More Adventures (Legzira Plage)

A few weeks ago now (that keeps happening…), during our month of independent research, Charley and I decided to travel around Morocco as much as possible. We first headed to Marrakech together to meet up with her friend from school, travelled around there again (discovered I liked it better the second time), then went back to Essaouira. Unfortunately, Charley and her friend picked up food poisoning (from a can of whipped cream we’re guessing, not from Morocco) so we spent those days hanging around our hotel. After two days, we got Charley’s friend on a bus back to Marrakech then set out to get to our desired destination: Legzira Plage. I read about Legzira in a short paragraph in my guidebook, looked up pictures of it, and knew immediately I had to get there. With the food poisoning and visiting friend it looked for a while that I would need to go on my own. Luckily, it worked out in the end that Charley could join me. And due to the travel adventures that followed, I’m so relieved it worked out that way.

Legzira Plage is located just south of Sidi Ifni, the last real southern “town” of Morocco, before the Western Sahara. After lots of asking, we learned our best option for the first leg of our trip would be a bus to Agadir. So we went to the reliable, time-listed bus company. They told us the bus was full for that day and the following day. So un-Moroccan. We usually show up 5 minutes before a train or bus is about to leave with no problem. The woman behind the desk recommended we go to the other bus lot with multiple bus companies that went to multiple locations. So we grabbed a taxi and headed to the station.

As soon as we stepped out of the cab, a man grabbed my suitcase, lead us through the lot filled with buses parked in all directions, and set it down next to his bus, telling us to get on and go to Marrakech. We told him we weren’t interested, grabbed our stuff, and walked away. But we had no idea where to go. The lot was full of people walking in all directions, men shouting out amounts and locations to reel in riders, and we could not see the inside station. Luckily, we found a cop who was able to help us. He told us we could go to Agadir or Inzegane, which was more of a transport hub, then led us inside the station we had failed to see. There, multiple people still called out to us to buy tickets to various locations, but we stuck with the police officer who lead us to a counter where we bought a bus ticket to Inzegane leaving at 3:30. It was then a little after 2pm so we decided to sit at the café right next to the lot of buses. A man who had tried to rip us off earlier came over after about fifteen minutes and told us the bus was leaving. We choose to ignore him. He came back soon after and said, “You’re going to Inzegane, right? The bus is leaving. It’s full. So it’s leaving.” That sounded more like Morocco. We realized he was not messing with us, but instead wanted to make sure we didn’t miss our bus. We dropped off our bags at the bottom of the bus and boarded. We were certainly the only tourists on the bus. Possibly the only non-native Moroccans. The bus was packed but we were fortunate enough to find two seats together. Once we were seated, Charley and I looked to each other and said “This is real traveling.”

During the ride, a man occasionally walked up and down the bus aisles carrying a tray of common Moroccan pastries and cakes for sale. At one point, I saw a big white bucket get passed to the back. A short while later, I heard the noises of someone peeing in a bucket behind me. About an hour into the ride, we began to rock side to side as we climbed up and down mountains. I had taken a Moroccan-version of Dramamine so I felt mostly fine, but I looked up and saw a little girl throw up in the seat in front of me. (For those of you who don’t know, I have a slight phobia of throw-up). As we were winding through the mountains, my backpack was at my feet and began to slide to the motion of the bus. This wasn’t a huge concern for me until I started to feel something at my feet. I first assumed it was someone else’s things shifting in the seat behind me. Then, I realized it was skin that was touching me. With all of the bus rocking, there was no way I was going to be able to bend around and look under my seat, but I began to think there was maybe a child crawling under the seat and was maybe trying to get into my backpack. So I clutched my backpack with my feet as tight as possible. But then I began to feel rubbing. It became clear that another foot was rubbing my foot. I would try and shift my feet, but the other feet would follow me. I looked behind me and saw that it was a man who tried talking to me. I ignored him. Then he began to rub my arm in the space between the two seats. Charley and I were both sleeping/listening to podcasts and didn’t realize that the same thing was happening to the other until the very end of the 2 ½ hour ride when Charley turned to him and said “Safi!”. “That’s enough!”

