My life in Madrid for the past month has been incredibly exciting for me, and for others it may not be so exciting, but I’ll write of what I’ve been doing. My friend, Cody Harris, and I have decided to make a movie. Cody is an aspiring film maker who as work on several projects. Some were his own, which he wrote, produced, directed, edited…did the whole thing. He’s also worked with other film makers doing editing work and camera work. He’s no novice.
Before I left Boise, Cody and I were at the Tenth Street Station drinking gin and tonics talking about a story I had been working on. And then the conversation shifted to the latest film Cody had been working on. I had made the comment that he needed a better script, that all stories must have a point, must have a thesis, must have some truth of life that must be exposed. He started telling me of new ideas he had for other short films and when he told me about one, which had already titled, “A Place Called Bliss,” I got very excited because I knew it was a story I could write. A story I wanted to write. He had gotten the idea from a news article he had read somewhere over the years about a girl from London whose car broke down in some back assed town in the western united states. Cody had thought it would make a good story and though Bliss, Idaho would be the perfect city to set it in. And I agreed.
Cody had a rough outline of how he thought the story would go. He had ideas for a good and artistic ending. But, he needed all things in the middle that got the characters from point A to point B. We spent the rest of the night talking non stop about how we could make the movie. What kind of problems the characters were facing. What the characters’ flaws were. We both became incredibly excited and had agreed that when I would return from Madrid we would shoot the movie.
This is where my past month in Madrid begins. I did not work on the movie much when I first arrived in Spain, and the things I did work on were ultimately cut by myself. But, for the past month “A Place Called Bliss,” has consumed my life. It is all I could think about, and all I’ve wanted to do.
I wrote the first draft by hand. I always prefer to write first drafts by hand. Every day after class for two weeks, I’d go to a new part of Madrid that I hadn’t really explored, find a nice café with a nice shaded terrace and work. I’d order café con leche and waters, and smoke cigarettes and write in the beautiful city of Madrid. The weather was perfect for those two weeks too. Every day the sun shone and there was seldom a wind to blow my pages and interrupt my work. Typically, I’d write one scene, or one important exchange of dialogue, which would take me an hour or two, though in movie time it is probably four minutes, and then I’d pay for my café, load up my things and walk around Madrid for a while. It was a very romantic way to live. My soul would be filled with the feeling of beauty that overtakes me when I’m writing something I feel is good, and I’d walk through the narrow streets with tall building of architectural design that I still can only describe as “European.” I’d sit on benches in plazas with fountains and watch children play, old men bicker, young lovers love, and think constantly how all of this related to how Elle and James (the main characters of APCB) were existing in that uncertain and uncompleted moment. Eventually, after wandering through many barrios, I’d find another café where the terrace tables were level and there was a tree shading the terrace perfectly, and I’d sit, order a café and write another passage of dialogue. I did this for two weeks. Everyday after class. It was wonderful, and my soul was fulfilled in a way that only a fellow writer can understand. The creation of people and emotions that do not exist and feeling them as if I were there, as if I were saying the lines of dialogue myself, is a physically draining and emotionally enlightening experience.
the forgotten poet apologizes twice,
repeats,
“I do not exist to the outside world.”
Later repeats,
I am charged to discover
truth and beauty
alone
This was a really cool way to see more or Madrid as well, and to meet new people. While writing at a doner kebab restaurant (a very popular style of food here…very cheap…) I met Houssan. Houssan was from Iraq. He was very kind to me and, as it seems I always write, he did not speak much English so we talked the best we could in Spanish. Houssan had welcomed me to Spain, told me of schools he knew where I could learn Spanish cheap. I told him I was already paying way too much to learn Spanish at a university. Clearly, with him being from Iraq, the topic of the war arose. I asked him why he left Iraq, and he told it was because of the war. He told me his home was too dangerous to live in anymore, and that he heard Madrid had a good Arabic community (which it does). So he moved here. At this point, I said something which seemed very natural, but afterward left me slightly confused. I told him I was sorry for the war. As though it was a decision I had made. As though I had lead troops in battle and killed his countrymen. He quickly told me it wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t his fault. It was politics and our governments. Which is true…but…I don’t know. I felt bad. He’s an actual human being, the faceless ghost that the citizens of a country at war choose to imagine does not exist. He is Iraqi. He is my country’s enemy. He is not my enemy, nor am I his enemy. I don’t know. I guess it’s still a big thing I’m trying to understand fully. But, I am sorry. I am sorry he had to leave his home, which he said as soon as his country is safe to live in, he will return to it. I am sorry for something that is not my fault, but I still feel somehow responsible for…
Then, there was my afternoon I spent in Chueca. Chueca is the gay district of Madrid. And I knew this before I chose a café there. And I had been there more than many times, and never had any sort of idea that it was the gay community. But, a funny occurrence arose. I was writing in a very small and posh café, which did not have a terrace, but it was early in the morning and still chilly, because I had decide to skip class that day in order to work, so I didn’t mind sitting inside. I was working away when I heard the man behind me speaking English to the waiter. He was tyring to ask for food. So I leaned my head back and helped him, only to find out the café didn’t serve meals, only pastries. This sparked an hour long conversation with my one time friend (whose name has already left me so we’ll call him….chris). Chris was a forty year old man from Greece. He was gay and very well kept and if I was an old gay guy I would def. be interested in him. The start of our conversation went like this:
“So, how’s Madrid for you, what are you doing here,” asked chris.
“I’m a student studying Spanish…I love this country.”
“Have you met any boys?”
“Boys?”
“You aren’t…” he looked me up and down with a perplexed look, “You aren’t gay?”
“haha, No. I’m not gay. I just like this area of town.”
“Are you sure?”
“yeah, I’m sure.”
Later he apologized to me for thinking I was gay. I said it was nothing, I could care less. And he saw I wasn’t offended in the slightest by it, he told me I looked gay, and if I was gay I’d be bringing in all sorts of boys. It was a nice compliment, and based upon my fairly Spanish girlless existence in Madrid, Spanish boys don’t sound too….jk. I guess I look gay. But, I became aware of that fact after ward and while walking through Chueca I did notice more men looking at me than usual…or was it all in my sick head?
Chris and I talked mostly about Greece. He was from Athens, and he told me oodles of information about it. I asked if I were to travel there, where should I go. And in my notebook he wrote me pages and pages of information about cool historical places and what have you.
At the end of our conversation, when we both said we had to get going (he because he had to meet some friends, and I because for an hour I was half talking to Chris and half thinking of where I left my characters in the story), the waiter, who was a young and strong young lad, fashionable and wore a mullet, brought each of our checks over. The waiter said, “veo que vosotros habeis conocido.” (I see you two have meet each other) And then he looked at me stroked my face with his hand and said, “Eres guapo.” (you’re hot). Then he looked to the old man and told him he was hot too, but he didn’t stoke Chris’s face. Chris tried to tell the waiter I wasn’t gay, but he didn’t know how. I didn’t know the words either so I said, “no me gustan chicos…me gustan chicas. Pero, si me gustan chicos…tu eres guapo!.” (I don’t like boys, I like girls, but if I liked boys….you are hot!). Which made him feel better I think, cause he looked worried as though he may have offended me by touching my face.
After two weeks of writing I sent Cody what I had written so far…after about eight hours of typing it into word…scripts are a pain in the ass…you constantly have to change format…center align this. Right align that. Make this is bold…anyway, it was a long and arduous process. Cody liked what I had written. He was excited and told me the way Elle had played out was exactly how he had imagined it in his head time and time again. He was enthousiastic about what was on the page so far. Which, as a writer, is always a very exciting thing to hear. You get so involved with your writing, and your story, that while writing it you are certain it is great, you are certain you are doing great things. But, afterward, once it settles, and you spend eight hours rereading it and typing it into the computer, you start to think it’s shit. You start to think it’s complete crap and you’ve wasted all your time. I was very relived when I got the positive feedback from Cody…even Lindsey, Cody’s wife sent me an email telling me she thought it was good and was very excited for the long process of making the film play out.
