Donkeys and theft

Sometimes when your good hitch hiking fortune starts to run out, it is necessary to adapt to local conditions. And sometimes that means buying a couple of donkeys and a cart. Morocco has been full of very pleasant surprises.

Our luck finally slowed on our fourth day of hitchhiking. We struck out of Tiznit at 10:00 and by 3:00 we had only made it about 100 km. Although leisurely, it is never boring here. When the sun started to hug the horizon we decided to give up and find a place to sleep in Guelmim. As we started to walk into town, we were approached by a round, unshaven man named Salaam who spoke to us in English. As most people did, he asked us about what we were doing and about our traveling. This was the beginning of a complicated interaction that would change the course of the whole trip. He asked if we were going to Mauritania, because his brother was driving there the next day, and would like help with the drive. Since we both have international driver’s licenses, we thought that sounded like a good idea, or to at least go to Dakhla, in the far south of Western Sahara. We sat down over tea to discuss things, and I joked that at the rate our hitchhiking was going we would get there faster riding donkeys with carts. Salaam’s eyes lit up in a way that I wouldn’t realize the full gravity of for a few days. “Please, Excuse me,” he said in a forceful way that would become very familiar. “You can buy donkeys, and cross the desert like that. It can be done.” Well, our eyes lit right back up of course, and we started to discuss the logistics of that journey. It sounded very feasible, as he said donkeys could make about 70 km per day, and reach Dakhla in less than two weeks. The price also sounded reasonable, as he said a donkey could not only be bought in Guelmim for 120 Euros, but sold in Dakhla for much more. He invited us to stay at his home for the night, and that, if we were interested, he would help us look for donkeys the next day. And so it began.

We went to the market to buy vegetables and camel meat for the dinner that night. When we got back, his wife cooked for us, while Salaam gave us traditional clothing for us to wear and we played with his three small children. When dinner was ready, his wife, who supposedly spoke no second language, went to her room while we ate communally from the tajine, the clay Moroccan cooking pot.

In the morning we packed our things and set out on a donkey-buying adventure. Unfortunately the donkey market wasn’t until Saturday, so Salaam improvised by asking around and making phone calls. The first donkey we met was in good shape with a good cart, but the price we could get from the owner was about 6500 DH (650 Euros) for the package. The next one we found was smaller and in poor shape with a cart to match. The best we could get for this one was 3500 DH. Salaam brought up a suggestion he had had the day before to rent a car so we drive around to some different villages. We were skeptical at first, but since he offered to split the cost of the car 3 ways, and it really would be an efficient way to get the shopping done, we agreed. Salaam’s cousin, a camel farmer and self-proclaimed desert nomad who travels around West Africa doing business, joined us. We only went to one village, but the people there said there would be a donkey market the next morning, so we banked on that, as the car rental was for 24 hours.

We had a lot of concerns though, most of all with the timing. Salaam had said we could get to the Mauritanian border within two weeks, but simple math showed that even with his estimate of a donkey covering 70 km per day showed that it would take far longer. Our visas would expire in just over 3 weeks, giving us very little room to make it in time, let alone make it to the capital of Mauritania to renew the visas. Furthermore, when asking people about how far we can expect a donkey to go in a day, the estimates began to shrink, depending on how much interest the person had in wanting to sell us a donkey. Salaam promised us that we could renew the visas at the border, but I had done the research and this was just not true. He then promised that there was a camping place in Dakhla that provided a service to run passports to Rabat to get the visa for Mauritania. If this was true, it would solve our problem, but I was still skeptical, and was not about to set out on this trip simply with his word that it would all be ok. He pushed hard, and acted fishy about it, which sewed my first seeds of serious doubt about him and his intentions. I insisted on doing a bit of internet research before we did anything else, despite Salaam’s impatience. After reading a few websites and making a couple phone calls we discovered that this was actually a possibility, though probably more complicated than he made it seem. So we decided to continue in our pursuit of donkey.

