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Shnu shnu Marokko?

April 13 

Marrakech

I arrive from Italy at 11:15 or so and as I step out of the plane, the first thing that I notice is the heat.

“It’s hot as hell.”

I walk inside to fill out a customs paper, go up to the booth and the man inquires where I will be staying.

“I don’t know.”

He looks pissed at this point, but stamps my passport anyway.  Nowhere else did I have to deal with such a question besides Israel.

I came into Morocco without a place to stay because I figured in Marrakech, there are tons of hostels with free rooms, so what’s the point of planning so far ahead.  I also had not planned on staying in Marrakech that day either, but rather going up to Rabat.  Sadly, my Couchrequests deny me so I stay in Marrakech to sit back, enjoy some food, meet some British students, and plan. 

Bus 19 goes from the airport to the dead center of the city.  You can either take a taxi, take the bus, or walk.  I may walk when leaving, but let’s leave that to the future.  I take the bus and say to the people next to me,

“Is it me, or is it hot?”

“Pardon?”

They’re French- great.

I end up getting off one stop further than the Medina, walk into a market and find an internet café.  There a man is sitting with his feet on the desk and there are two children inside playing computer games.  I take a seat and begin to do some searching as to where exactly I am.  IP Location works perfectly when the locals cannot point out where you are on a map.  I find a few hostels to consider and pick one- Auberge 2.  After bearing thirty minutes of the children constantly moving in their chair behind me as well as making an annoying lip smacking sound, I leave.  People sell raw meat in the streets.  My eyes tell me the meat is left out much longer than the NSF standards of four hours but no one seems to care.  Vendors sell pig legs, goat heads, and just chunks of meat.  Not a tourist in sight, I figure I must be in a local area.  I walk further and find a nice restaurant selling chicken tagine for 25 Dirham.  It’s absolutely delicious and the workers are friendly.  Also no tourists, so I at least feel more authentic.

I ask how to get to the Medina and they point me in the right direction, so I begin my brief journey, using the minaret as a North Star.  Along the way Parks and Recreation equivalent workers are watering the plans- dare I say overwatering?  They leave the hose on the ground and leave it running.  I suppose it’s good for the locals because people, including me, just walk up and drink the flowing water.  At some point, the water just fills the ground and soon enough there’s a small pool of water for this palm tree or shrub. 

People here wait for their busses under the shade, so it’s convenient.  I walk up to one man and ask him if he knows how to tie a keffiyeh/schmag.  He tells me no, it’s not their tradition.  I make note to look up how to tie it later on youtube. 

I can tell I am getting closer to the Medina based on how many tourists I see.  Crossing the traffic filled streets and dodging motorbikes I find myself at the entrance of the Medina- jamal al Fna.  Lined up at the front are horse carriages and as a result, it smells of horses.  I take a seat to find out exactly where I am.  I ask where the Medina is and people point at the ground.  I continue down the Medina, trying to calibrate myself to the instructions of how to get to the hostel.  In the center the performers and entertainers show off their monkeys, charm their cobras with a melody, or are trying to show off some new product.  Also to mention are the orange juice stands, which seem to absolutely litter the whole square.  I walk down to the Derb Dabachi road and get lost into one of the many streets of Marrakech, while all the while people are telling me greetings in Chinese or Japanese.   Down another street not as populated, doors down this street are incredibly imperial and I can only assume they are fancy Riads.  I continue down the road.

“This street is closed.  There is nothing down here,” says a child to me. 

I walk back closer to the Medina and find another internet café.  There I confirm my location once more and get out. 

I notice a younger man spinning thread and he tells me what he is doing and tells me a story that he has no clue what it means.  I ask to take a picture and he promptly refuses.  Also present are two other people, another younger man and an older man.

“Do you want me to get arrested?  I am a poor man,” says the thread spinner.  “He does not talk much, he just sits and listen,” he says to his friend.

“He must be intelligent,” says the younger friend. 

The thread spinner walks away and the younger friend introduces himself to me. 

“I am from Couchsurfing, I have sixteen references,” he tells me.  I already know where this is going to go.  I researched Morocco months before and read that there are rather entrepreneurial CSers out there, trying to use Couchsurfing to make a pretty penny.  They try to convince you to stay at their place and ask for a “donation.”  Not every Moroccan is like this, but it’s extremely prevalent in Morocco.  My With suspicions up- nobody should need to prove that they’re trustworthy, I play along. 