Originally, Cody and I had talked about making a short film, around thirty minutes long. But, the script was already at an hour worth of movie time. I told Cody I had ideas on how to trim it down, but really I was lying to him. I had no idea what so over. I knew more had to be added…but…in the end I knew I could have, I just needed to think about how to do it. But, Cody, with umpf and gust, decided, “let’s go for it, let’s make a full length film.” Which made me a whole lot happier, because it is way more exciting, and I knew adding more would be far easier than cutting the script in half.
Anyway, that’s how the first two weeks of writing the script went. Traveling around, writing it all by hand, finding moments of perfect solitude to work and refind some creativity that I haven’t been tapping often enough while in Spain…not that other parts of my brain haven’t been challenged constantly. The second two weeks are far less romantic and are border line unhealthy. I’ve spent a lot of time in my room working. Sitting with my pink walls and my photos of puppies as my ashtray overflows and empty water bottles and dried cups of tea accumulate into one disgusting mess. This is the part of writing that separates (how to say this without sounding completely arrogant?)…well…want to be writers and writers who will write good things, not saying will be great or ever publish anything grand, just writers who will write whole and complete stories (which generally are the only stories that get published).
After the first draft my secondary main character was highly underdeveloped. I spent a week developing a story for him. Figuring out what his problem was, how would it play out with Elle, how to get his story into the frame I had already created. It wasn’t easy. Intact, one night I had a near breakdown certain it was impossible and if I was going to do it I would need atleast a month to figure it out. But, that’s how I work. I panic. I obsess. And I get back to work for it. By the end of that night I had it figured out. I knew how to work James in. I knew his problem, I knew how it tied in with Elle. And in the next four of five days, I had a new draft ready for Cody, which was damn close to being a completed story.
I’m not sure which is my favorite part of writing, the first draft stage, or the revision stage. I love them both for separate reasons. The first draft stage is always very romantic. It’s falling in love with people you create. It’s writing something completely new, that when you start writing it you have no idea where it is going. But, as each line unfolds you discover that on some subconscious level, your writing is being directed. This happens to me often I’ll write a few lines, read back over them, and see they are going in a direction I had no intention of taking it. And then I just play follow the leader and keep going. I know some writers who I do not believe write like this. They think out every scene before hand, they know exactly what to say. But, I am not like this. I cannot lie in bed and think of every line of dialogue I want. The only way my writing comes out is to write and see where it goes. Which, often leaves me with many errors and holes and underdeveloped things. But, I have the ability of revision, and I can fix all those problems…
So revision. The second stage of writing. This is where I find all those holes and I fix them. For me, writing a story, whether it be a short story or a screenplay, is like putting together a puzzle. I know the whole picture. I know where the characters begin, I know where they end. And I know I have to hole here, a space there…a piece in this hand, a piece in that hand. Revision is simply finding out how to get all of these pieces together in order to have a complete picture, a complete draft. And I love this process. It’s so fun. Because, by the time I reach this point, I know my characters. I know how they think. I know how they would react to any scenario. So putting all the pieces together “is like a mind puzzle, it’s an awesome mind puzzle” (can anyone name where I quoted that from?).
So here I am now. The draft is close. It’s damn close. I know it is. Not to say it’s perfect. I know it isn’t. But, I have just about taken it as far as I know how. I’ve tried a new process of revision that I’ve never tried before. And, trust me, I don’t like it. I’m mass letting people read it. I’m getting all the input I can get from people. I’ve let people I’ve talked to twice in my life read it. And I’m collecting all the feedback and considering it all fully. I’m still assuming I have more authority over writing than that girl I met on the bus and had a conversation with, but I still considered fully if the first kiss did come too soon, and whether or not I should write a cheesy line of dialogue to precede it. I chose not to.
Anyway, that’s what my life has been for the past month. I’m working. I’m working hard on something I have to believe is going to be good.
Cody has started a website at www.aplacecalledbliss.com. As of right now, there isn’t much on it, but we are going to be slowly adding things as new developments come. Storyboards, script pages, blog section, and what not…I’m not really sure. Cody is the brains of the operation. I’m just the poet with the heart.
Huzza!
Jake.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
cultural differences part one
I clearly took a month off from writing on the blog. Not intentionally, I suppose I just didn’t have anything to say. Life in Madrid has become as routing as any other life. I wake up in the morning, I eat breakfast, I got to class till one in the afternoon, I come home, and then sometimes I go to a museum or park or walk in the center…sometimes friends come with me, sometimes not. In the evenings on weekdays I study (a little from text books…really I study all day long), eat dinner with my family and then go to bed. On the weekends there’s always something to do. Point being, life here is routine, so I haven’t really been inspired to write blogs. However, by known I’ve complied a load of observations and culture differences that might be interesting to some. So I’ll do my best to keep some updates going on cultural differences that I find interesting.
The meal schedule in Spain is completely illogical. Truly, it is. It’s not based on the principle that food is consumed for energy. Breakfast everyday is the same. And it’s very light. Toast with marmalade and a café con leche is the standard Spanish breakfast. Each morning I eat a little more. I have a bowl of cornflakes as well. I quit drinking the coffee about a month and a half ago, because I realized my host mom, Merche, has been giving me decaf. Now I have chocolate milk. The milk too, that’s something different. The milk here is super pasteurized and doesn’t need to be refrigerated and lasts for five months unopened. It tastes very different, not fresh at all, with a slight hint of vanilla. Anyway, being a huge milk drinker back home, I just don’t dig the milk. That’s why I add “Coca Coa,” it’s like nesquick. And the Spanish are crazy for it. People order it at the cafes.
Lunch every day is at 2:00 PM and it is huge. And after eating a tiny and very nutrient lacking breakfast, sometimes lunch seems really far away. It’s the largest meal of the day. At every café you can find the menu del dia. It comes with three or four courses and a glass of wine or beer. The first course (Primeros) is traditionally salad, soup, or pallea. The second (segundos) is a meat dish (the Spanish eat a lot of meat…and I’ll get to Ham) with potatoes, and usually not vegetables. The Spanish do not eat a lot of vegetables. And the final course (postre) is a dessert. Usually ice cream, flan, or a fruit. I don’t eat lunch with my family so I’m on my own to find it.
K, Jamon. Ham. The Spanish are fucking crazy for Ham! Every restaurant has cured ham hanging from the walls…Cured ham is pig leg left to age for five years. So whole pig legs faded to brown line the walls of restraunts. I eat some pig product atleast nine times a week. Lomo, chorizo, jamon (both york and iberecia), beicon, bacon, a whole world of sausages, and any other part you can imagine. Cured jamon is the most famous style. It’s like eating raw flesh. It’s chewy and when you bit into it, you have to pull it away from your mouth and it just keeps stretching. They put it on tapas, bocadillas, pulgas. They put it into soups and bake it into pastries. And they just eat it plan. Strips of flesh on a plate. My professor, Sarah, put it best: The Spanish are compulsive consumers of Jamon.
Dinner. Typically the Spanish eat a very healthy sized dinner. But, they eat it at nine PM. This is the meal that kills me the most. Now, I have no problem waiting so late for dinner. But, eating so much so late is just irrational. It literally keeps me up at night because I have way too much energy. Each night Merche cooks us a bastante bien meal. She isn’t a world class cook. But every night is like having moms home cooking. But only Spanish cuisine. Every meal we have an appetizer of soup, salad, corquetas, and bread with chorizo, salami, or melted cheese. We eat a lot of seafood. Fish, of many nature, and shrimp mainly. There’s a lot of pasta happening. Usually potatoes. And sometimes dessert of flan, leche frita, or fruit. Oh, and every meal, and I mean every single meal you ever eat, is served with a basket of bread. But artisan bread, delicious bread. Most Spaniards never eat American style bread.
Olive oil and salt are served with all meals. The only places that have pepper are touristy places. The Spanish hate spices. Nothing is spicy. When the waiter tells you the dish is spicy, it is so incredible not spicy. They don’t normally eat mustard for this reason as well. I’ve only seen one fruteria that sold Jalapeños. And good luck trying to find anything spicier.