Salaam suggested that we spend the night at his casbah in the countryside, and “make a big party” with a good tajine and music. So again we went to the market and bought food, and this time some beer and anise liquor. The casbah was a large mud-walled compound with the type of rooms that stay warm at night and cool in the day. It was very atmospheric and pleasant. An experience I will always feel lucky to have. We made a tajine, and after eating, we played music. Jonathan and I played songs on the tin whistles and sang a bit, showing our version of nomadic music in the form of CCR. Salaam’s cousin borrowed the tin whistle and without warning blew us away. He played music that was distinctly Maghreb and he played it well. It was faster and more intricate than anything Jonathan or I could play and it was completely improvised on an instrument he had never used before. Then he and Salaam sang and drummed some of their local music. The desert night, the casbah, the food, the music, all made for an experience that I will never forget. At some point, though, we began talking about donkeys, and things got heated (and I understand how ridiculous that sounds). Jonathan and I expressed our concerns about the donkeys, mostly about the cost. We said that we were first interested because the price Salaam had originally told us, 1,200 DH, seemed very reasonable, but the prices had seemed to inflate with our excitement over the idea. Salaam’s cousin got angry when we said that we didn’t want to spend more than 2,500 for two donkeys, and said that we were crazy since one donkey should cost at the very least 2,000.

Salaams cousin outside the casbah

When Jonathan and I were alone that night, we discussed the fact that it was now painfully obvious that they would be getting a nice commission off of this donkey sale. This in itself we did not mind so much, though, since we knew pulling this off on our own, would be nearly impossible. However, we wondered to what extent all this hospitality had been a charade to butter us up. Was this all about money, or was the line between friendship and business getting blurry? Were Salaam’s cousin’s fantastic monologues about the wonders of the desert and nomadic life sincere, or should I take this as the “peace and love my brother” kind of B.S. that comes from scammy Rastas the world over. At the end of the night, we decided it really didn’t matter, because if the price was right for us, then we would be happy. We agreed that we hoped to get the two donkeys for 3,000, but would be willing to go up to 3,500 if we absolutely had to.

Theres Salaam there in the back.

On the way to the town the next morning, we wondered how much of a donkey market this would really be. Well, there were many donkeys around, but it appeared that only one man was selling two donkeys. Seemed too convenient in a bad way. I was hoping for hordes of donkey salesman competing ruthlessly for our business. The cards were not in our favor, and our time crunch, made further crunchy by Salaam’s growing impatience, made things worse. The donkeys seemed to be in much better condition than those in Guelmim, so we knew that we would at least be happy with what we would buy. After discussion over some tea and this and that, we bought two healthy young steeds for our max price of 3,500. Salaam intercepted the transaction, but I stayed close to him to watch the commission go down. He was obviously avoiding me, but I shadowed him, so he got in the car with the donkey owner. I followed, so they got out. Then he said he had to drive the owner somewhere and would be right back. Of course when he came back the owner was still with him. The next task was to get the donkeys back to the casbah, which would require hiring a driver and truck to deliver them. The day before, Salaam had said this should cost about 150 DH, but when they arrived with the truck, he said they wanted 350. I would not accept this, and Salaam really didn’t seem to like my resistance. They tried to put the donkeys in the truck anyway, and I had to physically stop them. We threatened to ride the donkeys back to town (which of course would take the entire day if all went smoothly) and were then able to manage a price of 200. Even this seemed ridiculously high.




The next task was the cart. This was very tricky because we knew that Salaam would also be making a handsome commission off of this, and we were completely at his mercy. Additionally, the cart was necessary, since we had fully committed to this trip by buying two donkeys, and we had just a couple more hours with the rental car. Salaam had been driving me crazy with his increasing shadiness, and nickel and diming us every time it came to getting a meal or tea. At this point he wouldn’t even allow us to talk to anybody with a donkey or cart until he had approached them first, as he said as soon as they saw foreigners it would increase the price. It was obvious, though, that he was simply arranging the commission with the person before we arrived to discuss what we would be willing to pay. I kept trying to worm my way in before he could stop me, but he was very good at controlling these situations. It was also unfortunate for us that most people in the donkey business don’t speak much French. We found a cart that was in rough shape, but Jonathan made plans to fix it up before the end of the day, and we bought it, including a new tire, for 1,300.