“You can stay at my place, it’s 100 Dirhams a night.” 

We walk down the street, pass the locals- women dressed in robes and motorbikes all around, until we reach his house.  He shows me around and we go up onto the roof. 

“Let’s have some Moroccan whiskey,” he says, which is actually just tea. 

We get delve deeper into our conversation, he tells me about life, Moroccan women, and Islam.  I go to take photos and he tells me he will be back- he needs to buy cigarettes.  He comes back about twenty minutes later with cigarettes and a bag full of belts.  I buy one after testing the quality. 

“I’m trying to start a business with a friend.  Life in Morocco is hard.  I am the man of the house here...I like to have many friends-“

“Networking.”

“Yes, sometimes you make a little money from them.” 

I feel like he is trying to give me some sob story.  So I give him some real information about selling his products on Ebay or Etsy, tell him I’m going to go to the hostel, and I head downstairs. 

“Why don’t you stay here?  We will do traditional Moroccan things, eat Moroccan food, the best kitchen is mom, and-“

“Friendship should not be like that.  Friendship does not involve business.  I do not want to have to pay for this.  That’s not Couchsurfing.”

“It’s like a gift for my mother.”

He shows me a postcard from a previous guest.  I do not know exactly why, but I will assume it is some motive to try and convince me that he is trustable.  Never before with Couchsurfing have I had to pay to stay with someone nor did anyone willingly tell me how many references they had, show me their postcards from previous guests, or tell me about their “friends” in Japan. 

We walk towards the hostel and I tell him the story about how the Ben Gurion security check went.  He seems rather apathetic and careless.  We arrive at the hostel and he greets the owner.

“Did he show you here?  He wants you to pay him,” the owner says to me with a full French accent. 

“No I’m from Couchsurfing.  I’m Mohamed,” our “friend” says to the owner.  Acting so casual as if they had known each other so long, he begins to joke around and small talk.  At this point, I am just waiting for him to leave because I certainly am not comfortable with him.  I pay for my room and bid him farewell.

“If you meet anyone who needs anything, let me know.”

I receive a tour of the hostel; it’s actually extremely hospitable and inviting.  It’s in a Riad and there is a rooftop with plants all over- rather stunning.  I go to my room and three students from the U.K. are there.  We introduce ourselves and they invite me to drink on the rooftop later.  I go to see what the Medina is all about. 

I go to the Medina and take a look at what’s going on.  There are tons of tourists.  On the streets are children sitting on box grates, holding Moroccan almonds cookies to sell.  All around are cafes and restaurants filled with tourists. 

I go eat in a restaurant filled with French people, the portions are awful.  The advertisement on the front 50 Dirhams for a three course meal proves to be dissatisfying.  First dish consists of olives, some salad, and chili sauce.  The second consists of mainly cous-cous, vegetables and a tiny skewer of grilled chicken.  The “desert” is half a banana sliced and about three chopped strawberries.  I accidentally tip the waiter 20 Dirhams, reinforcing shitty food but the service was good. 

I back to the hostel and a youth no older than 16 comes up to me.

“There is nothing there.  The medina is that way.”

I decide to have some fun and speak to him in German only. 

“Bitte ich verstehe nur Deusch!  Kannst du mit mir nur auf Deutsch reden?-Please I only understand German.  Can you conversate with me in German?“

We continue this for about five minutes.  

“Do you smoke hash?” inquires he.

“Smo kash,” I brokenly say about twenty times.

After that I just repeat everything he says in English with terrible pronounciations and stresses. 

I go to the hostel with him beside me,

“There is nothing there.  It is closed.” 

I ring the bell.

“Give me money.”

The doorman lets me in and shuts the door on the youth.

I go upstairs to rendezvous with the British students from earlier who lazily were drinking on top of the riad. 

“We hitchhiked from the U.K.- okay so we cheated and took a ferry and trains.”

“Okay, so now you’re on the last leg of your journey, it’s time to reminisce.  What were your best and worst experiences,” I ask them.