Most of the dinners are fried, as well. They aren’t fried in the sense of fried chicken, but just sautéed in frying oil. It’s a sound I’ve become accustomed to in my home, the sound of boiling oil. But, I’m told this is new Spanish thing. It’s not traditional.
Let’s talk Spanish fashion. Well, one element of Spanish fashion. Mullets are so in right now!!! The hippest actors, the most handsome models, top selling musicians, they all have mullets. Which, of course, means you see mullets in the streets everyday. Mullets of all nature too. Sleek moused mullets. Frizzy unkempt mullets. Mullets on men. Mullets on women. Mullets on children. Mullets with designer perms. But, my favorite mullet so far, is the Rastafarian Mullet. I saw one that was beyond belief. The top of this guys head was shaved very low, and in the back he had dreadlocks that rivaled Bob Marley’s for thickness and filth. Some men, even have the Jedi Padawan cut. Shaved head with one long braid that starts behind their ear…or even worse, the Rat Tail version of the Jedi Padawan. People shave lightning bolts and side steps into their mullets as well. I’m not making this up. This is real.
huzza!
jake.
The meal schedule in Spain is completely illogical. Truly, it is. It’s not based on the principle that food is consumed for energy. Breakfast everyday is the same. And it’s very light. Toast with marmalade and a café con leche is the standard Spanish breakfast. Each morning I eat a little more. I have a bowl of cornflakes as well. I quit drinking the coffee about a month and a half ago, because I realized my host mom, Merche, has been giving me decaf. Now I have chocolate milk. The milk too, that’s something different. The milk here is super pasteurized and doesn’t need to be refrigerated and lasts for five months unopened. It tastes very different, not fresh at all, with a slight hint of vanilla. Anyway, being a huge milk drinker back home, I just don’t dig the milk. That’s why I add “Coca Coa,” it’s like nesquick. And the Spanish are crazy for it. People order it at the cafes.
Lunch every day is at 2:00 PM and it is huge. And after eating a tiny and very nutrient lacking breakfast, sometimes lunch seems really far away. It’s the largest meal of the day. At every café you can find the menu del dia. It comes with three or four courses and a glass of wine or beer. The first course (Primeros) is traditionally salad, soup, or pallea. The second (segundos) is a meat dish (the Spanish eat a lot of meat…and I’ll get to Ham) with potatoes, and usually not vegetables. The Spanish do not eat a lot of vegetables. And the final course (postre) is a dessert. Usually ice cream, flan, or a fruit. I don’t eat lunch with my family so I’m on my own to find it.
K, Jamon. Ham. The Spanish are fucking crazy for Ham! Every restaurant has cured ham hanging from the walls…Cured ham is pig leg left to age for five years. So whole pig legs faded to brown line the walls of restraunts. I eat some pig product atleast nine times a week. Lomo, chorizo, jamon (both york and iberecia), beicon, bacon, a whole world of sausages, and any other part you can imagine. Cured jamon is the most famous style. It’s like eating raw flesh. It’s chewy and when you bit into it, you have to pull it away from your mouth and it just keeps stretching. They put it on tapas, bocadillas, pulgas. They put it into soups and bake it into pastries. And they just eat it plan. Strips of flesh on a plate. My professor, Sarah, put it best: The Spanish are compulsive consumers of Jamon.
Dinner. Typically the Spanish eat a very healthy sized dinner. But, they eat it at nine PM. This is the meal that kills me the most. Now, I have no problem waiting so late for dinner. But, eating so much so late is just irrational. It literally keeps me up at night because I have way too much energy. Each night Merche cooks us a bastante bien meal. She isn’t a world class cook. But every night is like having moms home cooking. But only Spanish cuisine. Every meal we have an appetizer of soup, salad, corquetas, and bread with chorizo, salami, or melted cheese. We eat a lot of seafood. Fish, of many nature, and shrimp mainly. There’s a lot of pasta happening. Usually potatoes. And sometimes dessert of flan, leche frita, or fruit. Oh, and every meal, and I mean every single meal you ever eat, is served with a basket of bread. But artisan bread, delicious bread. Most Spaniards never eat American style bread.
Olive oil and salt are served with all meals. The only places that have pepper are touristy places. The Spanish hate spices. Nothing is spicy. When the waiter tells you the dish is spicy, it is so incredible not spicy. They don’t normally eat mustard for this reason as well. I’ve only seen one fruteria that sold Jalapeños. And good luck trying to find anything spicier.
Most of the dinners are fried, as well. They aren’t fried in the sense of fried chicken, but just sautéed in frying oil. It’s a sound I’ve become accustomed to in my home, the sound of boiling oil. But, I’m told this is new Spanish thing. It’s not traditional.
Let’s talk Spanish fashion. Well, one element of Spanish fashion. Mullets are so in right now!!! The hippest actors, the most handsome models, top selling musicians, they all have mullets. Which, of course, means you see mullets in the streets everyday. Mullets of all nature too. Sleek moused mullets. Frizzy unkempt mullets. Mullets on men. Mullets on women. Mullets on children. Mullets with designer perms. But, my favorite mullet so far, is the Rastafarian Mullet. I saw one that was beyond belief. The top of this guys head was shaved very low, and in the back he had dreadlocks that rivaled Bob Marley’s for thickness and filth. Some men, even have the Jedi Padawan cut. Shaved head with one long braid that starts behind their ear…or even worse, the Rat Tail version of the Jedi Padawan. People shave lightning bolts and side steps into their mullets as well. I’m not making this up. This is real.
huzza!
jake.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Semana Santa
This week was Easter; everyone knows this. In Spain, though, there is no Easter there is Semana Santa, or holy week. An entire week of Easter. There is no school. People don’t have to go to work and even in the capital city nearly all the stores are closed Thursday through Sunday. There are huge parades in the streets every day, especially in the south of Spain. So, naturally, on the holiest Catholic holiday of Spain, I left to an Islamic country to spend Semana Santa. Everyone leaves the country or goes to Andalusia anyway.
This trip was very different in the sense of I really didn’t have great adventures and meet incredible interesting people who willingly spent afternoons with me. I was nearly alone the entire time. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. On the first day of the trip, at the train station, the friends I was supposed to be traveling with, for personal reasons, decided to go their personal ways. Leaving me alone with ten days till I had to be back in Madrid. So, I set out alone into the very foreign country that is Morocco.
My first night was spent in Tangier, which I briefly wrote about in my first blog. Tanger, in other parts of Morocco is known as Danger. The city is full of criminals who pose as friends and confidants but would really do anything to steal from you…which, after traveling through a lot of Morocco, doesn’t seem to far off from an apt description of all Moroccan cities.
That night I was at the beach. Morocco is a filthy country. They have poor public sanitation services and litter is a very large issue (at least to a westerner). The beach was lined with rusted bikes and car tires and god knows what else washed in from the ocean. It had empty beer bottles and broken glass and plastic bags imbedded in the sand. It smelled as though the sewage line of the city dumped directly into the bay, which was a concave and even at night in the far distance one can see the rising mountains of spain. But here, I was invited to sit with a local who was all alone watching the ocean at night. He didn’t speak English and only a bit of Spanish, but we talked as best as we could. I could tell he was bothered. He was quiet and often dropped his head into his hands. He spoke softly as only the loneliest and most solemn humans do. He told me he was a sewer. That was his trade. He made jackets and pants and shirts. But, there was no work for him in morocco. None to be had at all. He was desperate for money and could not support himself. He kept saying, “En Espana mucho trabajo.” He wanted to do as many other Moroccans have done and immigrate to Spain where one can live and support themselves. He joked that he would swim the distance that night for a better life.
This is a problem throughout Morocco. Poor living standards and the lack of work. He was not the only person I met who told me this. But, his sincerity and his broken manner touched me in a way that all heartbreaking stories do. Also, he was the only one who told me this and did not ask me to give him money. He simply wanted an ear and a friend, someone to understand his so frustrating situation. I have no idea how he can ever hope improve his life. Short of moving to Europe. But, it is difficult to do this legally.
