My first day in this country came after two nearly sleepless nights, and I was surprised to have the energy to navigate Casablanca on my first day. After hours of waiting in the rain and various tea shops for the hostel to open, I dropped my bags and wandered into the old medina for hours, partly out of curiosity, partly from getting tangled in the web of narrow streets and alleys. After hearing how ridden Morocco is with sly salesmen and scam artists, I was more than a little guarded, although exuding a friendly faÁade. I was quickly surprised that everyone was remarkably friendly without an ulterior motive of selling me carpets or trinkets. The conversations that, in other countries, usually flow quickly from pleasantries, to country of origin, to a sales pitch, never made it to the third step, and often wandered in different, unexpected directions. Even the guy that finally walked me all the way back to the hostel when I was too lost and tired to make my way, didn’t ask for a baksheesh (tip). Was I still so jaded from India? This was Casablanca, however, the unglamorous economic center, that most tourists seem to avoid unless necessary. I was sure things would be different in places like Marrakech that attract tourists by the drove.

Mosque Hassan II

I had very little to do in Casablanca, but wait (sound familiar?) for Jonathan, which was only about 36 hours. I spent a large amount of this time just hanging out with the middle aged and men in coffee shops, drinking tea and chatting. Moroccans, famous for their linguistic abilities, tended to speak to me in either Spanish, French or English, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Other than the seemingly bipolar hostel manager, every Moroccan I met was a special treat.
When Jonathan arrived in the afternoon, I was relieved. We had been rushing around Europe, somehow repeatedly failing to cross paths. I was also excited to show him how rad this place, that he was also skeptical of, was. After spending some more time in the coffee shop, we were offered a place to stay by one of the guys. He seemed nice enough, but we decided it was a bit early in the trip to feel comfortable with this invitation so we headed to the home of an American couch surfing host, Bryce, instead. He was teaching AP history at a private school, and had a lot of great stories from Nigeria, Palestine, etc. When we asked about the invitation from the guy at the coffee shop, he agreed that it would probably not be the best idea, as it is not in the culture to invite foreigners into a home. “He probably would have just tried to smoke some hash with you, then demand 300 Dirham ($40) for it,” he said. I was still surprised, though, because I had always understood Muslim culture to possess some of the warmest hospitality, especially to travelers, in the world.

The next order of business was to get to Rabat, the capital, and a beautifully modern and vaguely European city, where we could secure our visas for Mauritania. We took the train, and when we got in, Jonathan called up Fatim, a young woman he had met on the bus from the airport. She lives in Rabat, and had told him to call if we came to town. After helping us find a place to stay and the embassy, she found a great place in the old Medina to find some lunch. We sat for at least a couple of hours over tea as our conversations grew too interesting to abandon. Jonathan and I both found this in itself to be an extraordinary situation. A Muslim woman in almost any other country could not be seen hanging out with two men, let alone non-Muslim foreigners. Yet, nobody seemed to find us out of the ordinary in any way. We talked about traveling, religion and politics. She had so many enlightening things to say about everything from Palestine, to the Danish cartoons of Mohamed, to the difficulty of getting a Canadian travel visa. As we parted ways after lunch, she told us that she would like to do the French “bise” or cheek-kissing greeting, as that is what she has become used to in her European tendencies. After leaving it felt good to know that I always have a friend to meet in this city.

Our Medina view in Rabat

The next day we got our visas, but were surprised to find that they are only 30 days from the date of issue, meaning we had 30 days in Mauritania starting…now! This complicated our leisurely plans, so we went to the beach to discuss plans. This, for both of us, was the first time that we have ever walked through a cemetery to get to a beach. Another first came that night, when we had a hot bowl of snails sold off a cart in the street. I was nervous, but they were pretty good, and they were in a broth that was strong and savory.
Because of our visa situation, we decided to neglect some of the more traditional, and I am sure worthwhile, tourist stops of Fez and Marrakech, and head south. It took us a couple of hours of bussing and walking to get far enough out of Rabat to find a good spot to hitchhike from. I immediately pulled out the tin whistle that Jonathan had given me, to tantalize the drivers. I saw people in the fifth or sixth car to pass laughing at us, and then they pulled over. That was too easy and we considered ourselves lucky. The car held two young women, and a middle-aged man, who gave me an unfriendly look upon finding out my nationality but carried on in a friendly manner with Jonathan, talking about Canada. We later joked that it was because the man had lived in Paris for 18 years.

A sulphur plant. Apparently Morocco is one of if not the biggest exporter of sulphur.

After a few more quick rides (far better hitching than in Europe), we were escorted to a small beach town by a car of two young flirty couples. The beach was…well, like this

Jonathan wants to be on the cover of Backpacker magazine

We found a decent spot to camp and marveled at the ease of hitching in Morocco.



The next day proved equally productive, and we made it all the way to Essaouira, a resort beach town, that felt as much like Puerto Vallarta as it did Morocco. We had met a young man, Badr, while we were standing on the side of the road a few towns earlier, who said if we didn’t have a place to stay in Essaouira, he would ask his friend, who he was going to visit that night, if we could stay with him. So we gave him a ring when we got into town, and they said they would be happy to host us. We spent the evening in their basic but impressive collegey bachelor pad. They made a tajine (slow-cooked vegetables and chicken) that far surpassed the blandness we had experienced in restaurants, and we listened to a mix of classic rock and Arab pop music, while we watched muted National Geographic channel on TV. It didn’t feel unlike college-age living in America.

Camels on the beach in Essaouira

They convinced us to stay a second night, despite getting hassled by the neighbors in the other unit of the apartment for not getting any sort of payment from us (which of course would need to be shared). They suggested we cook something for them that night, something from our culture. So after shopping we returned and found that we would now be serving 8 instead of 4. They had requested something with ground beef, so we made a pasta dish with tomato sauce, and vegetables. Jonathan and I quite liked it, but our audience of 6 seemed unimpressed, and the meager rations were not finished. We heard murmurs about making a tajine. A couple hours later they revealed a huge secret stash of fried fish, potatoes and bread, which they devoured rapidly. I wanted to be offended, but I was more amused than anything.

We set out early the next morning and managed to be in a good spot on the road soon after 9. Our sights were set for the town of Tiznit. The landscape grew increasingly dry, rural, and poor. But the change was welcome, as it was interesting to see the gradual change from the metropolitan cities we had started out in. A man in a turban gave us a ride and afterward invited us to tea. During the conversation he talked about living in France for six years. Eventually he started questioning me, in a critical way, about America this and that. What about Bush? Why are Americans so much bigger? It was funny to see that the only people in Morocco that seemed critical of me for being American were the ones that had lived in France. Probably a coincidence, but still funny. By the way, whenever the subject comes up, Jonathan never misses the opportunity to tell people how much I love Bush and that he is my father. Even in his broken beyond repair French, he always gets the point across, receiving roars of laughter. At the proper moments, though, I always get him back by talking about how much Jonathan likes Michael Jackson, and shares his affinity for young boys. This always seems to turn out to be a fairly even revenge.

Guelmim