We took it to a lumber shop and proceeded to make elaborate repairs and modifications, and replaced a lot of the broken or rotten wood. We had told Salaam that the repairs would take 30-45 minutes, which was our little chance to feed him a few lies. Even though it was rushed, it took at least three hours, and I relished wasting his time. The cart owner was a very kind man, and helped out the entire time, and even agreed to deliver it to the casbah the next morning. The lumber was expensive, though, plus we had hired one of the workers there to help with the repairs. I had thought, however, that Salaam was done making money off of us, but after we paid for the lumber and labor, I stuck close by him. He seemed uneasy, and he walked back into the shop where the man had just been paid. I followed and he just stood there looking around, as if he was waiting for nothing. “So we can go now?” I asked. “Yes, let’s go,” he said. Neither of us moved. “Ok, we can go now,” he said. “Ok, let’s go,” I said. He gave in, but not before getting a phone number from one of the men. Then after we walked a block away, he sent his cousin back to the shop, I can only assume to pick up their money. So that was it, right? Far from it. We still had to have another charades party.

Cart repairs

“So we go have another party tonight?” Salaam said jovially. “Sure,” I groaned, loathing his fat-faced smile. I assumed that we would at least split the cost of the meal again, but when it came time to buy the camel meat, the most expensive meat possible, Salaam said, as he always did, “Hey, give him 90 Dirham”. At this point he had stopped bothering with any sort of manners, and even forgot our names, simply calling us ‘American man’ and Canadian man’. I didn’t let him call me this more than once, though, and neither did Jonathan. I was getting so heated, but knew that making a scene at this point would benefit nobody. After all, we did have our donkeys, and nobody could take them away. When we went to the beer store, Salaam insisted on the more expensive bottle of anise liquor and more beer, which he insisted we pay for, because he had paid for the vegetables of course. We were far too tired to argue, and were just praying for the money-bleeding to stop.

The next morning it continued though. When the man with the cart arrived, we were told that we also had to buy the saddle that attaches to the cart, even though Salaam’s cousin had told us it was included. Well, now it was not included and they wanted 300 DH for it. Of course this was another ridiculous price that came from us having very little choice to pay. Jonathan said we could make one for cheaper than this, and that we would. Salaam raised his voice, “Excuse me! You cannot buy the materials to make this for less than three hundred.” I said, “well, I am sorry, I just don’t believe you.” This got him angry, and I said, again, “well, no, sorry, but I don’t believe you, and yes, we can make this for far cheaper.” We ended up buying it for 200, and I was fuming. I had to just go and hang out with my donkey for a few minutes to calm down. And at that point they were done making money from us. And they made it clear by making us feel unwelcome, saying we could not leave the donkeys at the casbah while we went into town to buy supplies. So we loaded up the cart. Salaam’s goodbye did not include a handshake, but instead a request for some money because he had to hire a cleaner for his apartment. It was the last of many times I had to bite my tongue, and force myself to relax my fist. We politely refused and he walked away without so much as a “bon voyage”. He was far and away the worst person I have met in Morocco, and potentially in all of my travels. Over the next couple of days, Jonathan and I half-jokingly pondered ways to get revenge on him, even wondering if the police would take us seriously if we painted a picture of him as a hustler, exploiting tourists. In some cities of Morocco, police actually take action against people like him, but we doubted there were any problems in a random southern city like Guelmim.

Once we got on the road, however, the excitement of the journey ahead and the open road helped me ease my frustrations. We were 9 km from town and it started out well, with Jonathan and I taking turns driving his donkey, as my donkey trailed behind the cart. When it came time for my donkey to pull the cart, though, I learned the concept of stubborn as a mule. It was a tense 15 minutes of switching their spots, and then forcing it back on the road. While the other donkey needed nothing more than a little bit of steering, this one required constant yelling and kicking in the rear to keep it going.