I spent the next two nights in the cities of Casablanca and Rabat, which is the capital. Both, of which passed fairly unspectacular. I seeked other travelers who spoke English that I might be able to join for the evenings, but could never find any. So I wondered and saw what I could. In Morocco, every city has a flea market. But, they aren’t markets in the sense of obscurity and neat odds and ends like Rastro in Madrid or The Saturday Market in Portland. In Moroccan markets venders sell basic living needs. There are stands with huge potato sacks full of fresh spices. Some have eggs and butchered lambs hanging on racks. Some are carpets laid on the ground with stacks of shirts and pants and bras and underwear piled on. There are electronic stands which sell lamps and light bulbs. The markets are where people go to shop. Like Wal-Mart in the states. Except nothing like Wal-Mart.
A huge reason these two cities were so unspectacular for me was because I was alone. And not that I can’t find friends alone, I’ve done it time and time again. But, because Morocco is a terrible country to be alone in. Thousands, at the very very least, of people make their living off of begging tourists for money. Children, adults, old men and women, approach you on the street and simply ask you for money. I would say no or go away (I even learned it in French…one of the two national languages) and still the beggars would walk along side you, stride for stride, telling you their sorry tale trying to get pity money from you. Also, there are the people with stores that sale traditional Moroccan goods. Who will approach you very kindly asking you where you are from, and where ever you are from, the vender will have family living there or somewhere near by. “Oh, you are an American! I have a cousin who lives in Sacramento.” Then they will tell you nice things about Morocco, and you will be thinking they are just friendly people, but then they shift and tell you they have a store and they will make you a “student price,” on a fine carpet.
Seems harmless though, right? But, this happens literally ever ten steps. It’s endless, ceaseless. I’d want to go for a walk and see the city, but I’d return to my hostal after half an hour because I’d be worn out from being hassled non stop. This is a problem for all tourists, but, when you are alone, they feel much more comfortable in approaching a single person than a group of four or five. On my last night in Morocco, after eating dinner, I was walking along the ocean boardwalk (not really a boardwalk…just don’t know a better term), and a drunk homeless man with ratted hair and soiled clothes grabbed me by my arm and started dancing with me. I pulled my arm away and he grabbed it again…and again. Finally I got away from him and continued walking when another man, well dressed, walked up beside me and told me he was starving and needed to eat and I told him to leave me alone and I kept walking and he kept on pace with me continuing to beg. After six days of this happening every time I went outside, I had had enough. I went back to my Hostal, and locked myself in my room for the rest of the night. It was only Nine O’clock.
Because I was alone and unable to meet any English speakers, I essentially observed all day long. There were two major things I found curious. The first, I’ll present as a joke, but I mean it in all seriousness: For a country that homosexuality is punishable by death, the men of Morocco sure are gay. I found this very interesting coming with my western (esp. Idaho) mindset. The men are very close, and I mean in proximity. They kiss each other when they meet, and while hanging out they touch each other often (and I mean in the sense of boyfriend pushing hair out of his lovers face). They speak in a very high town which sound to me an awful lot like whining. And physically, the men of morocco are very feminine. They have very sleek and narrow faces, narrow shoulders. I suppose the encounters are this way because of the lack of men and woman submersion. The men hang out with men. The woman hang out with woman. And because of this the men become very close to their friends. Which, as I saw in Chawen, isn’t a bad thing. The friends appear to be very close and loving and trusting. But their means of showing it are very different from western civilization.
Secondly: When thinking of Islamic cultures often the idea of the belittling of women comes to mind. They don’t have the same rights and are hidden by veils and kept within homes to raise the children. But, undoubtedly, the women rule the show in morocco. On many occasions I saw the men cower to the women. Men fear women and their biologically enhanced rage (joke). On the bus from merekech to Errachidad a woman along side of the road waved down the bus, why I have no idea, but she stood in the doorway and started talking to the driver. The driver, at first, spoke loudly and I’m assuming she didn’t have money for the bus and he was trying to kick her off. But, then the woman started yelling and the bus driver literally sunk in his seat and leaned away from her. He lowered his voice and the when he tried to speak the woman spoke louder and he was silenced. In the end, the women left two packages on the bus and we left without her. I have no idea what it was all about.
A second incidence of the woman power, though I saw many (really many) was in Tanger. I saw a marital dispute. I walked up while the woman was screaming at the husband and talking a child from his arms. The man fell to his knees and starting pleading with her. He cried and shouted and gave the universal look of “please forgive me.” A group gathered around them in the busy street and he continued to beg and then the wife turned and started yelling at him more and lowered his butt to rest on his heels as he listened to her yell at him. It was quite bizarre. And with these two instances I’m certain that even though the men run the politics in Morocco, the women rule the real world.
I’ve discovered I love backpacking through countries. The train system in Morocco is awesome. Not in a “it’s super convenient” sort of way. Trains are constantly late, they go very slow, and don’t really connect that much of the country. But, they have compartments which enable comfortable sleeping and it’s a wonderful way to see much of the country. I started in the north which is lush and green, and on the trains (and buses) I saw the land shift from rich mountain regions to dry planes and eventually to vacant Sahara desert.
It was fun to ride a train or bus anywhere from five to thirteen hours (of my eight days in morocco 47 hours were spent on buses and trains), and get off the vehicle with a heavy pack. My legs would be weak and my body tired from sitting still for so long, and the last thing I’d want to do is hump a pack for a few hours trying to find the center of the city and a good priced hostal. But, once you get walking for a bit with the heavy pack it begins to feel very good. Your body is well rested, and you can walk quickly and seeing the new cities this way is very cool…again, minus the beggars.
My main goal was to make it to the Sahara desert which proved to be very difficult. Just traveling there took much longer than I had expected. I took an eleven hour train to Merekech from Tanger. Then a thirteen hour hour bus ride to Errachidad, which was incredibly cramped--my knees where smashed into the seat in front of me, the aisles were full of people standing, and the bus itself was incredibly dirty. The bus broke down as well. We stopped along side the road in the middle of nowhere. I sat far from the main group in a field eating an orange and a local man came up to me and starting talking to me in English. He too told me about the poor living in Morocco and how he couldn’t find a job. Then he asked where I was from. I lied and said England. Then, he repeated himself and his questions. And then he repeated them again. He was definitely drugged and out of his head. I asked him if he was on the bus and he said no. I have absolutely no idea how the hell he got out into the middle of nowhere, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to him any longer. When I stood up to walk back towards the group, he asked if he could have my phone number in Europe so when he moved there he could call me. I told him, again, I wasn’t European and I couldn’t help him in EU. Then he just asked for money. I gave him a cigarette.
The scenery changed completely on the last hours of the ride to Errachidad. Trees became scarce and the dead grass ground turned to red clay earth. The buildings we passed too were all red. At the time I didn’t realize why all the buildings were read, I just thought the cities where themed. But, after reaching the Sahara in the daylight, and seeing the red sand which composed it’s gigantic dunes, I realized the buildings were all made from the only material available in the desert…sand stone. Which made me think about how man can survive on whatever resources are available to him. Like the Eskimos in there ice igloos or the Indians in their wooden and buffalo hide homes. A very power sentiment to me, it was. The adaptability of man.
Once in Errachidad I had my first encounters with the Southern Berbers who I have so much distrust against. But, at the same time have so much respect for. Their culture, like so much of Morocco, I find beautiful. In quiet moments there was always friendly conversations with the Berbers of the south. Their religion and culture teaches them to be very open and accepting people. They accept the differences in all humans and want to find the good in all people. Which, after spending the prior three days alone, was very welcome to have friendly conversations. But, they are the sketchiest and seediest businessmen on the planet and I am certain they would make the best used car salesmen in the world. They tell you exactly what you want to hear no matter how much of a lie they are telling you. It is really a soulless way to do business. I covet honesty. I just want the truth. I can deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.
