Entries about morocco

During the church service, it was interesting to be in the minority. Aside from us, there were a handful of British people, with the remaining 50 - 60 people appearing to be from some other African nation; Ben and I surmised their original home may have been Somali or the Sudan. The quiet of the church service contrasted sharply with the sounds of the street market just outside the gates of the church. It felt like a refuge for us in more ways than one! And certainly this time around in Morocco, I felt like I needed more places of refuge. In many ways, it was more safe than twenty years ago and we didn't get ourselves into any situations like we had back then (ask me for the story sometime); however, I found I didn't enjoy it as much this time. After a couple of hours in the medina, I really needed to escape from the shop keepers and hustlers. Always having to be acutely aware of your belongings, facing two or three vendors at once and knowing that you're being subjected to an inflated price (even after haggling substantially) took its toll on my usual good nature. The great majority of times when we were approached in a friendly manner, asked about our country and enquired of whether we were enjoying Morocco were conversation starters for sales opportunities. In two or three instances, it was only after the person had left that we realized it had been an honest conversation and one we could enjoy in retrospect. I'm glad we went to Morocco so the girls could experience it for themselves but settling back into our 'home' in the Spanish countryside this evening has been a much-needed balm. (I'm also quite worn out due to the stressful experience of being bested by Abby.)

On our leaving day from Morocco we woke at 8, or at least I did. My mom and dad were complaining about the call to prayers that woke them up in the earlier hours of the morning. But it was a reasonably relaxed start, and we went down to breakfast in a timely fashion. For breakfast we were served a variety of small pastries in a well decorated and ornate room. There was only one couple there when we arrived, and they were the only ones there when we left. I enjoyed the warm bun I was given, on which I spread French butter and jam, but the other pastries were not very much to my liking. Hannah was the same, but enjoyed a circular flat flakey thing with raisins... I opted not to try mine. But my dad was more than willing to eat our discards.

After breakfast we went back to our room and packed up our bags for departure. Because the only ferries running that day were at 9AM, 2PM and 6PM, we planned some more venturing of the city. Our parents had told us the day before that they had seen a flyer for an Anglican service that was at 11AM on Sunday. Hannah and I were also told that it would only take 20 minutes to walk there. This turned out to, unfortunately, be an inaccurate estimation. The route we took to the church actually took us an hour, and we ended up walking about 3 kilometers in the muggy rain, instead of the 1.6 kilometers we had planned. Although the streets have names, there are no signs of any sort that display the names of any of the streets, which makes it quite difficult to find your way around an unknown part of the city. We asked a few locals the way as well as some helpful police officers. In the end we were only 20 minutes late to the service, but weren't the last to show up.

I enjoyed the time we spent at the church, and was especially happy to find out that our theory of the vicar being Canadian (which we gathered from his accent) was true. He told us after the service that he was originally from Ottawa, but lives in Washington, DC, and recently bought a house in New Brunswick. He says he keeps a foot in each place, although I didn't see how this was possible, as he only has two feet and both were in Morocco at the time.

After the service we went back into the rain and my dad led us around to try and find the Kasbah, but unfortunately, had to settle for a mosque that we didn't know the background of. But after looking at our watches and seeing that it was already half past twelve, we decided that we should try to hightail it back to our hotel, at which my dad's bag was stored. We ended up taking a taxi, as we still didn't exactly know the way back. I enjoyed the taxi ride, as I hadn't seen the mayhem of the streets from that view before. He had to slowly drive down the one way streets that were packed with people and shopkeepers. At one point a car came at us from the other direction, and we had to pull over beside a car that was centimeters away, while the other car passed us, with centimeters to spare on her side as well. But in the end we made it safely back to the hotel, and gave our driver 50, well deserved, dihram, instead of the 40 he had previously asked for. But just as we started jogging towards the ferry port, we realised we still had over 200dihram left, which we would only be able to exchange in Morocco. But my dad was unable to get it exchanged back into Euros, so he settled for buying some items from a shopkeeper, which consisted of a pipe and two small metal boxes. But we were happy, especially once we were on the ferry, after having been held up in customs for an extended amount of time. But the wait was not our fault, just the people in front of us... we are perfectly good people with perfectly good intentions...