When we got to the edge of town, the donkey became really stubborn and refused to move. A friendly young man ran up and used his sweet Moroccan donkey driving skills to help us get it moving again. We decided that taking the cart into town on the first day would be too complicated. Furthermore, we were to meet Jonathan’s friend from the Czech Republic, Susan, in town that morning. So Jonathan went on foot into town to find the bus station, while I watched over our donkeys and possessions parked in an empty lot next to a construction site. I was quickly told by several teenagers that where we were in a terrible place because kids would be coming soon. I pooh-poohed this, but they assured me that this was not a few dozen kids, or even a hundred kids, but that we were right next to a large school, and within an hour, thousands of them would be coming, and therefore harassing us. The young man that had first helped us, who was working at the construction site, agreed that the donkeys, our stuff and I would not be safe, so I let them hustle me across the street and behind a building to a place with water for the donkeys and even some grazing area. The boys were extremely accommodating, and helped with my rudimentary knowledge of donkey care. I waited with the donkeys for a few hours, and at some point I heard the shrill sound of a tin whistle being played with no training. I realized that my tin whistle was missing, so I went back to where we had first stopped the donkeys, where the boy working in construction invited me into the site for a snack of bread and olive oil. I would never see my tin whistle again, and when I came to the realization, I was devastated in a controlled way.

Jonathan and Susan arrived after a couple hours. I was nervous about what kind of companion Jonathan had brought along for our African travels, and I have to be honest that her blonde dreadlocks made me worry about how people would perceive us, but her bright smile and strong handshake made me warm up to her quickly. I didn’t know much about her, but that she had done some travel around Europe, and at the risk of sounding like a travel snob, worried that she had never been to the developing world, let alone Africa. Jonathan and I had loads of errands to run, from getting donkey supplies, to tools for the cart to provisions for the first long leg of the journey. Susan said she would be fine staying with the donkeys for the afternoon. I trusted the boys as they had been so accommodating to me thus far, but I told her to call us if she ran into any troubles.

Jonathan and I set out into the town and hustled around buying 30 gallon water jugs, water buckets made from tires, sewing materials, rice, vegetables, pegs for the donkeys, saddle bags, petrol, cooking supplies, and countless other necessities. We struggled to get it done before dark, but failed, and returned barely half finished around 7:00. One of the boys, Swecki, a 19 year old with a large man’s presence, and his friend Said, a petite 17 year old with a 12 year old’s presence, said we were welcome to stay in their house for the night. It was the building we were staying behind, so we stashed all the goods and tools in their shed, and put our donkeys to bed. They showed us into the building, which was a huge compound with a courtyard, and what seemed like too many rooms to be a regular home. We weren’t too sure what a Moroccan home was like, so we went with it, and they showed us to our large room, which was half full with stacked furniture and carpets. Swecki and Said hung out with us and helped us cook a tajine dinner, as they played music on their small laptop and I played some from mine, all of which was Saharan music. They stayed late, and only seemed to leave when we were too tired to keep our eyes open.

In the morning, Swecki joined us again as we packed our bags. We planned to leave soon, but we still had a few things to pick up in town, most of which was food. We made our shopping lists, and were about to leave when Jonathan realized his USB drive was missing. Regardless of his reputation for misplacing things, we tore our bags and the room apart looking for this thing the size of an Andes mint. Said eventually came in to help us look, and when he and Swecki shook out a carpet, one that we had already shaken out, they found it. We were too relieved to be suspicious, and set out.

The shopping took far longer than expected, partly due to our long list, Susan’s curiosity and wandering, and the fact that the souk and most shops don’t open until later in the afternoon. We found ourselves returning again well after dark. For some reason, our room’s door was locked, and we had to get one of their maid’s to open it for us.