The bus stopped in Inzegane and we were once again the only non-westerners. Inzegane looked as I imagine India to be: bustling with people, terrible traffic, and streets lined with vendors and food stands. We went into a building listed as a police station and asked how to get to Sidi Ifni. The man behind the counter told a boy to help us and so we were instructed to follow him. He led us around a huge lot full of grande taxis (the taxi’s you take to get in between towns). We wound through the cars as the boy asked multiple drivers for Sidi Ifni. After some questioning, he left us at a car that was headed to Sidi Ifni.

The way grand taxis work (at least for Moroccans) is that there is a set price to get to a location, and that price assumes transportation for six people in ____ car. So you wait until there are six people to leave. Luckily we didn’t have to wait too long for our taxi to fill up, so Charley and I squeezed in the backseat with two other men. Strangely that still felt like a huge relief from the bus. After another 2 ½ hour ride, we arrived in Sidi Ifni and were dropped off at a much smaller taxi lot. It was dark and the rest of the town was quiet. We told our driver we were now looking to get to Legzira. He looked surprised and asked “Tonight? I can take you in the morning.” After a little negotiating, we managed to convince him to take us right then. It was about a 20-minute ride, where we could see nothing around us, but only the parts of the road lit up by the headlights of the car. We turned onto a rocky dirt road and drove down a hill. Our driver stopped the car, got out, and grabbed our suitcases. All we could see was a dirt parking lot with maybe three surrounding buildings, all hotels. Our driver pulled out a flashlight and rang the doorbell at one of the buildings and a man soon came to the doors. He told us the price of the room for the night, we told him it was too much, listed what we were hoping to pay, then he took our bags as a gesture showing he accepted our “offer” of $20 a night for the two of us. When we entered the hotel we realized we might very well be the only guests that night, allowing us to get an ocean view room for $10 each.

That was adventure day 1.

The next day we awoke to the incredible view of long stretches of beach lined by red stone cliffs and arches. We walked a ways on the beach and spent the whole day feeling at ease. Besides maybe 10-15 other tourists that would trickle in throughout the day, we were maybe the only people that staying in Legzira for the night. And that was fine by us.

The following day, we decided to wake up early to maximize our beach time.  This time we headed in the other direction of the long beach stretch, towards the picturesque cliff arches. We walked for about an hour and reached a spot where it appeared we could go no further as the protruding cliff had no arch to walk under. But as we got closer we saw that the water was only a few inches deep, so we walked around the cliff in the shallow water and continued walking. We then reached a spot where we really could go no further, so we set ourselves there for the morning.

It was secluded and beautiful.

We layed there for a few hours until we saw the tide was approaching our towels: a sign it was time to head back. We followed along our same path, then reached the same spot where we had, a few hours earlier, walked around the cliff in shallow water. That spot now had several feet of water and crashing waves. Charley and I laughed to each other and prepared to get wet. We tied our things so that we could hold them high above us and entered into the water. But we soon found out it was going to be more challenging than we thought. The way the water came in around the rocks created a whirlpool effect, which made it impossible to maintain balance, along with digging up sand and creating large drops in unexpected areas. After being thrown around in the water and beginning to fall, we realized it was not going to happen. We also were carrying our journals from the semester and cameras, along with other things that would easily be destroyed by water. We decided our only option at that point would be to climb up the red-stoned cliff.

We tried to climb up one section but quickly found it would be far too steep. So we walked further back and found another section. We only had flip-flops but the rocks of the cliff were too loose and steep, so we had to climb barefoot. We crawled up the cliff, using our hands for balance. Once we reached the top, we were able to see the tips of some buildings and realized that we would be ok; there would be no need for us to spend the night on the beach. We walked over the cliff and found a less steep path that lead back down to the beach. But just as we could see the sand we hit a 15-foot drop. So we climbed our way back up. We realized our best option at that point would be to find the road and follow the road back to our hotel.    