And they go on to tell a story that makes me laugh like I have not laughed in a long time.

“So we’re in northern Spain, Bas Country, and we’re so disappointed because we’ve been outside for ages and no cars have picked us up, when all of a sudden this man who must have been 80 picks us up in his what must have been 40 year old Ford Explorer- it was so rusty and and the back just smelled of oil.  We can hardly speak any Spanish- just enough to communicate where we are going and this whole time he is just mumbling to us in Spanish.  All of a sudden the tire blows out and we go on the side of the road to change the tire.  You should have seen it.  When we were jacking the car up, the jack was literally just crushing the rusty frame of the car, so everytime the jack went up,it went deeper into the car.  We had to change the bolts because the old man could not do it himself.  At this point we considered not going back in the car, but we had no other option either because we were in the middle of nowhere.  So we get back into the car and by now, the man is going crazy.  We figure we want to get out as soon as possible and we see a sign to an exit nearby.  The old man starts driving on the shoulder of the road while swerving until he drops us off in this city.  Apparently, it was a city famous for its pork slaughterhouses.  So its about 11 PM at night and we’re walking through this town where there are just pig body parts like legs just hanging everywhere.  We go to a hotel and that itself was weird.  The next morning we get a ride out and it turns out that there were plenty of nice cities around this one- we just happened to get dropped off here for some reason.  Other than that, that was by far the scariest experience aside from the ride from northern France to Bordeaux.  This kid who must have been no older than 19 had just gotten a brand new Audi and offered to drive us down- he must have been going 30 over the limit until the point where the cops started tailing him.  Apparently he did not want to get caught so he 

started to go 240 on the highway, bobbing and weaving through traffic.”

We call it a night.

My first impressions of Marrakech are disappointing.  The Medina, especially, feels so contrived.  I’m sure the locals do not go around buying almond cookies from children selling them on the street.  The presence of the tourism is so strong that some Moroccans have made it a business to try and get as much money from the tourists as possible- taking advantage in whatever manner possible.  Even with Couchsurfing, they exploit the system to try and make money (that’s not only Marrakech, but anywhere with a strong tourist presence like Zagora).  What’s the point of going to a foreign country when everyone around you is a tourist?  When leaving Marrakech and passing by the Medina, I felt like it was Disneyland.  Here you have your masses of westernized people dressed in their scantily clad clothing, entertaining themselves by watching a cobra charmer or sitting in a café with other tourists- yeah that’s real culture.  Marrakech, at least the Medina, rubs me the wrong way. The stop after the Medina where I initially accidentally landed, felt more authentic, but that’s just a tiny part.  It makes no sense for me that whenever I walk into a nook and cranny of Marrakech, a child or teenager is telling me that the street is closed, the Medina is that way. 

I look to Couchsurfing to see what my options are.  I hear Fez is a lot less touristy, so I decide to head there.   

A day in Athens and Milan!

I arrive at Athens International.  Rather traumatized from the lack of sleep, I walk around in state of zombie-like somber; but it’s also extremely laid back and freeing.  The first thing I notice about this airport is that is has music playing everywhere; just schnazzy stuff that you’d hear out of a Sim City game- makes me want to plan some cities out and make a city. 

In hopes of intercepting my real bag, I go to the baggage claim, and to my dismay it does not come through.  I really should have known better because it’s a transfer flight.  I just don’t want to have to deal with carrying a box around. 

The night before leaving, I received news that a friend of mine, Gergana, received a postcard I sent her.  In an extremely short notice, she arranged that one of her friends meet me in Athens.  Although a few communication errors, we made it through.

I establish contact with Dimi, Gergana’s friend.  And I proceed through the airport with my box.

“What’s in the box?”

“You want to see? Go ahead.”

"Proceed."

I walk out, feeling like a free animal to roam in this huge city.

It’s different being in Europe again.  I feel so civilized.  There’s a subway.  There are Euros.  The infrastructure is okay and timely.  I’ll admit.  I miss the Middle East.  As one reference once stated, “We liked being there, there was simply not as many useless things there as there are in Europe.”

So true.

So I figure out the public transportation in no time, although busses I’m still lost at.  I ask around and go to Monastariki- downtown.  My logic is that busy places have cafes, and cafes have internet; contact to Dimi.  