Even though the boys had been extremely accommodating of us and our donkeys, I was nervous about leaving all of our things alone all day, and I was a little bit ashamed that the first thing that I checked upon returning was if my laptop was still in my bag. I was nervous when it wasn’t in my one designated spot for it. I checked my shoulder bag in case I had somehow put it there. Nope. I didn’t panic, but asked Jonathan and Susan if they had any idea of where else it might be, but they didn’t. I couldn’t fathom that it had been stolen, but just assumed that one of the boys had decided to play with it while I was gone. Especially since nothing else in the room had moved (my camera, Jonathan’s camera, Susan’s cell phone, and countless other items that could be of some value). My backpack did not even look like it had been touched, other than to remove my laptop, and take the charger and international adapter out of the side pocket. One of the children hanging outside the home had said that Swecki was sick. So I asked one of the other lingering boys in the house where he was, and he said he had gone out, but not sure where. I started to get nervous. I decided to go to the parents, but wasn’t sure where in this large compound they were. I asked a maid, and explained what happened, and she got defensive, and surprisingly spoke to me in rough English, saying that this was a dormitory, and that it was my responsibility to keep track of my things. This was a shock, as nobody had hinted that this was anything like a dormitory. I went and asked the first boy again, who had said that Swecki was sick. Now he said that he had gone to an internet cafÈ, and might be back in half an hour or an hour. He seemed less friendly and even a bit sad compared to his upbeat nature the day before.

Swecki returned soon and greeted us as normal. We explained to him our problem, not trying to point fingers in any way because we still had an element of trust in him. He quickly became apologetic in a defensive way. Like the maids, he said that of course our stuff wasn’t safe, as it is a dormitory. I complained that he told us it was his home, and never told us it was a dormitory. The situation got quickly more complicated, as more people entered, starting with his mother. She spoke no French, so she just yelled at both Swecki and I in Arabic. I was able to get across to her what happened, but she probably already knew everything. Like everyone else, she seemed to have no sympathy for us. Enter two young men, making the dorm setting more obvious, who speak Spanish. This seems helpful at first as all three of us are fairly conversational in Spanish. They appear sympathetic at first, but eventually lead us in the same circles, saying that this is a dormitory, and of course our things are not safe. In fact, my laptop has probably not even been stolen by a resident of the small dormitory, but from somebody off the street, and it is halfway to Casablanca by now. After all, the Moroccan mafia is a big deal, they tell me. We don’t know what to make of all this. Why won’t anybody help us? Is everybody in on it, or do they want us to just let it go because pursuing the problem will just cause hassle for everyone in the dorm?
I went to the only thing that has worked before in this situation, and that is to offer a reward. I offered 200 Euros, no questions asked, to the person who brings my laptop back. I explained that I only paid 500 euros for it, and that I only was willing to pay for it because of all of my files and photos on it. This was a bit of fibbing on my part, for obvious reasons, and I had almost everything backed up on a hard drive. Nobody budged, and if anything, it agitated people more. I asked Swecki if he would write a “laptop missing” sign on a blank piece of paper in Arabic and French. He wrote it, and then I started to copy it on other pieces of paper, and say that I would post it around the dormitory. This agitated them even more, and Swecki said that there was no way that I could post this in the dorm because his grandfather, who is apparently in charge, would beat him because it would look like he was causing problems. I kept explaining that if they really wanted to help me, and that if they were not to blame, then they would help me get my laptop back. At this point, his mother claimed that she was sick, and too tired to deal with this and that we all must leave the premises because we were causing problems. We really had only one option left, which we neglected to tell them, so leaving wouldn’t be a problem for this, rather a catalyst for our final plan.