30 minutes later we reached the road. And a total of 2 hours later, we reached out hotel. It wasn’t until we were back within sight of our hotel that we let out all of the thoughts that passed through our heads to each other: “Ok, we can ration our few sips of water” “Ok, we will just have to wait until 8pm, then the tide should change so we won’t have to sleep on the beach” “Ok, you can survive off of no food for at least 24 hours” “Ok, we’ll be ok.”

And that was adventure number two.

We managed to make it back to Rabat rather painlessly and managed to avoid taking any buses. But we were glad we got the experience that we did. We spent our last week of our independent study project (in which I worked on a Moroccan Cookbook!) in Asilah to write. It is also where I woke up the morning of my 21^st birthday before heading back to Rabat the same day. Tomorrow marks the last official day of our program. It is yet to hit me. My family arrives on Saturday, which has allowed me to save my goodbyes. Because I am not ready.

Adventures at a Moroccan Wedding

A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to get the chance to attend a traditional Moroccan wedding. And as an added bonus it was back in the village we visited during our northern excursion. When we were there several weeks back, one of the girls in the village told us everyone on our program was invited to attend her wedding on April 12. About 15 of us took her up on the invitation.

Upon our cold and rainy arrival to the village, we greeted the bride and her family members and entered a sitting room in their house. Sitting in the bride’s house on the day of her wedding made me feel as though I was imposing. But those feelings were quickly forgotten when it appeared it was just as much of an honor for the bride and her family that the other students from my program and I went out of our way to come to this wedding. We were shown the appreciation of our attendance the second we arrived. As soon as we sat down, a huge plate full of meat along with several loaves of bread were placed on the table in front of us, and then left the room for us to eat alone. Preparing and serving meat in Morocco is considered a food of hospitality and celebration. Little did we know (although all expected in the back of our minds) this was just the beginning of the demonstrations of hospitality.

Once we finished our meal, the friends and family members came back in the room, turned on the stereo, and blasted music-- everyone, including the bride and many little kids, danced along. Charley and I then snuck out to go visit our beloved village homestay family. We went over to our house and promptly found Najoua, our host mom, who gave us a surprised and happy hello. Bissma, our 5-year-old host sister was also home but was still a little too shy to say hello. Our host dad’s brother was also home, so Charley and I attempted to converse with him. Najoua then came out with a freshly made omelet, tea, and fresh bread (a nice surprise for me after a lunch of only bread). We did our best to communicate why we were back in town and update them on recent things we had done. Our host-grandmother and grandfather returned while we were there and seemed equally surprised and pleased we were there, and continually told us we are always welcome. After a little more “conversing” (maybe more like miming), we told them we would see them later that night at the wedding.

We returned to the bride’s home and found most of the people of our program either gone or napping. We hung around for a while, then around 6pm decided to start getting ready since the wedding was supposed to start around 7pm. All of the members of our group had either been loaned Kaftans from their homestay families or had previously bought Kaftans. So the group of us got dressed up, compared Kaftans, and took pictures.

Mine felt especially wizard-like (It was black velvet with gold embroidery).

The wedding appeared to be a ways away from starting so Charley and I headed upstairs to the terrace where the wedding tent was being set up and kids were playing.

Around 8pm, we were still in the sitting room as Moroccan guests began to arrive. When the room started filling up, we were brought to another sitting room. We were told that the women were going to eat and it was shameful for men (and foreign guests) to watch the women eat. Around an hour later, we were then served dinner. First came individual spheres of bread. Then came a large platter full of 5 chickens. Everyone did their best to finish the plate, commenting on how delicious it was (I stuck to bread and olives). Just as everyone was feeling stuffed, the plate was taken and replaced with a new meat-filled plate. This time it appeared to be a sweet beef dish topped with cinnamon-coated prunes and toasted almonds. That plate was then cleared and replaced with a bowl full of fruit (a typical Moroccan dessert).

After dinner, we headed upstairs to the tent to take our seats. All of the women were already seated in their section when we arrived. Water seemed to be dripping through cracks of the tent so we did our best to find a non-wet section. After another hour or so of sitting, the men arrived (from eating their dinner separately) and sat down in their section.

And after a few more hours of waiting in the wet and cold, in true Moroccan fashion, a wedding that was said to be starting at 7pm commenced at 12:30pm.