Isma, whose family (again a Berber family, which has nothing to do with blood but a communal living) set up guided trips to the Sahara, met me once I got off the bus. We went back to his families’ hotel where we talked business. The planned trip seemed great and they spoke wonderfully of their services. I genuinely trusted them like I trust the Berbers in Chefchaouen (but there is no place in Morocco like Chawen). Business in Morocco never has set prices. It’s a country where one must haggle, because the Berbers want all the money they can get out of you. I knew the price for a guided trip was 300-600 Durhams (about 45-80 dollars) a night, which included everything one needs. I told them I knew the price and then I was told to write on a piece of paper what I could afford and that they understood I was a student and would make it happen. I wrote down 450 drhm, and they looked me and said they could not take me for that price. I wrote another and they said they couldn’t do that either. Finally they told me since I was alone they would have to charge me 600 drhm. I said fine, okay. I just want to go and we had been haggling for far too long. I was slightly annoyed by the dishonesty already, and when I gave them 1200 Drhm for two nights in the desert, they told me we had agreed on 60 euro which is about 660 dhrm. And they wanted more money. Clearly, I tried to plead my case, but when I started talking they just starting talking faster and louder. I couldn’t possibly get a word in. It was soooo shaddy. I gave them the extra 120. Then, they asked me about the money for the taxi to get to the desert. We were still two hours from the dunes and no buses traveled any further. However, in our haggling on what I was paying for we had agreed that the taxi ride out there was included in the price. Which, of course, now it wasn’t. Again, I tried to call their bullshit, which turned out completely useless and ended up having to pay 100 dhrm for the two hour cab ride.
Along with me four Spanish girls from the Basque country had paid for the services of the Berbers. They were very nice girls and the five of us plus the diver and our guide crammed into a four door sedan and headed for the dunes. The wind became very strong on the drive. Sand drifted across the road and looked exactly like snow drifting in the wind in Idaho. It was very beautiful. To reach the Dunes, we turned off the main road and drove directly on the sand. At points, the wind would gust so heavily that the nothing could be seen. Only red sand tossed in front of us to the point of near blackout. The path to the hotel stationed in the desert was market by red posts planted in the sand. When the strong winds would pick up and eventually die, all in the car would search desperately for the posts, which sometimes would be 300 ft away.
Clearly, with the terrible weather it wasn’t possible to head out to the desert that afternoon like we had discussed, which I would have been okay with; however once at the hotel I was shown I room where I could sleep that night and then asked if I wanted to pay for a half board or full board. I told the keeper I had already paid for lodging and food and my expenses were covered. I was wrong. I had paid for the tent and food in the desert not the food and room in the hotel. I don’t think I can write now how angry I was. I’m over it and dealing like this are just part of traveling in Morocco. But, imagine how angry I was. I refused to pay, confronted my guide and told him I wanted a full refund for the services I paid for and would not be receiving. In the kindest manner, he empathized with me and told me it wasn’t possible to refund me because we had already reserved a spot in the tents and reserved a camel. And the bad weather was a part of Morocco. I told him he needed to pay for all my expenses at the hotel with the money I had given him. And he responded, so very kindly, about how that wasn’t possible and listed a line of bullshit and ended up telling me they would make me a very good price to stay in the hotel and for the food. Which, to their worthless credit and feeble word, they did make me a good deal. 100 dhrm for a night stay and three meals (dinner that night, breakfast the next morning and breakfast on the day I returned from the desert). Which, all of that normally would cost 500 drhm, because the hotel was nice and the food, as bitterly as I ate it, was wonderful.
And that’s the last I’ll bitch about Morocco. I’ve accepted that’s jut how Morocco works. It’s just a huge pain in the ass, and I have a huge humanistic problem with being lied to and manipulated oh so many times. Because, despite this blog and my focus on the negative, it really is wonderful country.
That night the winds did not stop until nearly midnight. I, the four Basque Girls, and Isma, sat on comfortable couches which lined the large main room where all the guests sat and talked. We had good conversations and told parts of our life stories and made jokes and laughed a lot. Once the winds died we finally went outside and sat on the patio of the hotel. The camels groaned like distressed lions (I had no idea camels were so loud and angry) and the towering dunes shown in the moonlight. The desert at night is still very bright. At midnight one could see the distant horizon still and the stars shown in multitudes high above. I talked mostly with Mireia (who was renamed Fatima by the Berbers, and that is really what I think her name is). We talked a lot about the cultural differences of America and Spain. They were surprised to find out America wasn’t the finest place on earth to live, and I was surprised they thought it was. I told them how expensive college and health care was for us. She goes to a good university in San Sebastiani and pays 700 euro a year…health care is free for all citizens. Of course this is the difference in the amount of taxes the citizens pay, but when you look at what you pay in taxes versus what you pay for university and health care, the more financially wise decision is apparent…socialism is a very good system in my opinion.
The next morning after breakfast of toast with honey, olives, orange juice, and coffee it was time for me to finally head out into the desert. The girls had only paid for one night in the desert and would not be coming with me. And, I found out that morning that my “guide” isma, was not a guide at all just a chauffer, and Omar, would be taking me to the desert. I was very glad to hear this because I had had just about all I could handle of his family and their crooked dealings just would not sit easily with me. I mounted my camel that morning and we set off into the sand dunes which from the hotel were only mountains in the distance. I did not ride the camel long. Maybe fifteen minutes before I had an incredible ugre to climb down from him and feel the stain of hiking in the sand and the hot sun reflecting up on me. Plus, camels are not very pleasant to ride. One sits on the front half of the hump and the vertebrae of the animal digs into ones crotchal area. I told Omar this, and he gave a command to the camel in Arabic, and the camel slowly lowered its front legs to its knees and then his back legs to their knees and then the whole body to the sand. I climbed off, stretched large, and even in the early morning, around ten AM, the sun was hot on my skin. I began to walk and omar said, “es major sin zapatos.” So, I took off my shoes, which never returned to my feet until the next day after returning to the hotel and talking a shower.
The sand of the Sahara is not like the sand of any beech I have felt. It is like silk, in every sense imaginable. There are no course grains in it and every step in the desert is like stepping onto 100 layers of silk tapestries. Also, the sand is red. Red like the color of fading brick. For miles it was the only dominant color aside from the brilliant blue of such clean skies. Along the walk Omar would point out trails of small insects in the deserts. We would track them to their ends and find dung beetles hidden in the shade of desert shrubs, which are a sickly green fading into brown and very scarce. He showed me a distinctive trail which looked like none of the others. The center of the trail looked as though it was of a snake which moved directly without slithering, and on either side the small indentations of tiny feet. We followed the trail, which stopped in the middle of a dune, and Omar said, “Mira (look)” and he plunged his hand into the sand and he came back out with a lizard in his hand. The lizard was the same red of the sand and buried underneath it for protection from predators and the scorching sun. Along the side of the lizard were six black marks spaced evenly apart with about a half inch in between each, which Omar explained to me marked the years of the lizard.
We continued walking and I wish I had more to say but really there is not much. This is the power of the desert. It is vacancy, utter desolation, which, for me, was the same state of my mind and I was able to forget entirely about the berbers who had annoyed me so much and the hectic days which had preceded my arrival. Mostly I admired the dunes, which some were as large as the “small” mountains of southwestern Idaho.
It only took two and a half hours to reach our camp, which was in a basin of the dunes. We climbed a final series of hills and in the flat valley I could see camps set up of tents built from high center poles and lower edge poles wrapped entirely in the woven blankets of the berbers. There was a well there as well. When I asked at the hotel where they got there water, I was told, “It may not look like it, but there is lots of water in the desert, just far beneath the ground.” This well was nothing more than a dug out hole with a plastic lined interior and a simple plastic cover with a bucket tied to a rope that was dipped into the earth.
Once arriving, Omar cleared our tent of sand the best he could and then went into the kitchen (there was a separate tent for cooking), and with a propane stove with a single burner made berber tea. I watched him make the tea of ingredients I was not familiar with, save for sugar and mint, but there was also two other roots and a flower which he added. Then he began to make lunch which was a typical Moroccan course, infact it what I ate for three meals straight, but I can’t recall the name now….
Sorry, I suck.
But it was delicious. It is made of chicken placed in the center of a pan. Around it is stacked carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. Garlic and other seasonings are added and then water and oil are poured over the top. A coned cover with a ventilation hole is placed over the pan and the entire thing sits and cooks for a few hours until the chicken is ready.