It was nearing midnight, and we slowly re-packed all of our things, and carried them outside as a small crowd started to form. We loaded up the donkey cart and prayed that the donkeys would behave better than our maiden voyage with them. Most of the dorm seemed to pour out to watch the spectacle of a bunch of foreigners loading their cart and handling their donkeys. There was plenty of giggling and pointing as nobody seemed to have any sympathy for us as we had been robbed and kicked out in the middle of the night with nowhere to go. We discreetly made our escape plans out of earshot of the drunk Spanish speaking guy who was hanging onto us and had obviously been given the duty of playing good cop/figure out if we would go to the police guy.
Our game faces firmly in place, the amused crowd watched as we solemnly led our donkeys back out onto the street and away from the dormitory. We were extremely proud of their behavior, as they quietly and obediently made us look like savvy donkey handlers, and led us to the outskirts of town. When we got a couple of kilometers out, and there were no cars coming, we turned off the road and into the flat expanse of desert. We had already solidified our plan of going to the police for help, but it took a bit of discussing of when and who. The consensus was that now was the time, regardless of the late hour. I would obviously have to go. I wanted Jonathan to go with me, because of his experience with police in the developing world, but we decided that his expertise in donkey handling would be important for him to stay, and that bringing Susan and playing the female card for sympathy would also help with the police. At some point in the discussion, the male donkey had gotten loose, and we didn’t realize until he had wandered about 50 meters. Susan panicked and started to run towards him. “Don’t chase him!” Jonathan yelled. Sure enough, the donkey broke into a gallop. Before I knew what was going on, Jonathan was chasing it too, then heard him scream, “He’s going for the female!” I positioned myself, between the female donkey and played linebacker, as the male donkey came running. As he tried to go around me, I grabbed the rope around his neck, and was able to stop him. This would turn into a reoccurring theme of the trip, and we wondered how hard the donkey salesman was laughing to himself that the silly foreigners were deciding to travel with a female and a male donkey.
So at nearly 2 in the morning, Susan and I walked into town, trying to hitch a ride from any passing car. The first car was some young men, that I did not trust, due to their subdued rowdiness. I simply asked for directions to the police station and refused to get in their car. They dispatched a guy to take us there, which still made me nervous, but was still better than getting in the car. Luckily, a taxi came immediately, and we were whisked away to the station, albeit by an inexplicably roundabout route that kept us on our toes.

I had a lot to tell the police, and didn’t want to leave out any of the important details. The police were patient as I explained everything once in English, and once in French. Without giving much indication to what they thought about our situation with its unusual back story, they brought me into a dimly lit concrete room with blood stains on the walls, a man at a desk, and a couple of young guys in handcuffs. He asked for our passports, and for me to explain the story, which I did in French. Without waiting for many of the details, he stopped me and gave me my instructions. He told me that the following morning, at 10 AM, I would need to report to a different station, and they would take care of me. I was glad that they seemed to take me seriously, but was still not convinced that I wouldn’t just be given the runaround.

As Susan and I started to walk away from the police station, one of the officers drove by and reminded us that it was very important that we go to the police the next morning. I asked him what would happen or if he thought there was any hope of retrieving the laptop. He surprised me by telling me, in a serious tone, that they would get it back. I told him I would believe it when I saw it.

I cannot imagine how confused the taxi driver was when we told him to drop us off at the edge of town, near some empty fields, hundreds of meters from any building. It didn’t matter to me. Everything was weird enough for me at this point, that I didn’t even notice.

When we got to our camp, I felt so relieved to have Jonathan and Susan with me. This surprising incident of betrayal made us all realize that we really only have each other. We were a team, a family, with a new sense of “us vs Morocco”, and we had done well in this situation so far. We pulled out a bottle of anise liqueur that we had intended on saving for a little longer, but we really needed this. As the bottle emptied, and we settled into our sleeping bags a fog had descended. It encapsulated our small camp, reducing visibility, and effectively separating us from the town, placing us alone and together in the desert. We felt at home.

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

But Barcelona, I wanted to like you so bad!

When I arrived in Barcelona, I was disappointed to check my email and find that none of the 10 couch surfers I had emailed had offered me a couch to stay on. This left me in the predicament of trying to find an alternative place to sleep. I was not keen on the idea of sleeping in a park or on a beach as I have heard many stories of friends being robbed in Spain in these sort of situations. I even read on a website for hitchhikers that the only safe way to sleep on the beach with a bag is to bury it and sleep on top of it.

The cheapest hostel I could find was 17.50 euros, and as soon as I got in I wanted to leave. First of all, I felt older than everyone. And this was the most square and clean cut hostel I have ever been to. Everyone looked so innocent. These were not the unkempt hairy hippies and volunteers in Kolkata, or the wild partiers in Mexico City. Just some fresh-faced young Europeans on holiday here to see the sites. Not that there is anything wrong with this of course, but I just couldn’t relate to them. For example, one guy that had been to Morocco recommended that I go to Marrakech because “they have this really big market where you can go and get your picture taken with big snakes and snake charmers”. Do I sound like a hater? Maybe, but this was just a big change of pace from the hitch hiking and couch surfing that had gone over so well so far. I felt like I had no chance of seeing Barcelona in a way other than however tourists see it. Either way, it didn’t matter too much as I was really just trying to get to Morocco, and Barcelona was a convenient place for this.

