Tangier, Morocco, Africa
This morning, we all woke up extra early, because today is the day we go to Africa!
I was really excited about this, as you might imagine, since the closest I’d been before was “Morocco” in Epcot – and here I was going to the real thing!
Because we only had one day (and had to cross the ocean by ferry) we were going to the port city of Tangier, rather than the inner, landlocked cities of Marrakesh or Casablanca (although I would love to return and see them.)
We took a tour bus to the southernmost tip of Spain, then boarded the fast ferry to Morocco, Africa. I ran into Eliana on board and it was lucky I did, because she happened to be carrying the Argentinean version of Dramamine in her purse. The fast ferry rode like a tricked-out wave runner. It was so bouncy that people who tried to walk – or even stand – kept falling down, and the brave souls who managed to get to the bar to order a drink ended up spilling/wearing more than consuming.
My first glimpses of Morocco were of a sprawling, white-dotted city along a backdrop of mountains.
It didn’t start getting crazy until we set foot on African soil. First, we had a bus tour and then we were dropped off near the casbah for a walking tour. We were immediately surrounded by robed men towing roped camels, offering camel rides for 1E. I rode the first camel on purpose, then was basically forced to ride the second because the camelmaster (is that a word?) decided I was the wife of one of my schoolmates and insisted that I ride with my husband. (???)
Next, the guide walked us through the casbah and basically debunked nearly everything I’d ever heard about the Moroccan/Arab/Muslim culture. First of all, there has been women’s sufferage for years. There are women leaders in every aspect of government, which is more than we can say about the US. (For women, minorities *or* religions. Basically, you have to be a white male Christian if you want to get anywhere in our government.)
The long robes she was wearing are traditional garb, but not obligatory – we saw a few locals in jeans and t-shirts, and all of the kids had on tank tops and shorts. Similarly, there are no buildings or places where women are not allowed to go, just places that they typically choose not to enter, due to tradition and culture. (If you think this explanation sounds like propaganda, consider the different demographics between, say, front-row spectators at a wrestling match and participants at a tupperware party. it’s not a matter of which gender is or isn’t *allowed* to go, so much as chooses not to based on our culture.) And believe me, Moroccan culture is way different from ours.
We rounded the next corner and were immediately approached by a snake charmer, whose partners played music while he pulled a long, writhing snake out of a basket and wrapped it around my neck. Yes, my neck. (I’m lucky it didn’t bite me – that would have been three continents in less than two months.) He let the snake wind itself around other people, too, and we all tossed some coins into his basket (not the same one that housed the snake, that would have been mean.)
The architecture in Morocco is really neat. I love the unique arches, the stone roads, the painted tiles. We ate lunch in a picturesque Arabian restaurant, complete with a salon of musicians, playing for change. The appetizer was a shishkebob of unknown meat origin (not for Alison and I, who got salads instead). Main course was couscous and veggies (my favorite) followed by green tea, which is boiled in a giant pot and servered to everyone at once, at the end of the meal. Unfortunately, we were all embarrassed when one of my classmates started demanding hers as soon as she sat down. “But I’ll pay for it! I want it now!” I felt like kicking her under the table. (Settle down, Veruca.) In case you’re wondering, despite her repeated demands, they did not bring it to her until it was ready, and everybody got a cup at the same time.
Next we had a tour of a Moroccan carpet factory, in which the sales people there did a hard hustle to get us to buy carpets. Several peple in the group caved. One classmate haggled them down about 50 bucks in price, but another forgot that Morocco is a bargain culture and bought hers for the 100E without any haggling.
Following the carpet factory, we were swept into a spice store, where our Moroccan “spice presentation and demonstration” was another thinly veiled sales pitch, this time for cooking spices, herbal remedies, makeup (ie, kohl eyeliner, etc). I got the kohl because I thought it was neat, and some eucalyptus leaves for when I get the inevitable cold. Some people had bags crammed full of goodies, which wouldn’t have been hard to do. The jars of spices filled the shelves that lined all the walls of the store from floor to ceiling.
Finally, we were let loose in the marketplace, which would have been panic-inducing had I been the claustrophobic (or crowd-ophobic) sort. The streets are high and narrow, and packed with all manner of Moroccans – mostly men – practicing an in-your-face style of high pressure salesmanship. The would walk backwards to be nose-to-nose with you, giving a constant sales patter. “10 Euro! 10 Euro! You want it! 10 Euro! 8 Pounds! 12 Dollars!” If you made eye contact or, worse, went so far as to respond in any way (if only to say no thanks), they stuck to you like glue until they could convince you that your life’s dream was an African drum set (Paula), various jewelry (Leila), an African cap (Bryan), or a possibly stolan Moroccan rug (Darius, who waited him out from 100E all the way down to 30E before he caved and bought it.)
So what did I buy from the street hustlers oops I mean vendors? A t-shirt for my brother Rob, who requested a souvenir from an unusual place. Believe me – this was definitely an unusual place! Their currency (dirham) is not even international – it’s no good anywhere except in Morocco itself, which is why they’re so eager to take any other kind of currency you might have on you.