After lunch I sat and wrote simple five word poems in the sand. I took short naps and was relieved when a slight breeze would pick up and cool the sweat on my forehead. I heard the strangest bird who song was like a creaking door.
Once my food had settled I went hiking in the dunes. There was a gigantic dune with a very steep face that back dropped the camp. I tried to climb it and after a half hour of starting and climbing thirty seconds before utter exhaustion; stopping and resting; and then climbing again; I decided I would never make it to the top. So I turned back and walked towards the smaller dunes which piled one ontop of the other. I climbed them for nearly an hour. A steep incline and then a level plateau and then another steep incline and the segue to another dune. It was truly wonderful. The sky in the desert is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is the deepest blue and when I wrote about it in my journal I realized it was the same color of my blue Bic pen. The simplicity of the desert is the best part about it. There are only three colors to be seen. The red of the sand, the blue of the sky, and the earthly green of the desert shrubs. These are the only colors to be seen. But, depending on how the sun is striking the sand, at what angle, where the shadows of the dunes fall, and if you are facing the sun or not, there is an endless amazement of new combinations of light and colors to be seen. Sometimes, when the sun would hide behind the dunes, the distant dunes looked white, or a very light yellow. But definitely not red as they truly are.
When I nearly reached the summit of the original dune I was trying to climb, I came across a wonder of nature. Two dunes came nearly together but were separated by, what I can best describe as, a pit. It was like a cone, as though the two dunes had been hallowed out at their point of meeting. The hole was very deep and the edges very steep. If one was to fall in…well…getting out would be possible, but very very difficult.
The tops of the highest dunes were amazing themselves too. Not for their vistas, were I could see dunes rolling into each other for miles and miles and could see nothing else but dunes, but for their simple peaks. The dunes come to a perfect triangular point on their tops, which run for however long the dune itself is. They are formed by the wind and at their highest point the blows over them and then descends down the other side, forming this long running peaks.
From the top I sat and looked. And I wish there was more to say, but like I said earlier, there was hardly a thought in my mind while in the desert. I just observed. Like a simple beast or primitive main without cognitive abilities. I was simply awed by the spectacle I was taking in. Which, now, it seems like maybe the birds and foxes of the world are truly the more evolved specie (heretical to say, I know, but it was just so blissful in the desert).
And that sums up to the best of my ability my experience in the desert. I did not write about the night in the desert, but it was nearly the same as the day, except without light. I hiked more after dinner, wrote more poems, both in the sand and in my notebook, and sat with the stillness of mind that does not come over take me often enough.
The next day might as well mark the end of my time in Morocco. I spent the next 24 hours either waiting for a bus or train, or sitting on a bus or train, until I arrived back to the north of morocco, in Tanger, where I stayed one night, which, after coming from the desert and escaping the mayhem of a cities in a third world country, I hid in my room and went to bed early to catch the morning ferry back to Spain and my home in Madrid.
This trip was very different in the sense of I really didn’t have great adventures and meet incredible interesting people who willingly spent afternoons with me. I was nearly alone the entire time. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. On the first day of the trip, at the train station, the friends I was supposed to be traveling with, for personal reasons, decided to go their personal ways. Leaving me alone with ten days till I had to be back in Madrid. So, I set out alone into the very foreign country that is Morocco.
My first night was spent in Tangier, which I briefly wrote about in my first blog. Tanger, in other parts of Morocco is known as Danger. The city is full of criminals who pose as friends and confidants but would really do anything to steal from you…which, after traveling through a lot of Morocco, doesn’t seem to far off from an apt description of all Moroccan cities.
That night I was at the beach. Morocco is a filthy country. They have poor public sanitation services and litter is a very large issue (at least to a westerner). The beach was lined with rusted bikes and car tires and god knows what else washed in from the ocean. It had empty beer bottles and broken glass and plastic bags imbedded in the sand. It smelled as though the sewage line of the city dumped directly into the bay, which was a concave and even at night in the far distance one can see the rising mountains of spain. But here, I was invited to sit with a local who was all alone watching the ocean at night. He didn’t speak English and only a bit of Spanish, but we talked as best as we could. I could tell he was bothered. He was quiet and often dropped his head into his hands. He spoke softly as only the loneliest and most solemn humans do. He told me he was a sewer. That was his trade. He made jackets and pants and shirts. But, there was no work for him in morocco. None to be had at all. He was desperate for money and could not support himself. He kept saying, “En Espana mucho trabajo.” He wanted to do as many other Moroccans have done and immigrate to Spain where one can live and support themselves. He joked that he would swim the distance that night for a better life.
This is a problem throughout Morocco. Poor living standards and the lack of work. He was not the only person I met who told me this. But, his sincerity and his broken manner touched me in a way that all heartbreaking stories do. Also, he was the only one who told me this and did not ask me to give him money. He simply wanted an ear and a friend, someone to understand his so frustrating situation. I have no idea how he can ever hope improve his life. Short of moving to Europe. But, it is difficult to do this legally.
I spent the next two nights in the cities of Casablanca and Rabat, which is the capital. Both, of which passed fairly unspectacular. I seeked other travelers who spoke English that I might be able to join for the evenings, but could never find any. So I wondered and saw what I could. In Morocco, every city has a flea market. But, they aren’t markets in the sense of obscurity and neat odds and ends like Rastro in Madrid or The Saturday Market in Portland. In Moroccan markets venders sell basic living needs. There are stands with huge potato sacks full of fresh spices. Some have eggs and butchered lambs hanging on racks. Some are carpets laid on the ground with stacks of shirts and pants and bras and underwear piled on. There are electronic stands which sell lamps and light bulbs. The markets are where people go to shop. Like Wal-Mart in the states. Except nothing like Wal-Mart.
A huge reason these two cities were so unspectacular for me was because I was alone. And not that I can’t find friends alone, I’ve done it time and time again. But, because Morocco is a terrible country to be alone in. Thousands, at the very very least, of people make their living off of begging tourists for money. Children, adults, old men and women, approach you on the street and simply ask you for money. I would say no or go away (I even learned it in French…one of the two national languages) and still the beggars would walk along side you, stride for stride, telling you their sorry tale trying to get pity money from you. Also, there are the people with stores that sale traditional Moroccan goods. Who will approach you very kindly asking you where you are from, and where ever you are from, the vender will have family living there or somewhere near by. “Oh, you are an American! I have a cousin who lives in Sacramento.” Then they will tell you nice things about Morocco, and you will be thinking they are just friendly people, but then they shift and tell you they have a store and they will make you a “student price,” on a fine carpet.
Seems harmless though, right? But, this happens literally ever ten steps. It’s endless, ceaseless. I’d want to go for a walk and see the city, but I’d return to my hostal after half an hour because I’d be worn out from being hassled non stop. This is a problem for all tourists, but, when you are alone, they feel much more comfortable in approaching a single person than a group of four or five. On my last night in Morocco, after eating dinner, I was walking along the ocean boardwalk (not really a boardwalk…just don’t know a better term), and a drunk homeless man with ratted hair and soiled clothes grabbed me by my arm and started dancing with me. I pulled my arm away and he grabbed it again…and again. Finally I got away from him and continued walking when another man, well dressed, walked up beside me and told me he was starving and needed to eat and I told him to leave me alone and I kept walking and he kept on pace with me continuing to beg. After six days of this happening every time I went outside, I had had enough. I went back to my Hostal, and locked myself in my room for the rest of the night. It was only Nine O’clock.
Because I was alone and unable to meet any English speakers, I essentially observed all day long. There were two major things I found curious. The first, I’ll present as a joke, but I mean it in all seriousness: For a country that homosexuality is punishable by death, the men of Morocco sure are gay. I found this very interesting coming with my western (esp. Idaho) mindset. The men are very close, and I mean in proximity. They kiss each other when they meet, and while hanging out they touch each other often (and I mean in the sense of boyfriend pushing hair out of his lovers face). They speak in a very high town which sound to me an awful lot like whining. And physically, the men of morocco are very feminine. They have very sleek and narrow faces, narrow shoulders. I suppose the encounters are this way because of the lack of men and woman submersion. The men hang out with men. The woman hang out with woman. And because of this the men become very close to their friends. Which, as I saw in Chawen, isn’t a bad thing. The friends appear to be very close and loving and trusting. But their means of showing it are very different from western civilization.
