. I didn't know what to say. I told him fine, just to be polite. He left a few minutes after speaking with the guide on the phone, and wishing me well. Scam.

After checking my email for the name and location of the place, I grabbed a taxi to the main square, but I still couldn't determine where my hotel was. I had no option but to ask someone, who immediately offered to take me there...for a fee. We settled on 15 dh ($2), and set off. Once he had led me there, he said he didn't have change, and all I had was a hundred. The touts/guides/hustlers never have change, conveniently. I think this is so that you either have to pay them more, or they can hit you up for more services, which is what this one did. He badgered me incessantly about being my guide. When I finally agreed, he made me promise to come back from the riad after I checked in, within 15 minutes. "Fine, fine, ok, I promise." Jeez.

Check in took quite awhile longer, and in the meantime the guide from the train phone call showed up at the door. Fortunately, the Italian man who owned the riad covered for me, and sent him away. He told me how men work the trains, pretending to be travelers, and connect tourists with guides they know, for a cut. Ugh. After about an hour, I set out again, but the only real "sight" in town was closed. However, I ran into the "guide" whom I promised to return to. He accosted me, and I cut him off with an apology, and a 20 dh note. He told me I promised him 100 dh, and I was so annoyed by him I just brushed him off, and he left me alone.

I wandered the small souk that evening, and I was pleased by the friendly nature of it, compared with the hawkers in Marrakech. I bought some juice, a hat, and some thread to sew patches on my bag. Afterwards I went to dinner at a place called Mille et Une Nuits. This was not so much a restaurant as a Moroccan family's home that the put tables in and printed menus for. However, everything was made from scratch, and not until you ordered it. The couscous was great, and the mint tea was ok. The long wait (30 minutes or so), allowed me to do some sewing and relax.

My room at the riad was on the very top, and had a great view, and was large and comfy. However, we were right next to a mosque, and I was woken up at 2am by a horn being blown in the streets, the muezzin from the minaret at 4am, and roosters at 6am. Nevertheless, I visited the Moulay Ismail tomb the next day (which I had missed the day before), and saw the clocks given by Louis XIV as consolation for his demurral to send his daughters to the sultan's harem.

Volubilis/Moulay Idriss Zerhoun

I chartered a grand taxi for 400 dh to take me to these two nearby sites the next day. Volubilis is a set of Roman ruins, but with neolithic remains even older. The mosaics were great, and the arch dedicated to the emperor Caracalla was intriguing. Moulay Idriss is the tiny nearby town on a hill dedicated to the ruler who envisioned building Fes, and established the first Islamic Moroccan dynasty. It's a holy city, but tiny, and it didn't take long to tour it and take some panoramic photos. The Scorpion House restaurant is run by some Westerner, but has great food, including Moroccan tagines, and fruit smoothies. It was the first lunch I had had since the beginning of Ramadan.

Fes and Con Artistry

On August 6, after Volubilis and Moulay Idriss, I took the train from Meknes to Fes. While waiting for the train at an internet point, I met a young man named Joussef from Fes who spoke good English, and we chatted for a minute. I later ran into him again at the train, and we sat together. He said he studied architecture in Fes. He told me about his family, including a sister studying architecture at Columbia University in NYC. He told me his family had a farm outside Fes where they grew grapes and produced wine. After some more conversation, I learned that he had friends who were American students in Fes. He offered to call one and ask them for their landlord's number, since he charged about 1/5 of the riad I was staying at. After eventually contacting the landlord, Michel, I agreed to stay with him instead of the riad, which they had heard wasn't very good. Michel even offered to pick me up. 


