Estar jodiendo es mejor k estar jodido

donde estabamos....
right, in Marrakech.
So on the way out of town, I stopped in Djemaa el-Fna, the main square again, where I had eaten so many plates of cous-cous and chicken. I decided to have my fortune read. Aware of the language barriers, I proceeded to the first woman I found available, who spoke no english or spanish. After explaining this (about a minute into my fortune), she switched to French, which I think she hadn´t quite mastered either. Beyond something about continuing my travels, I really didn´t understand much. There was also something about the end of the world, or perhaps she meant geographically, which would be appropriate, since I plan to go to Tierra del Fuego in Argentina (often called, el fin del mundo). 
I should also note that the men in the square playing little flute/horn instruments were snake charmers and you can add about 100 snakes to the list of things one can find in Djemaa el-Fna.



I took the train from Marrakech to Casablanca, then onwards through Rabat to Fès. The man sitting across from me for the first few hours spoke no english, and almost no spanish, yet insisted on having a conversation anyway. Smiling for most of it, and nodding my head like an idiot (perhaps agreeing to all sorts of outlandish things...) I did manage to successfully convey that I am a trade unionist and I hate Bush. With that, he took off his left shoe, and placed some almonds and nuts from his pocket on the table in front of us. "America!" he exclaimed and pointed to the shoe in his hand. Then "ah....." (something in Arabic that we can probably guess). Then he proceeded to smash the nuts with his shoe yelling in Arabic with a bit of french mixed in (I heard the word "merd e"). The poor woman next to him looked afraid for her life. She was dressed in a full hijab, so I could see nothing but her eyes, but her eyes said fear. He laughed a bit and almost returned his shoe to his foot before beginning an encore version of the same demonstration, but this time the shoe was "Blair" or "Sarkozy" or perhaps both of them....

I should say that he may have been stoned. There were a bunch of teenagers smoking hashish right behind us between the carriages, and the contact high was strong enough to give me a bit of a buzz. Later on, he reached through the slit in his jellaba (big overcoat with a hood everyone in Morocco wears) and into his pocket to offer me a handful of nuts. I said "shukran bezzef" (thank you), and begrudgedly placed my hand under his to receive a pile of nuts, pocket lint, and a few crumpled up receipts. He smiled, a bit embarrassed by all the trash that unintentionally came with his gift, but t hen proceeded to watch me eat like a hawk. I got the impression it was some sort of test in the faith of our new international friendship, so I ate a few nuts slowly, while carefully sliding the rest up my sleeve, pocket lint and all. We exchanged emails and he made me promise to come stay with him if I ever visit Rabat. Who knows? 



In Fès, I stayed at one of the worst hotels I've ever been to. I got the distinct impression that besides myself, everyone else there was a prostitute or their client (this impression is based on hard empirical evidence in the form of paper thin walls and passionate screams that even I don't need an arabic translator to interpret). The other thing that kept me awake most of the night, was their unique pillows. They were like rocks. Actually, they were rocks. Seriously. Rocks wrapped in thin fabric.

My hotel was in the Ville Noulle, the modern french part, because I wanted to stay close to the train station. Most cities in Morocco have 2 parts. The old part, and the new french part. This meant I had to take the local bus to get to the medina where all the souks and interesting things were. I'd been riding the local buses for a few days now. Pretty much on par with a local bus in Mexico, or even areas of the US with no funding for public transit, and more or less as crowded as the 38 Geary in San Francisco, or the number 6 subway line through Manhattan at rush hour.... so these bus rides for 20 cents were pretty uneventful.
 That day, a man who had sniffed so much glue, that I was getting high from standing next to him, was sandwiched between myself and a few kids. All of the sudden, he started staring at me. I pretended not to notice. Then he moved on the stare at the man next to me, and then began screaming (in arabic) for a minute or two. Keep in mind, he is about 5 centimeters from my face, and although the bus was loud, t here was no need to scream. Eventually he moved on to screaming at the kids, then the man collecting money at the back of the bus (why they collect the money at the back of the bus is beyond me). After that, they booted him off at the next stop. Yeah, a bit like riding the 38 Geary during rush hour I suppose. Maybe more like the 22 Filmore. (sorry for the San Francisco public transit references for those of you who have never been there....)

A few seedy bars later (it can be hard to find a drink in a muslim country where alcohol is haram (forbidden), but not that hard luckily), and I was back in the hotel for one last night before heading to Tangers.

I only saw Tangers through the window of a petit taxi, but it looked a bit like Tijuana.... actually, it is a lot like Tijuana from what I understand.


After that, it was just a 35 minute ferry ride to Tarifa, España. Of course, with immigration to pass through on both sides of this historic straight of water, the 35 minute trip took nearly 6 hours, but rather than bore you with why (I could never match the level of boredom I felt anyway), I'll leave that story for another day.

Around 11pm, I found my hostel, some fantastic italian food and wine, and even a bit of Fernet Branca to wash it all down.
I slept like a baby, woke up and showered with hot water, and spent the day exploring this amazing city, walking along the edge of Europe, and staring across the blue waters at the hills of Africa.

More to come, hope everyone had a great xmas, Eid al-Adha, Hannukah, or Kwanzaa. And have a happy new year!
-Steve

PS - one last thing... for those of you who don't want to be bothered in the streets of Morocco, when they try to speak to you in english, french, spanish, or italian, just answer with "u minia ruskia crove" then look them square in the eye and say "jopa".