On the ferry, Hannah and I were treated to a sandwich, a bag of chips and a drink, which we inhaled gratefully, as it was already after 2, and we hadn't eaten anything since our small breakfast that morning. And the ferry ride went fast, as we played Quiddler, and even though I didn't win, it was the first time I had ever scored higher than my mother in a word game.

Score 1 for Abby.
Score 2,903,943,939,840,293 for Mom.

Why do you visit Tangier? To shop in the market of course! This means haggling; a practice as old as commerce itself but it seems to have evolved into more of a blood sport when it involves tourists in Tangier. I have no desire to slight any Moroccan, but some of the shop keepers and street sellers are quite a special breed and have long since stop seeing tourists as humans but rather as wallets with legs and perhaps too few brains. Everything they sell they say is very old, made of very precious metal and stones and handcrafted. When looking at the men’s hats that have “Made in China” labels prominently displayed would seem to contradict the man who is telling you it is all hand knitted.

A sober second examination of the rate of unemployment and the very long history of inadequate economic development and a lack of substantial resources does make one understand why such business practices have developed but I think other countries and cultures may have developed a softer and less flagrant use of deception.
Muriel has always been the one in the family to drive a deal. When we go car shopping Muriel is the one to make the bargain. She did pretty well in the medina to get prices down to at least the level of what would be a bad deal for a local but a much better price than the majority of tourists might get. We ended most transactions with the merchant shaking their head like they have been beaten and robbed.

When you enter a shop you feel it is fair game for the merchant to follow you around and hover; but on the street it seems that you should have some hope of peace. In some places in the Medina this was not to be and we were surrounded by hawkers of all things imaginable with little willingness to heed the word “no” or “goodbye” in Spanish, French, Arabic or English (we tried them all with additions of thank you in said languages and the using a variety of the displeased looks, tones and gestures). In addition to the full frontal assault by mobile pedlars, there was the practice of being followed by people who wanted to take you to their shop or the insistent offer of being your guide. It was pretty constant, not unlike when we were in Morocco 20 years ago which surprised us since we had read that Tangier had really started to change in this respect.

During our afternoon we managed to purchase a few bracelets for Muriel and one for Hannah, as well as some change purses and hats for myself and the clothing mentioned earlier by Hannah. We returned to our hotel for a bit of a break before heading out once again for dinner. We met Jimmy at the hotel who makes himself out to be the hotel owner. He showed us pictures and references to him in Rick Steves (“a personal friend”) and Lonely Planet guidebooks and pictures of him with Khoffi Anan, Francis Ford Coppola, John Malcovich, Debra Winger and Sidney Portier. He seems to hold court in his dusty “antique” shop on the main floor of the decaying yet very historic Continental Hotel. He seemed to be pining for the better days in the hotel’s history which he has been part of for over forty years. The halcyon days of the hotel were well before even Jimmy’s time. In the late 19th and early 20th century even royalty would come to stay in the hotel. We could see some remnants of the majesty in various locations in the hotel but it is in real danger of being lost forever. Before we left he gave Hannah and Abby necklaces and they gave him a Canada pin in return.

After our break we walked along the main boulevard which parallels the 4 km beach that begins at the port (which has been under reconstruction for the past 8 years supposedly) near the old city and extends to the new town. The beach is wide and was probably very beautiful at one point but was quite littered but despite this is still popular with locals and the occasional camel and horse.

When we walked the boulevard we were stopped by a group of mostly female high school (or early university students) who wanted to interview us about our perspective of violence again women. Since Hannah was our French expert she answered the question which was quite a feat considering how fast the interviewing student was talking and the complexity of the subject. Our little interview did attract a fair bit of attention. We were soon surrounded by a gang of young teenage boys who were more than just a little amused with Hannah’s purple hair. Nearing the end of the interview they started squeezing in pretty close to Abby so I gestured for them to give some space to which they smirked and moved in even closer and I then said goodbye to them in French, Spanish, Arabic and English and just got more defiance as we tried to move on. At this stage a local man intervened and we turned on our heels to head back towards the group of girls who had just interviewed Hannah. They told us the problem we experienced was not specific to us being tourists but was typical behaviour of groups of young teenage boys to everyone on the streets.