Just one right turn out of the metro exit and ancient Roman ruins stand unscathed.  With the territory comes, however, tourists.  Everywhere.  And all the services to accomodate them; restaurants, beggars, and gift shops. 

Dimi and her friend- whose name I regrettably forget- tell me about Greece; the traffic, the people, whatever you can fit into a five hour timeframe.  The Greek use the same word for Hello and Goodbye-yashu/yashsus, as well as nod their heads left and right to indicate "yes."  

And before you know it, my departure time summons me...

I sleep on this flight.  I'm dead tired.  And I got this box to lug around.  Here are some sunset pictures...and THE BOX.

No internet :(

Desktop-worthy

I overnight in the Milan airport.  The highlights being...

1. Constant music playing out of an antique car, making it harder to sleep.

2. A Chinese girl making circles around me and eventually asking me something in Chinese, to which I respond "I don't speak Chinese" resulting in her disappointment.

3. Sleeping on a chair.

4. Talking to the EasyJet clerk.

and finally...

5. Leaving.

Hamdala, Ben Gurion International and Aaron.

There is one thing that Palestine and the Middle East has shown me.  It is called being assertive.  Bus schedules and prices are always negotiable; you will seldom find any consistency but in the mass of the chaos comes harmony because it does work out e.g. with the Servees taxis.  You must ask all the time and rely on other people because you will certainly not orient yourself alone.

So I get back to Bethlehem, buy a few souvenirs from the cultural center, photograph the refugee camp and eventually walk towards the bus station.  

Along the way I notice a steady progression from poverty to wealth- from the refugee camp to towards the 

heart of the city, and am greeted many times. 

There I take a bus back to Jerusalem and take one last look at the land and the settlements; also reflecting on the future.  I see the landscape and see how beautiful it is.  And I think back to the Israeli girl who told me, “Why would you want to go to Palestine, Israel is so much better and prettier” and think to myself, “You have no idea.”  After seeing just a short preview of Palestine, I wanted to stay longer- more than I have ever wanted to anywhere else.       

I arrive in Jerusalem and know immediately where to go- back to the dorms.  I go there, act casual and am waved through the security once more.  I head towards Melissa’s apartment and to my dismay, not a soul is home, so I go back to where I started initially- the student café. 

Oh Wi-Fi. 

About everything thirty minutes I go to check if someone came home.  I ring the bell each time, and the only thing I hear is Diina in heat meowing.  Great.  Just what I need. 

About two avocados and two hours later, I check again and to my pleasure, people are home.  Melissa disappointingly tells me that no Sheruts are going to the airport and that my transportation issue may become an even bigger issue.  I take it easy, take a shower, look up my information, and confirm her suspicions.  I decide to give her a few presents, a Palestinian keffiyeh, an avocado, and a hug.  She was having a lousy day because of a self-righteous classmate.  Her roommates send me their farewells prior to going to sleep and I’m off to try and hitchhike.  Wait…what?

So I walk out of the dormitory without any clue what is going to happen and I just cannot feel anymore excited.  I make a withdrawal of 150 Shekels- 30 Euro, 55 USD, and hail a Taxi.  He tells me 333 Shekel, I tell him 200.  He tells me 250.  I say no and flag down a car that has just stopped.  The Taxi driver then bargains to 200.  They offer to drive me to the old city and I tell the taxi driver goodbye.  Three Jewish men- all of which just came from Salsa dancing greet me and we take off.  We stop at an Arabic market and they buy me a calzone-like thing.  I offer to pay but the driver tells me, “it’s on me.” 

He drives to the entrance of the Old City then suddenly changes his mind and drives me towards a location 10 minutes away from the bus station. 

“There you should find an orange taxi, no more than 50 Shekel.  You have five hours, you have plenty of time.  This is for your first time in Israel and to show that not everyone here is bad.” 

He has my gratitude.  I walk 10 minutes and see a familiar place, but it’s totally empty.  I walk to the bus station to find a guard half asleep.  I knock on the window and she gives me this pissed-off attitude.  I walk further down the street and still no Taxi in sight.  So I read my instructions I wrote, notice they aren’t really matching my actual whereabouts, and go to a petrol station that actually ends up corresponding with the instructions.  There I see an empty Sherut and start asking around whether or not the people are drivers.  A few Orthodox Jews happily communicate me and then with the driver and we are off.  At the first stop-light, the driver stops.