The bride and groom entered together, surrounded by 5 men dressed in white and purple capes. The bride then sat in a circular type-throne and was lifted in the air by the men in purple capes. She was danced around and made hand motions to people in the audience, as if she was flicking water on them, and they would do it in return. The bride and the groom then sat in the other throne and a bunch of pictures were taken. Music blasted and many began to dance. I tried my best to keep dancing for warmth-sake.

Around an hour into the celebration, water started heavily pouring in through the cracks and the tent was weighed down with water. I, along with most people, then retreated to one of the sitting rooms. As it was around 2:00am at this point, many of us took a quick catnap. We were then woken up and informed that the celebration had been moved downstairs. We went down and found all of the audience members arranged in their chairs facing the throne. There was little room left so the caterers arranged some chairs for me and a few other students in the kitchen just off of the main room. At this point the bride and groom were gone, for the bride’s first outfit change, and the music was stopped. Another hour later, the bride returned in a new extravagant ensemble. The music and dancing then recommenced. I continued to sit in the kitchen with a few other students, and questioned how much longer I thought I could make it. A group of us decided we would wait until 4am, when we were told little cakes were served, before going to bed. Around 3am the caterers made coffee (and almost set the kitchen on fire in the process), and poured cups of it with an equal coffee-to-sugar ratio. That helped me make to 4am, when the bride came out in her third outfit and the music and dancing began again. I found Mohammed, my village homestay-dad sitting in the audience and we started dancing. It was the highlight of the whole night.

By that point, we were nearing 5am and I realized I would not be sleeping. The music and dancing stopped and the bride and groom disappeared again. A woman with a microphone began reading out names. We asked what was going on and learned that the woman was holding up gifts, identifying what it was, and saying the name of the gift-givers. Audience members would then cheer, especially with the bigger and better gifts. At the end of the gift announcements, it was 6am and light outside. People began to return to their homes to sleep. Gnawan musicians played outside, waiting for the bride and groom to leave together to begin their new life away from the village.

All in all, my first Moroccan wedding was quite an experience and far different from what I was expecting. The celebration was extremely lavish and over the top, in a place where life is otherwise very simple. It appeared that the wedding was less of a celebration/party and much more a show and an evening to make great pictures. It amazed me how almost this entire village (babies and all) sat awake in their seats from midnight-6am, doing nothing but occasionally watching some dancing or picture taking.

 The wedding was also a huge life-changing moment for the bride and groom, but most notably the bride. Asmae, the bride, is 17 years old, and told us during our excursion that she is not necessarily ready to get married but it is her way out of the village. The morning after the wedding, Asmae needed to say goodbye to the only place she’s known and her family and move into a new town a few hours away with a new husband. During the last few hours of the wedding Asmae was crying during all of the dancing and picture taking. It was a hard sight to see, but also incredibly understandable. And if I had to guess, I would be that is not an uncommon sight at traditional Moroccan weddings.

As we drove back to Rabat, we asked one another if we would do it again. My response: maybe. And in a few years.  

Asilah Adventures

After several weeks of our usual routine, my friends and I decided to take a little getaway weekend trip to Asilah, a small coastal beach town just south of Tangier. The weather the day before was gloomy and rainy, and the forecast predicted much of the same for the rest of the weekend. We contemplated not going but decided we didn’t have that many weekends left to travel and chose to go anyway. We left early Saturday morning and took the train 3 hours north. We arrived to sunny skies and a light breeze. Another part of our hesitation to going to Asilah that weekend was that we were unable to find a place to stay that was within our desired price-range. Upon deciding to make the trip, we took a leap of faith and planned to find a place to stay once we arrived. We walked the mile or so from the train station to the town, opened our guidebook, and set out looking for the first budget friendly suggestion listed. The town was small enough that we found the place in 15 minutes. We asked, nervously, if they had a room available for 3 people for the night. The man at the front desk nodded and grabbed a key from a wall filled with all the room keys. It appeared we were the first, if not only, ones there for the night. The man led us upstairs across a small tiled courtyard into a small room with three beds. The place was simple, quaint, and full of Moroccan character. Plus, at $8 a night per person, we were sold.  We went out in search for lunch and found a place near the water. We were surprised to hear that everyone around us was speaking Spanish. It turns out Asilah is more full of Spanish speakers and travelers than the more Northern city of Tangiers. After lunch we went to find the medina. I read before coming in my guidebook that the mayor of Asilah lives in the medina and has sworn to keep the medina as clean as Switzerland. It was certainly the cleanest medina I’ve seen in Morocco yet. Asilah is also known for it’s yearly mural painting festival, where all of the walls of the medina are painted white and artists are invited to come and create a mural on the walls. We spent hours wondering the medina, snapping endless pictures of the unique murals, colors, and doors. 