Secondly: When thinking of Islamic cultures often the idea of the belittling of women comes to mind. They don’t have the same rights and are hidden by veils and kept within homes to raise the children. But, undoubtedly, the women rule the show in morocco. On many occasions I saw the men cower to the women. Men fear women and their biologically enhanced rage (joke). On the bus from merekech to Errachidad a woman along side of the road waved down the bus, why I have no idea, but she stood in the doorway and started talking to the driver. The driver, at first, spoke loudly and I’m assuming she didn’t have money for the bus and he was trying to kick her off. But, then the woman started yelling and the bus driver literally sunk in his seat and leaned away from her. He lowered his voice and the when he tried to speak the woman spoke louder and he was silenced. In the end, the women left two packages on the bus and we left without her. I have no idea what it was all about.
A second incidence of the woman power, though I saw many (really many) was in Tanger. I saw a marital dispute. I walked up while the woman was screaming at the husband and talking a child from his arms. The man fell to his knees and starting pleading with her. He cried and shouted and gave the universal look of “please forgive me.” A group gathered around them in the busy street and he continued to beg and then the wife turned and started yelling at him more and lowered his butt to rest on his heels as he listened to her yell at him. It was quite bizarre. And with these two instances I’m certain that even though the men run the politics in Morocco, the women rule the real world.
I’ve discovered I love backpacking through countries. The train system in Morocco is awesome. Not in a “it’s super convenient” sort of way. Trains are constantly late, they go very slow, and don’t really connect that much of the country. But, they have compartments which enable comfortable sleeping and it’s a wonderful way to see much of the country. I started in the north which is lush and green, and on the trains (and buses) I saw the land shift from rich mountain regions to dry planes and eventually to vacant Sahara desert.
It was fun to ride a train or bus anywhere from five to thirteen hours (of my eight days in morocco 47 hours were spent on buses and trains), and get off the vehicle with a heavy pack. My legs would be weak and my body tired from sitting still for so long, and the last thing I’d want to do is hump a pack for a few hours trying to find the center of the city and a good priced hostal. But, once you get walking for a bit with the heavy pack it begins to feel very good. Your body is well rested, and you can walk quickly and seeing the new cities this way is very cool…again, minus the beggars.
My main goal was to make it to the Sahara desert which proved to be very difficult. Just traveling there took much longer than I had expected. I took an eleven hour train to Merekech from Tanger. Then a thirteen hour hour bus ride to Errachidad, which was incredibly cramped--my knees where smashed into the seat in front of me, the aisles were full of people standing, and the bus itself was incredibly dirty. The bus broke down as well. We stopped along side the road in the middle of nowhere. I sat far from the main group in a field eating an orange and a local man came up to me and starting talking to me in English. He too told me about the poor living in Morocco and how he couldn’t find a job. Then he asked where I was from. I lied and said England. Then, he repeated himself and his questions. And then he repeated them again. He was definitely drugged and out of his head. I asked him if he was on the bus and he said no. I have absolutely no idea how the hell he got out into the middle of nowhere, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to him any longer. When I stood up to walk back towards the group, he asked if he could have my phone number in Europe so when he moved there he could call me. I told him, again, I wasn’t European and I couldn’t help him in EU. Then he just asked for money. I gave him a cigarette.
The scenery changed completely on the last hours of the ride to Errachidad. Trees became scarce and the dead grass ground turned to red clay earth. The buildings we passed too were all red. At the time I didn’t realize why all the buildings were read, I just thought the cities where themed. But, after reaching the Sahara in the daylight, and seeing the red sand which composed it’s gigantic dunes, I realized the buildings were all made from the only material available in the desert…sand stone. Which made me think about how man can survive on whatever resources are available to him. Like the Eskimos in there ice igloos or the Indians in their wooden and buffalo hide homes. A very power sentiment to me, it was. The adaptability of man.
Once in Errachidad I had my first encounters with the Southern Berbers who I have so much distrust against. But, at the same time have so much respect for. Their culture, like so much of Morocco, I find beautiful. In quiet moments there was always friendly conversations with the Berbers of the south. Their religion and culture teaches them to be very open and accepting people. They accept the differences in all humans and want to find the good in all people. Which, after spending the prior three days alone, was very welcome to have friendly conversations. But, they are the sketchiest and seediest businessmen on the planet and I am certain they would make the best used car salesmen in the world. They tell you exactly what you want to hear no matter how much of a lie they are telling you. It is really a soulless way to do business. I covet honesty. I just want the truth. I can deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.
Isma, whose family (again a Berber family, which has nothing to do with blood but a communal living) set up guided trips to the Sahara, met me once I got off the bus. We went back to his families’ hotel where we talked business. The planned trip seemed great and they spoke wonderfully of their services. I genuinely trusted them like I trust the Berbers in Chefchaouen (but there is no place in Morocco like Chawen). Business in Morocco never has set prices. It’s a country where one must haggle, because the Berbers want all the money they can get out of you. I knew the price for a guided trip was 300-600 Durhams (about 45-80 dollars) a night, which included everything one needs. I told them I knew the price and then I was told to write on a piece of paper what I could afford and that they understood I was a student and would make it happen. I wrote down 450 drhm, and they looked me and said they could not take me for that price. I wrote another and they said they couldn’t do that either. Finally they told me since I was alone they would have to charge me 600 drhm. I said fine, okay. I just want to go and we had been haggling for far too long. I was slightly annoyed by the dishonesty already, and when I gave them 1200 Drhm for two nights in the desert, they told me we had agreed on 60 euro which is about 660 dhrm. And they wanted more money. Clearly, I tried to plead my case, but when I started talking they just starting talking faster and louder. I couldn’t possibly get a word in. It was soooo shaddy. I gave them the extra 120. Then, they asked me about the money for the taxi to get to the desert. We were still two hours from the dunes and no buses traveled any further. However, in our haggling on what I was paying for we had agreed that the taxi ride out there was included in the price. Which, of course, now it wasn’t. Again, I tried to call their bullshit, which turned out completely useless and ended up having to pay 100 dhrm for the two hour cab ride.
Along with me four Spanish girls from the Basque country had paid for the services of the Berbers. They were very nice girls and the five of us plus the diver and our guide crammed into a four door sedan and headed for the dunes. The wind became very strong on the drive. Sand drifted across the road and looked exactly like snow drifting in the wind in Idaho. It was very beautiful. To reach the Dunes, we turned off the main road and drove directly on the sand. At points, the wind would gust so heavily that the nothing could be seen. Only red sand tossed in front of us to the point of near blackout. The path to the hotel stationed in the desert was market by red posts planted in the sand. When the strong winds would pick up and eventually die, all in the car would search desperately for the posts, which sometimes would be 300 ft away.
Clearly, with the terrible weather it wasn’t possible to head out to the desert that afternoon like we had discussed, which I would have been okay with; however once at the hotel I was shown I room where I could sleep that night and then asked if I wanted to pay for a half board or full board. I told the keeper I had already paid for lodging and food and my expenses were covered. I was wrong. I had paid for the tent and food in the desert not the food and room in the hotel. I don’t think I can write now how angry I was. I’m over it and dealing like this are just part of traveling in Morocco. But, imagine how angry I was. I refused to pay, confronted my guide and told him I wanted a full refund for the services I paid for and would not be receiving. In the kindest manner, he empathized with me and told me it wasn’t possible to refund me because we had already reserved a spot in the tents and reserved a camel. And the bad weather was a part of Morocco. I told him he needed to pay for all my expenses at the hotel with the money I had given him. And he responded, so very kindly, about how that wasn’t possible and listed a line of bullshit and ended up telling me they would make me a very good price to stay in the hotel and for the food. Which, to their worthless credit and feeble word, they did make me a good deal. 100 dhrm for a night stay and three meals (dinner that night, breakfast the next morning and breakfast on the day I returned from the desert). Which, all of that normally would cost 500 drhm, because the hotel was nice and the food, as bitterly as I ate it, was wonderful.