Another man came alongside of us and told us not to worry and that we should still feel welcome and safe in Tangier and pointed out a path closer to the beach to walk on that would help us avoid the group. He started to chat us up even though we said we were fine and could find our own way and needed no guidance. He said he had lots of time and kept walking with us and then started pointing out that there were camels on the beach we could get photographed on. It was immediately evident he was determined to hire himself as our guide. I told him that we did not need a guide to which he became indignant. I offered a token payment to which he scoffed saying it was not enough so we firmly told him to move on while he angrily called after us as we walked away. This was another echo of our experience in Morocco 20 years ago.

We were able to walk the rest of the beach relatively undisturbed and we watched the locals out with their children. Pastimes seem dress your girls in incredible British style woolen outfits complete with beret and to buy your child popcorn, a ride on a pony or maybe a drive in a remote controlled car that a few enterprising young men were operating. All the walking and the lateness of the day drove us to look for an evening meal. There are many restaurants on the main drag and most are aimed at the local population. Tangier being a port city, seafood featured prominently. We came across one modest street front restaurant with a friendly waiter. We ordered a seafood platter (Abby opted for the local soup that she enjoyed at lunch) which ended up being an incredible amount of deep fried squid, prawns and a wide assortment of fish which was all deep-fried and very lightly breaded. The fresh ingredients are displayed in the case at the front of the restaurant and from what we could tell looked quite fresh. They cut off the heads of the fish but everything else was left intact. It turned out to be a very tastey meal from which we suffered no ill effects health wise (in case you were wondering). We finished our meal with a good quantity of very sweet mint tea for which we have all developed a strong affinity for.

We decided to get off the streets early and seek refuge in our hotel, there is only so long that you can keep your guard and resistance up to unwanted attention. On our walk back we passed a car that had been converted into a street side escargot restaurant that the locals were hungrily and very noisily enjoying. Also during our journey home we continued to experience the regular second looks if not outright laughter or pointing at Hannah’s purple hair by the locals. It has been quite a frequent occurrence throughout our European trip so far but it seems to spark an even stronger response in North Africa-especially among the young men.

All-in-all it was quite a day. It was in no ways relaxing but we can definitely say we have lived a small adventure today.

We woke up much earlier than we would have liked today, about six in the morning. We were told this was necessary in order to catch the nine o'clock ferry over to Morocco. However, I mourned the half hour of sleep that was lost as we sat in the waiting room, letting the ferry dock. The ride over was rocky, but otherwise quiet and uneventful, which provided a stark contrast to the world we met on the other side. As soon as we exited, we were approached by various "guides", asking us if we would like a tour. Having experienced this before, my mom and dad quickly said no thank you and kept looking for a cab big enough to hold our luggage. However, a man that seemed to actually be a guide, or perhaps a friendly taxi driver, told us that our hotel was in walking distance of the terminal, and was nice enough to point us in the right direction. Arriving at the hotel, we found the decor both palatial and dilapidated. Most of the walls, floors and ceilings were covered in colourful mosaics and stained glass windows, but had fallen into disrepair. The hotel had been built in 1888 and was once one of the most impressive in Tangier, providing lodgings for people such as Queen Victoria's son. It has lost much of its former glory. We made our way up to our room, which was large and minimally furnished, and decorated with an ornate archway and mosaic'd ceilings. The porter, who had carried our one bag up before us, stood waiting as we set down our things and inspected the room. My dad finally gave him about 60 cents, which he looked less than pleased with. After settling down and preparing ourselves for the day ahead, we set out into the streets of Tangier.