(Arabic Graffiti)

I could not stop taking pictures of the doors.

We spent the end of the afternoon reading in a café, and then headed to the beach for the sunset (after being led around by some new “friends”). 

After the sun was down, my friend Simone wanted to find the hotel where she has a reservation to stay when her parents come at the end of the program. After searching for a while with no luck, we began asking people for directions. Few people seemed to know what we were talking about until we asked two Moroccan women. We told them the name of the hotel and the café it was next to. They told us to follow them and they led us around, slowly, for around a mile. We communicated briefly in Darija with some French, and they quickly took us under their wing, holding our hands as we crossed the street. They ended up leading us to a different hotel that was next to a cafe in the middle of town. We thanked them for their help and kissed on the cheek, then decided to give up our search. Nearby was a small liquor store (the first I’ve ever seen in Morocco) so we decided to pick up a bottle of wine and find some market goods at the little souk near our hotel. We composed a little picnic (avocado, red pepper, hoobz, grapefruit, and some dark chocolate) on the floor of our room and watched a movie on one of our computers. It was perfect.

The next day we went to a nearby café and read in the sun (not a cloud in the sky!), then went back to sit by the beach. We caught the train around 3pm and were seated next to two Moroccan university students. We started talking with them and ended up become friends. We talked about all the languages in Morocco (these conversations were taking place in English, French, Spanish, Darija Arabic, and Fous’ha Arabic) the Amina Fillali case, medical school in Morocco (one of our new friends is currently in medical school), and various other aspects of Moroccan life. We left the train station and arranged to meet up for coffee later in the week. Overall, we left the trip feeling good and glad we ended up going. We also all knew we would be back.  

Adventures in Casablanca

Apologies again for the delay in posting. However I just finished my last regular week of classes so you can expect slightly more frequent posting from now on.

Two weekends ago, now, my friends and I decided to head to Casablanca for the day. Your mind is probably wondering to scenes from the classic black-and-white film, but don’t let it. Casablanca is very much a large industrial city. In fact when we first got off the train we had no idea we were 50 yards from the ocean there was so much smog. People often make the comparison that Rabat is like Washington D.C while Casablanca is like New York City. I can definitely see that comparison (within reason, of course). Once we got off of the train we headed out to find the Hassan II Mosque, one of the only mosques in Morocco non-Muslims are allowed inside. We were given directions and not until we were a mere 100 yards away did the Mosque appear behind the smog.

The mosque was incredible. And we didn’t even go inside (it was closed to visitors at the time we were there). Every doorway, arch, and fountain was the epitome of Moroccan design and architecture.

Shortly after touring the Mosque we realized we were quickly getting hungry and knew Casablanca would be the place for a good non-Moroccan meal (not that I don’t love Moroccan food, we just needed a little break). Our friends who had been in Casablanca the weekend before went to Rick’s Café, the touristy café modeled after the Movie set, and described a fig and goat cheese salad. We had to go. We figured Rick’s was enough of a tourist destination that taxi’s drivers would recognize the name and know where to take us. No such luck. After multiple confusing conversations and being directed in various different directions, we talked to a man on the street who seemed to know what we were talking about. He put us in a cab and told the driver what we were looking for.  We had an interested conversation with the driver about the wealth disparity in Casablanca (and all of Morocco) and how he thinks it will be significantly better in a few years since the King is working on improving the roads and transportation (I tried to ask why, but the language barrier seemed to get in the way). He dropped us off and pointed in the direction of the restaurant, saying it was just ahead. We walked around for a while with no restaurant in site, and then asked for directions only to get puzzled faces in return. Just as we were about to give up, one man with a prominent mustache seemed to know exactly where to go. He led us around the block to “Rex Bar”.