“How much are going you to pay me.”

Expecting such a question, I retort with, “How much are you expecting?”

“250 Shekels.  I want to help you" (That's the so-called normal price).

I do an inventory.  I see my 50, but I do not count it aloud.  I pull my coins out and a one hundred bill.  “20…100…120”

He looks at me and I tell him

“I’ll just walk”

“Okay.  120”

I hand him 117.5 because I had a miscalculation. 

“Usually it’s just 50…”

“You said 120.  We are not picking anyone up either”

And so we start the drive into the night towards the airport.  It was actually a damn good price in comparison to everything I’ve read, although the circumstances were drastic.  Knowing that the previous driver was so willing to go for 200 tells me that they were looking for some business especially at a time like this; so late on a business day.  We small talk, he tells me about Israel, his children, Israeli women, and in the corner of my eye I see an empty Sherut pass us.  Funny.

We arrive at the airport and he tells me good luck and so on, I wish him the same, that he get many fares, and we may see eachother once more in the future.  He drives off.  I walk up to the airport departure gate and am promptly stopped, but I was expecting it.  Ready to expect anything, I happily oblige to “follow the rules.” 

“Where are you from, how long did you stay, who did you stay with…”

Still standing there, he tells me to wait.  While waiting, other people are just passing through.  They key is to speak Hebrew and they’ll just let you through.  One noteworthy event was this family that was coming through.

“Where are you going?” says the security officer.

The family stops dead in their tracks and begin to look at one another, wondering what the hell is going on. 

“Where are you going?” says the security officer more slowly.

Again, the family confused, sharing shocked glances, and speaking another language.

“Do you speak English or Hebrew?” inquires he.

“Hebrew! Hebrew!” the family shouts in unison.

And just like that, he lets them through without any more questions. 

About fifteen minutes later he calls another security guard over,

“Good morning sir, how are you?”

“Sleepy, other than that, fantastic, how about yourself?”

“Wonderful, where are you going?”

“To Marrakech through Athens and Italy.”

“What is your flight number?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know your flight number?”

“I suppose this is the best place to not know.”

“No it’s not,” he smiles. 

I dig into my backpack and pull out my flight reservation I had printed off two months ago.  Someone was thinking of me! 

“Very well, please proceed sir.”

“Have a great morning.”

So I get in and take a seat and do some people watching as the time draws near.  I set my alarm and fall asleep for an hour or two, with my bags interlocked into my arms.  I wake up and go to the security check in. 

I walk into line where yet another young lady is standing, allowing people through. 

“30 minutes”

“Okay”

“Hold on, I’ll be back”

She comes back, interrogates me and lets me through. 

I get into another line and am interrogated again.  This time though, the girl is much more friendly and congenial.  I go through standard protocol, jacket off, laptop out of the backpack, backpack into bin, and everything through the scanner.  I walk through the body scanner and my belongings shoot out the other side.  

She wishes me a safe trip.

A man with a rather French sounding accent comes over to me and begins to give me the general interrogation questions.  I already get a feeling I do not like this guy.

“How long have you been here, are you traveling by yourself, where have you…”

Please come with us.  We walk over to where they dissect people’s bags.  I look over to my right and this woman is just standing there, arms crossed, with a pissed off look on her face; her belongings strewn across the top and younger girls just pecking through her things. 

“Sir, please open your bag.”

“Which one- the small one or the big one?  Let’s start with the small one.” 

I’m in a ready mood albeit tired as hell.  I’m up for anything and I’m feeling good and confident.  I tear open my small black bag- usually my carry on and you may see it in nearly every picture- and begin to take items out, until we get to the small black bag of assorted nuts and dried fruit.

“What’s in that bag?”

“Oh that?  Those are just nuts."  I give the bag a gentle pat.  "Would you like to touch my nuts?”

“Please step back and put your arms to your side” he says to me, with a rather agitated voice.  He finishes with my small black bag and a woman comes to replace him. 