The hustle and bustle of the town swept us up as we headed down the main road. After a bit of walking around, we sat down to people watch. All of the different outfits and activities were a lot to take in. Abby, Mom, and I were a rarity with our uncovered heads. There were a lot more men out and about than women. We were approached by a man trying to chat us up, asking us where we were from and how we liked it here. Seeing we were reluctant to get into a conversation, he simply told us to give him something. I was a little taken aback, but my parents were expecting something like this, and sent him on his way. Another good natured man came up to us a short while later, apparently very impressed by my hair. He told me that I would be worth a dowry of many camels, and parted by saying "may God bless you forever" without trying to sell us something once. Shows that you really only know what kind of person you were talking to after the exchange has finished, as my mom told me earlier. We had drinks at a cafe, where we suspect that tourists and locals get handed differently priced menus, and then went to visit the Medina fish market, a sizeable marketplace where meat, produce, and spices were sold in addition to a wide variety of fish. There were chickens everywhere you looked, hanging from various ceilings and window ledges, with their neck skin drooping from their bodies. They definitely weren't the freshest we'd seen. Heaps of sausages, pig legs, and offal were everywhere. We'd never seen so many butcher shops in place. Though it was definitely something to look at, we refrained from buying anything, as hygiene didn't seem to be in the forefront of any of the shopkeepers' minds. Lining the paths through the market were mounds of fruits and vegetables, artfully arranged and much more appetizing than the limp, headless chickens. We didn't purchase any of this either, for the same reasons concerning sanitation. There were also stalls selling spices and olives, all piled in seemingly precarious ways. At the other end of the market was the fish, the abundance of which was almost as overwhelming as the smell. Squid, crawfish, prawns and shrimp were among the few that we could identify. We saw a massive swordfish, just laying on the ground, perhaps waiting to be prepared or bartered for. On our way back through the marketplace, we had to duck as men carrying whole cow legs on their backs swung to turn corners. The atmosphere was loud, exciting, odorous, and exotic.

Stepping out of the market, we headed for the streets, preparing ourselves for the onslaught of merchants trying to sell their wares to us. The ambush was immediate. It seemed we couldn't go anywhere without being assailed by a man clutching anything from watches to teapots. We were followed by one guy who tried to lead us to his shop, and was so persistent that my dad had to turn around and tell him that we weren't going anywhere near his shop if he didn't stop pursuing us. He let up after that. My mom bought a couple of bracelets, showing off her bartering skills, and I got a sort of dress/robe, which wraps between the legs and over the shoulders, with a belt around the middle. I'll try to post a picture of me wearing it sometime soon. It was a little intimidating to shop for clothing there, as I had to follow the shopkeeper up into the next level of his store (accompanied by family, of course) and try on the various garments with his help. It all worked out in the end, however, and I ended up with a striking black and silver one, the price of which my mom whittled down from 500 dirham to 200. I'm going to do my best to find an occasion when I can wear it.

We kept our eyes open for a restaurant to stop at, hoping for a more traditional Moroccan place than a sandwich shop. As luck would have it, one of the many people employed to drum up business for restaurants found us and led us to a beautifully tiled and decorated one. We sat on couches and stools, and were given a choice of two different meals with various courses. After choosing one, we were quickly presented with bowls of harira, a tomato-based Moroccan soup with herbs and noodles, and a basket of flat, soft bread. Though we found this to be tasty, it was average in comparison to the bastillas we were given next. The triangular phyllo pastry looked like a samosa, and was filled with chicken, onions and saffron. It was topped with, of all things, icing sugar and cinnamon. Surprisingly, the combination was really quite delicious. I think it was the best thing I ate while in Morocco. Next came our main course, a large bowl of couscous made with saffron which contained chicken, carrots, turnips, potatoes, chickpeas, and cabbage. The couscous was light and fluffy, and we ate our fill with more still left over. The meal ended with the traditional sweet mint tea that my mom is so fond of, and crumbly shortbread-like biscuits. While we ate, we were serenaded by a group of musicians playing Arabic music, and watched by a couple of skinny stray cats, who seemed to have gotten in through the open doors of the balcony. We were able to see the winding, shop-filled street from where we were seated, and the environment made us feel as though we had stepped into a movie. The Moroccan experience is definitely worthwhile, if you're up to it.