Michel picked me up in his Benz at the train station, and we went to his apartment, and apparently the room I was going to stay in was there. However, there was no internet, and no one knew where I was, so I started to get wary. He made food for us for Iftar, but I declined to eat much. He seemed to be interested in impressing upon me how wealthy he was, either by talking about his properties, his neighbors and neighborhood, or his lifestyle. He told me he was Lebanese and Swiss. His girlfriend worked at Columbia University. His family owned a vineyard outside Geneva. He loved architecture. Spider-sense was going off like crazy. I asked him where I could get internet, and he said he could drop me off at a place on his way to the mosque for evening prayers. I asked if I could just walk somewhere, but he seemed intent on dropping me off. I grabbed my valuables, and he dropped me off at a cafe.

I contacted the hotel, and they said to wait and see if he came back, and then tell him that I wanted my stuff from his apartment. I called Joussef in the meantime, and he offered to come by. He stopped by, and said that he had a date with his girlfriend soon, but he'd wait with me for Michel. He got up a few minutes later, and Michel arrived. When Joussef didn't come back, I asked Michel if he knew where he went, and he said that Joussef's mother wanted him to come back for dinner. The failure to square their stories was a big tell. After some gentle debate, I got Michel to drop me off at my hotel, after I promised to go get some food afterwards.

After I dropped my valuables at the hotel, I felt much safer, and I decided to go out with Michel that night. We got some food, and smoked shisha, all on his tab. Actually had a pretty good time. I began to think maybe I had misread him. He told me about the American University giving free tours the next day, courtesy of UNESCO, and said we should call them. He said they'd still be open at this hour because of Ramadan. We called and arranged to meet with a guide. Although Michel said he didn't know the man, the number he called had a name attached to it on his iPhone. Hmm. Still, we met with the older man, and he offered to meet me the next day near my hotel, and that the tour itinerary was up to me, and totally free.

Next morning, I met up with the guide, Mohammed, and we got me some breakfast before beginning the tour. We went by several sights, including the Bouinania Medersa, Kairouine Mosque, and the Chouwara Tannery. At one point, we went to see Michel's riad that he was refurbishing, at his invitation. I spoke with Mohammed before about how I met Michel, and my thoughts about him and whether or not to trust him. At Michel's riad, he again went to lengths to impress me it seemed, and when we left, Mo acted very impressed by Michel's wealth, and insisted I could trust him. Michel had encouraged us to meet him later at the "Widow's Market" where he would be going to shop. Michel had been going on since I met him about the handicrafts festival that was going on tomorrow, even though I could find no such thing online. Mo backed him up on this, and about the amazing deals I could get, especially on carpets at the Widow's Market. The "market" was a warehouse in the medina with tall ceilings and carpets everywhere. Nowhere could I find a widow, or even a woman. When Michel arrived, he told me he was buying six carpets, but the merchant only seemed interested in helping me. This was even after I told him to talk to Michel. All persons involved, as they rolled carpet after carpet out in front of me, told me how I could make 5x the purchase price back in the US. I could "pay for my trip." The prices here were non-negotiable, because they were guaranteed by the government, and set in advance. They wanted $5000 for carpets that, while beautiful, were likely not even handmade. I demurred.

After numerous attempts to convince me that they took credit cards, or money wires, or that I could re-sell, Mo said we could leave. He took me to a few more places, but the jig was up. I believe all the players, from Joussef to Michel to Mo to the merchant were in on this trade. I'm sure they take advantage of enough gullible and greedy travelers to pay for their expenses. Not me though. Too bad I didn't get to participate in the "big party" Michel said he was throwing that night. Kinda want to know what he would have done if I had bought a carpet. He would have at least had to have produced a party.

The rest of Fes was fun. I went back to my riad hotel, and got to know the staff, especially the owner Nor, a young man of mixed Brazilian descent. Additionally, two British girls named Claire and Gemma provided me company, and we had a nice day and night still in Fes. We went to the Merenid tombs overlooking the city at dusk, and got snacks at a cafe near the Bab Bouljoud. We then wandered the souks until dinnertime, grabbing street food with Nor.