Still craving the fig and goat cheese salad, we decided to look up the address at a nearby Internet café. When we explained to the man at the Internet café what we were looking for, he let us use his computer for free, then lead us to another taxi and talked to the driver about the directions we found. Then, finally, we made it to Rick’s Café, a few blocks away from Hassan II Mosque. Oh well, it was worth it.

 

Rick’s Café was touristy and far from authentic-Morocco, but we were ok with that for this one meal. As we were leaving the restaurant, we were greeted by the man from the Internet café, who told us we took forever to eat. He must have hopped in a cab behind us and waited outside the café the entire hour+ we were eating.

We continued with our un-authentic Moroccan experience by spending the rest of our afternoon at Morocco Mall, Casablanca’s large commercial mall. The experience was extremely overwhelming- I would even say culture shocking. The entire time we walked around the mall I felt confused about my whereabouts. Going from seeing only medina souk shops to a mall filled with bright and flashy designer shops was a big change. However, I was reminded slightly of my location when the call to prayer came on over the loudspeaker. Quickly exhausted by the mall, we enjoyed some frozen yogurt, and then went for a walk along the water (again, hardly visible due to the smog).

Overall, we decided we were glad we made the trip to Casablanca- it is so close, we would have felt silly never going. But we were also glad we only went for the day. I know there is a lot more to be seen in Casablanca that we didn’t see, and we definitely made the choice to use our trip as a chance to experience some of the Western luxuries we miss, but that is fine with me. 

Northern Excursion, Part II

I'm going to try and keep this post less wordy and let the pictures do most of the talking...

After a wonderful time in the village, we had a few other stops of our Northern Excursion. First, we stopped in Ouazzane, a town 20km away from the village (where some of the villagers go for more schooling since schooling in the village is only available through 6th grade). Abdelhay and his wife own an incredible house overlooking all of Ouazzane. We were lucky enough to go there to get a tour and have lunch. The best part of the tour was the part of the house where Abdelhay and his wife make olive oil (with an olive press run by donkeys and everything!). 

Abdelhay in his garden (I might need to frame this picture).

After lunch, we continued on to Chefchaoen- a city situated on a mountain and known for its blue walls . The color definitely fit the relaxed feel of the town. 

We found a wood artisan shop and bought some rustic cooking utensils.

The next morning, we were trying to figure out how to best spend our few hours before needing to leave. Others from our program knew about a quick hike up to a mosque on top of the mountain. After 30 minutes, this was our view:

That afternoon, we stopped in Fnediq. When we asked one of our program directors what Fnediq is known for, they told us "smuggled spanish goods". This turned out to be very true, with everything from spanish candy to toothbrushes being sold on the streets. Although Fnediq didn't offer much in terms of souvenirs, it did offer some great views of the Mediterranean. 

The next morning, our group was crossing the "border" to Seuta, Spain. Seuta is situated on the Moroccan side of the Strait of Gibraltar (the strait that I used to think separated Morocco from Spain). This spanish land is a sensitive subject in Morocco- they say it is theirs. We had to enter Spain as a program since staying in Morocco doesn't require visas. Visitors are allowed to stay for 90 days so we hopped "over" to Spain for the morning in order to have another 90 days in Morocco. Everyone was probably most excited for having a selection of cheese (and ham) options, so we all went wild and had a picnic at a park, before going on a quick bus tour which ended with this view:

The program bus headed back to Rabat but a few friends and I took our first Grand Taxi to Tangier, about an hour away. I was unfortunately sick for our first day in Tangier, so I missed out on some sightseeing. Luckily I felt better the next day and managed to see the medina, the beach, and the cinematheque. We also went to a Sunday market which offered any item you could every want. It looked like piles of trash, cleaned, and put neatly (well, sort of) on a blanket. 

Another successful Moroccan excursion.