My first task that afternoon was to go to the port and investigate the ferry that would be leaving the next morning at 10:00 for Tangiers Morocco, and how possible it would be to hitch a ride with a truck driver that would be crossing. A ticket would cost 70 Euros, which was far cheaper than expected, but hitching a ride for free was of course more ideal. I went to the parking lot where the truck drivers get ready to load. I met a driver that does a route between Italian ports and Barcelona. He said that hitching a ride like I wanted is no longer a possibility as most companies have specifically forbidden it. There is a lot of risk in taking a stranger across a border, because you don’t know whom they are and what they are carrying. This was crushing. Now I would either have to buy a boat ticket or fly. It looked like I could get a 27 Euro flight to Casablanca for Saturday night, which sounded like a good idea, as I would probably hear from one of the couch surfers by the next day, and even if not, I had been told by one of the couch surfers that they could have me on Friday, but not sooner than this. So the next day, I booked the plane ticket and checked out of the hostel, as the only space they had for this night was a 22 Euro bed, and I just won’t that. I still hadn’t heard from any couch surfers though, so I walked to the nearest plaza to sit and contemplate my move. And then an odd thing happened.

I was sitting with my backpack at my feet, and a small bag next to me. The small bag, which I was carrying outside my bag for the first day today because I had bought a few groceries, contained some pork pate, pita bread, saucisson, the book I had just started and a beginner’s Arabic book. As I was looking at the map of Barcelona, a guy came and sat on the next bench. After a minute he turns and asks me (in English), “Do you know where….is?” I didn’t understand what he said, plus I always prefer to speak Spanish in simple interactions like this. “Como?” “Do you know where l’hospital is?” “Oh, no,” I said. He waited for another minute, then got up and walked away quickly. I thought, why would somebody ask me where the hospital is, not get an answer, then just leave abruptly, when there was an obviously local person on the bench on his other side? I should have realized sooner, but I didn’t. He was just a distraction, and it was a few minutes before I realized my small bag was gone. I panicked, as it all came together in my mind, and I was trying to figure out what had been in there. It was not long before I realized it was nothing of significant value, which I think is what allowed me to not have guarded it very well. I have always felt proud of myself for being able to avoid this kind of petty theft while abroad, because it seems that for how common it is, it just takes a little bit of awareness to protect yourself. Did I just never expect this to happen in Europe? I don’t know, but as embarrassing as this is for me, it is probably a good wakeup call for the next leg of my trip, though I don’t think this kind of trickery and petty theft will be my biggest worry in sub-saharan Africa…not so sure about Morocco.

After giving up on the couch surfing, I had to find a new hostel, as I still wasn’t ready to go homeless in Barcelona. The only place I could find was 18 euros, and considerably more basic than the previous hostel. It was more on par with a hostel in Mexico in it’s quality and cleanliness, which I don’t mind, but it was still 18 euros. It was more than the previous place which even included breakfast. Just for fun, I read the reviews of it online, and out of 12 reviews, it had 11 1-star ratings. I was the only guest there that night, and it was awkward to say the least. The next morning, I was all packed up by 11AM for check out, but I was still on my computer finishing a couple things, when the manager came in telling me in an irritated voice that check out is 11 and I need to get out. It seemed so ludicrous! Because they were so overwhelmed that they needed to get my bed made for all the tourists breaking down the door to stay here. This place only exists because other hostels get full and this is the only option.