I take a seat and just delve in the pleasure that my personal belongings are being looked at and they must be so confused on what my motives are considering the artifacts, not to mention that they have to go through my dirty laundry.  I look at the woman and her situation- I can see the security guards- who are girls- just eye her up and down, taking her clothes and just feeling them.  It even gets to the point where the dude with the French sounding accent asks her to put her hair down (it was in a bun).

“No, I do not want to, I have a meeting tomorrow and I have to look somewhat presentable.”  I could feel her agony and dislike.  

The lady inspecting my belongings opens the bottom hatch of my backpack.  I roll my clothes when I travel because it conserves space.  I knew what they were going to find- keffiyehs from Palestine wrapped in bags stating, “Made in Palestine” and souvenirs from the IBDAA Cultural center. 

A few minutes pass by and I am taken to be body searched. 

He tells me to go into the small cubicle.  I smell his Slavic roots through his accent so I start to talk about it subtly. 

“Is this going to take long?  I really need to use the restroom.”  I make rubbing motion hovering over my stomach.

He stands there, gazes into the distance, snaps back into reality and says, “You better go now.” 

I go and I consider flushing my Palestinian business cards away, but then refuse to, finish up and go into the cubicle. 

“Empty your pockets.”

“You’re Russian aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I spent a month in Bulgaria, the languages are incredibly similar.  Although Bulgarian sounds like Old Russian.  You say the phrase, ‘kak dila’, we say, ‘kak si’.”  

I pull out nail clippers from my pocket (I had been meaning to clip my nails, I wanted to look presentable for my impending interrogation date).  “I better put those in my checked-baggage.”

“Yes you should.”

“Dobre.”

"Dobre..."

We finish and we walk towards the baggage-dissecting area.  I could feel his sympathy, but he did not want to express it.

 

I walk back to my section and the other woman, the one who has a meeting, is gone. 

“Your bag is a security risk, you are going to have to use this” says my bag-inspecting friend, motioning towards this box with a handle on top of it. 

She finishes inspecting my bags and walks me to get my bag checked in. 

“So…you usually work this late?”

“I choose to.  Less hours, more pay.”

“Cool.”

She escorts me through more gates, waving me through scanners where a huge line has formed and lifts up the velvet protectors, until we reach the terminal.

“I’m sorry it took so long, have a good flight” she says smiling. 

“Thank you so much, have a good morning.”

  I go to get my passport stamped, walk up to the booth, where yet another young lady is occupying. 

“Because you hate me” she says to her accomplice in the next booth.

“Excuse me?”

She looks at me while blushing, “It’s from a song.”

I hand her my passport.

“You’re a singer?”

“Only when I’m alone or in the shower-”

“Or stamping passports.”

She stamps my passport and smiles.

“Have a good flight.”

I always feel like a freed animal whenever this happens at any airport.  First you go through stand in line and go through the security and hassle, you’re forced to remove some clothing and open your bags, then finally you pass and you’re set free to go roam around the terminals without anyone or any lines telling you what to do. 

I walk into the mega center, pull my netbook out of my box, and find some free Wi-Fi.  Yes YES YES!  

I speak to Kaytay Raynalds about my experiences so far and notice a child acting up.

“If you do not be quiet, we are going to leave you here at the airport,” says the mom.  And in return the child shuts up.  I do not want to draw conclusions, but that’s just fucked up.  That’s so manipulative and I can only imagine what the hell her relationships are like; some way to raise a child. 

With time crunching down, I make way through the airport to my destination.  And while down a huge corridor I cannot help but notice Israeli propaganda posters on my left.

"Don't YOU want your children to have a good future?"

Posters supporting the settling of the Palestinian territory essentially.

So I go into my terminal, charge my netbook, and sleep. 

It’s 6:30 AM in the morning and I board my flight- with my box, it’s raining outside while the sun barely sheds its golden dew, and I fall asleep.  I wake up two hours later to the sight of a Mediterranean reef and Greek Isles with the sun in the background welcoming me to Athens- amazing.  I miss my breakfast but ask an attendant for it.  I like airline food, I know, it’s totally weird, but I like it.  Let’s keep that a secret between you and me.

So inquisitive to know whereabouts this woman came from, I asked her and she responded with a blunt "India."