Chefchaouen

On August 8 I went to the bus station, but I had missed the last bus for Chefchaouen that day. This meant my only hope of seeing it, and of making my reservation, was to hire a grand taxi. I know I ended up getting ripped off, but at least I paid less than he wanted. I paid 600 dh, about $75, for the 4 hour ride. The car had no A/C, and was at least 15 years old. I managed to sew some patches on my bag, and resist the tout's offers of hashish.

Chefchaouen is a beautiful little mountain town that I wish I could have stayed in longer. Unfortunately, I only had one night, and I was getting pretty worn out from the traveling already. I walked up into the main town and had dinner, and then walked back down to my hotel. Along the way, I saw a soccer game being played in one of the main plazas my little children, and attended with great fanfare by the townsfolk. There was a loudspeaker-announcer giving commentary, and crowds around the game itself. Must have been some kind of festival. The kids were really funny too, since they couldn't keep the ball inbounds more than about 10 seconds at a time. Poor ref had his hands full.

Back at the hotel, I spent time speaking with the 11 year old son of the owner. He didn't speak English, but we practiced our French together, and watched funny youtube videos. I showed him my beloved Baby Monkey riding on a pig video, but I don't think he appreciated it as much. Probably because he couldn't understand the words to the awesome song. Stayed at the Casa Annasr, and he showed me the new website they were launching. I gave him what advice I could about it. Hamid was his name. Great kid.

Tangier

On August 9, I left for Tangier for my last night in Morocco. I made the bus this time, and the ride was much more comfy and much less expensive. The taxi I grabbed from the bus station to the hotel of course overcharged me, and when I told him I didn't even have the 40 dh he wanted, the "guide" already at the window paid the extra for me, telling me I could just pay him back. He insisted he worked at my hotel, and for some reason, after everything I'd been through, I believed him. He, of course, did not work at Dar Jameel Hotel, so I managed to pay him back and be done with him.

It was late when I got into Tangier, so no sights were available. I rested some, and went to get some food from Ray Charly. It was recommended by the guidebook as good cheap food, and it delivered. The staff barely acknowledged me, but they found my Kindle amusing, especially when I showed them the bit about their joint. They disputed the price quotes, however. The Cafe Paris was next and last on my destinations in Tangier. Apparently it was quite the hotbed for espionage during WWII, and the decor looks like it probably did in the 60s. It had a great view of the nearby plaza, and would have been fun to while away the hours with friends over coffee, just watching people pass by. The name was appropriate, because the whole experience seemed very Parisian.

The next day, August 10, I caught the ferry from Tangier Med to Algeciras, Spain. People were throwing up non-stop around me, but I was unfazed. Morocco was fun, but I was ready for a change.

Final Thoughts on Morocco


I had a good time in Morocco, but by the end of my trip, I was ready to leave. There are many sights, but like other places, they begin to blend together. Mosques, medersas, souks all begin to look like other mosques, medersas, and souks after awhile. Most Moroccans that I encountered through my riads (hotels) or restaurants were helpful, honest, and friendly. However, I got tired of the willingness of many others to take advantage of tourists at any chance possible.  Taxi drivers frequently overcharged, or asked for more than originally bargained. "Guides" hassled you to no end to let them show you around, for a fee. If you asked anyone directions, they would take you all the way there, and then expect a sum of money automatically, and often an exorbitant one. As seen in the stories above about the con artists on trains, some people were willing to go to great lengths to deceive and lie to me. It was this willingness to lie to my face that was particularly exhausting. I've dealt with aggressive salesmen, or tough haggling, but outright deception was a bit new.

Furthermore, Ramadan exhausted me. At first it was interesting, and quite an experience. However, not being able to eat in the daylight for days at a time took its toll. This is especially true since I didn't keep the same hours as the Moroccans, and was in fact engaging in my most arduous activities at the height of the day. Not being able to replenish myself at these times was tough, and given my schedule, I couldn't just sleep or rest during those times as the Moroccans did.

Perhaps one day I will return to Morocco, better prepared and not during Ramadan, and I will feel differently. For now though, I've had enough.