And that’s the last I’ll bitch about Morocco. I’ve accepted that’s jut how Morocco works. It’s just a huge pain in the ass, and I have a huge humanistic problem with being lied to and manipulated oh so many times. Because, despite this blog and my focus on the negative, it really is wonderful country.
That night the winds did not stop until nearly midnight. I, the four Basque Girls, and Isma, sat on comfortable couches which lined the large main room where all the guests sat and talked. We had good conversations and told parts of our life stories and made jokes and laughed a lot. Once the winds died we finally went outside and sat on the patio of the hotel. The camels groaned like distressed lions (I had no idea camels were so loud and angry) and the towering dunes shown in the moonlight. The desert at night is still very bright. At midnight one could see the distant horizon still and the stars shown in multitudes high above. I talked mostly with Mireia (who was renamed Fatima by the Berbers, and that is really what I think her name is). We talked a lot about the cultural differences of America and Spain. They were surprised to find out America wasn’t the finest place on earth to live, and I was surprised they thought it was. I told them how expensive college and health care was for us. She goes to a good university in San Sebastiani and pays 700 euro a year…health care is free for all citizens. Of course this is the difference in the amount of taxes the citizens pay, but when you look at what you pay in taxes versus what you pay for university and health care, the more financially wise decision is apparent…socialism is a very good system in my opinion.
The next morning after breakfast of toast with honey, olives, orange juice, and coffee it was time for me to finally head out into the desert. The girls had only paid for one night in the desert and would not be coming with me. And, I found out that morning that my “guide” isma, was not a guide at all just a chauffer, and Omar, would be taking me to the desert. I was very glad to hear this because I had had just about all I could handle of his family and their crooked dealings just would not sit easily with me. I mounted my camel that morning and we set off into the sand dunes which from the hotel were only mountains in the distance. I did not ride the camel long. Maybe fifteen minutes before I had an incredible ugre to climb down from him and feel the stain of hiking in the sand and the hot sun reflecting up on me. Plus, camels are not very pleasant to ride. One sits on the front half of the hump and the vertebrae of the animal digs into ones crotchal area. I told Omar this, and he gave a command to the camel in Arabic, and the camel slowly lowered its front legs to its knees and then his back legs to their knees and then the whole body to the sand. I climbed off, stretched large, and even in the early morning, around ten AM, the sun was hot on my skin. I began to walk and omar said, “es major sin zapatos.” So, I took off my shoes, which never returned to my feet until the next day after returning to the hotel and talking a shower.
The sand of the Sahara is not like the sand of any beech I have felt. It is like silk, in every sense imaginable. There are no course grains in it and every step in the desert is like stepping onto 100 layers of silk tapestries. Also, the sand is red. Red like the color of fading brick. For miles it was the only dominant color aside from the brilliant blue of such clean skies. Along the walk Omar would point out trails of small insects in the deserts. We would track them to their ends and find dung beetles hidden in the shade of desert shrubs, which are a sickly green fading into brown and very scarce. He showed me a distinctive trail which looked like none of the others. The center of the trail looked as though it was of a snake which moved directly without slithering, and on either side the small indentations of tiny feet. We followed the trail, which stopped in the middle of a dune, and Omar said, “Mira (look)” and he plunged his hand into the sand and he came back out with a lizard in his hand. The lizard was the same red of the sand and buried underneath it for protection from predators and the scorching sun. Along the side of the lizard were six black marks spaced evenly apart with about a half inch in between each, which Omar explained to me marked the years of the lizard.
We continued walking and I wish I had more to say but really there is not much. This is the power of the desert. It is vacancy, utter desolation, which, for me, was the same state of my mind and I was able to forget entirely about the berbers who had annoyed me so much and the hectic days which had preceded my arrival. Mostly I admired the dunes, which some were as large as the “small” mountains of southwestern Idaho.
It only took two and a half hours to reach our camp, which was in a basin of the dunes. We climbed a final series of hills and in the flat valley I could see camps set up of tents built from high center poles and lower edge poles wrapped entirely in the woven blankets of the berbers. There was a well there as well. When I asked at the hotel where they got there water, I was told, “It may not look like it, but there is lots of water in the desert, just far beneath the ground.” This well was nothing more than a dug out hole with a plastic lined interior and a simple plastic cover with a bucket tied to a rope that was dipped into the earth.
Once arriving, Omar cleared our tent of sand the best he could and then went into the kitchen (there was a separate tent for cooking), and with a propane stove with a single burner made berber tea. I watched him make the tea of ingredients I was not familiar with, save for sugar and mint, but there was also two other roots and a flower which he added. Then he began to make lunch which was a typical Moroccan course, infact it what I ate for three meals straight, but I can’t recall the name now….
Sorry, I suck.
But it was delicious. It is made of chicken placed in the center of a pan. Around it is stacked carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. Garlic and other seasonings are added and then water and oil are poured over the top. A coned cover with a ventilation hole is placed over the pan and the entire thing sits and cooks for a few hours until the chicken is ready.
After lunch I sat and wrote simple five word poems in the sand. I took short naps and was relieved when a slight breeze would pick up and cool the sweat on my forehead. I heard the strangest bird who song was like a creaking door.
Once my food had settled I went hiking in the dunes. There was a gigantic dune with a very steep face that back dropped the camp. I tried to climb it and after a half hour of starting and climbing thirty seconds before utter exhaustion; stopping and resting; and then climbing again; I decided I would never make it to the top. So I turned back and walked towards the smaller dunes which piled one ontop of the other. I climbed them for nearly an hour. A steep incline and then a level plateau and then another steep incline and the segue to another dune. It was truly wonderful. The sky in the desert is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is the deepest blue and when I wrote about it in my journal I realized it was the same color of my blue Bic pen. The simplicity of the desert is the best part about it. There are only three colors to be seen. The red of the sand, the blue of the sky, and the earthly green of the desert shrubs. These are the only colors to be seen. But, depending on how the sun is striking the sand, at what angle, where the shadows of the dunes fall, and if you are facing the sun or not, there is an endless amazement of new combinations of light and colors to be seen. Sometimes, when the sun would hide behind the dunes, the distant dunes looked white, or a very light yellow. But definitely not red as they truly are.
When I nearly reached the summit of the original dune I was trying to climb, I came across a wonder of nature. Two dunes came nearly together but were separated by, what I can best describe as, a pit. It was like a cone, as though the two dunes had been hallowed out at their point of meeting. The hole was very deep and the edges very steep. If one was to fall in…well…getting out would be possible, but very very difficult.
The tops of the highest dunes were amazing themselves too. Not for their vistas, were I could see dunes rolling into each other for miles and miles and could see nothing else but dunes, but for their simple peaks. The dunes come to a perfect triangular point on their tops, which run for however long the dune itself is. They are formed by the wind and at their highest point the blows over them and then descends down the other side, forming this long running peaks.
From the top I sat and looked. And I wish there was more to say, but like I said earlier, there was hardly a thought in my mind while in the desert. I just observed. Like a simple beast or primitive main without cognitive abilities. I was simply awed by the spectacle I was taking in. Which, now, it seems like maybe the birds and foxes of the world are truly the more evolved specie (heretical to say, I know, but it was just so blissful in the desert).
And that sums up to the best of my ability my experience in the desert. I did not write about the night in the desert, but it was nearly the same as the day, except without light. I hiked more after dinner, wrote more poems, both in the sand and in my notebook, and sat with the stillness of mind that does not come over take me often enough.
The next day might as well mark the end of my time in Morocco. I spent the next 24 hours either waiting for a bus or train, or sitting on a bus or train, until I arrived back to the north of morocco, in Tanger, where I stayed one night, which, after coming from the desert and escaping the mayhem of a cities in a third world country, I hid in my room and went to bed early to catch the morning ferry back to Spain and my home in Madrid.
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