Most of my time in Barcelona was spent attached to my backpack because I was waiting for responses from couch surfers. This led me to do very little exploration, which is a shame as it seems like an awesome city. One notable thing was on a recommendation from Marty. It was the Xampaneria or something like that in Catalunya. When looking up its location on the internet, I saw that it was called a tourist trap in reviews, but I heard almost entirely Spanish and Catalunya while there. Basically it is a rustic tapas bar that specializes in hams, sausages, salamis, served as a bocadillo (sandwich) or sliced on plates to share. And to drink? Pink champagne made on site! They also have white champagne, but nobody really orders that. It was so baller. I had chorizo bocadillo, a Roquefort and sobresada (sp?) bocadillo (ridiculously off the chain) and two glasses of champagne with a bill of 6 euros. 1 whole bottle of champagne is $3, though I wasn’t going to do that alone. It was crowded and bottles were being pizzopped everywhere you lizzooked. I had to return a second time, and this time I got pernil and cheese (not sure what pernil is, ham from the leg maybe?) bocadillo and a chorizo del pais bocadillo, and 2 glasses of champagne. If I lived in Barcelona, I really would go there every day and die of pork.

On Friday I spent my day wandering a few different neighborhoods, with no particular purpose. I was mostly waiting to hear from a couch surfer that said they could host me on Friday. Well, it was Friday, and they never sent me their phone number or address, despite sending them several emails. And I would not pay for a room this night. I couldn’t. I felt like 4 days in Spain was going to cost me as much as 3 weeks in France because of these hostels.

I spent 2 Euros to check my backpack into a storage locker at the first hostel that I stayed in, though they didn’t want to let me because I wasn’t a current guest. The plan was to stay out all night or sleep on the beach, as I had almost no cash or valuables on me.

That evening I met a guy named Ibrahim, from Senegal. He was very friendly and only spoke French. We chatted for a while in the plaza where my bag had been stolen, and I was surprised to find that he had only been in Europe for 2 weeks. He is in Spain because this is where his friends live. He has been looking for any kind of work but hasn’t found anything. We seemed to be getting along well, so I offered to buy some beer, as it seemed what everyone else was doing all around us. By 11:00 the plaza was littered with groups of people our age just hanging out, drinking wine and beer and enjoying life. Ibrahim was really interesting, though sometimes he would go off on soliliquys for 20 minutes in his fast, clipped French, which left me completely lost. He didn’t seem to mind though. Close to 2, we decided to wander a bit, since we had just been sitting on the bench for hours. This is when I really started to understand Ibrahim, and how fresh he is here. The first bar we went to was too crowded to get in, so we just bounced around in the crowd outside, hi-jacking some muffled Daft Punk beats. Ibrahim was really into it, and let loose dancing. He then pointed out this other bar around the corner that was un-marked and less crowded. When we got inside, it didn’t seem much like a bar at all, but some sort of chic lounge, but still, without a bar in it. Ibrahim didn’t care and just continued to dance, alone, oblivious to the fact that nobody else was really dancing, let alone dancing in the middle of the room, alone. Of course this would not be the least bit weird in Africa, as it is just a given that anybody can just dance when they are moved to, regardless, of time, location or choice of music. Within a few minutes, somebody approached him to inform him that this was a private party and that he had to leave. He didn’t understand because he does not speak any Spanish, and seemed to not understand how he could have done any harm, and wanted to make conversation with the guy while maintaining his dance. I quickly stepped in and explained and got us out of there.

This was really uncomfortable though, because it was hard to say why they bothered to ask him to leave. He obviously stood out more than I did as the only black guy there (something that never occurred to him as an issue) but also because he was dancing so conspicuously. If he had just mildly sipped a beer in the corner with me would they still have noticed him and asked him to leave? It’s difficult to say. I tried to think of the reverse situation, as if I wandered into a private party in Senegal. Would I have been noticed? Yes, of course. However, I would have been greeted with open arms.

Throughout the night, Ibrahim tried to start conversations with random people, always hoping that they would be able to speak some French. Sometimes people were friendly about it, but many people would barely respond, and almost seemed scared to talk to him, regardless of language. It was interesting to watch, but at the same time I felt really bad for Ibrahim, and wondered how long it would take before he became frustrated with people’s responses to him, or their lack thereof.

We decided to wander some more through the narrow streets, still lit and busy at 4 AM, and eventually reached a big plaza, which is probably famous or something. It was crowded with young folk wandering around, talking, drinking, shouting. An army of Indian and Pakistani men wove through the crowds offering dollar beers and samosas, helping to prolong people’s night as bars slowly started to close up. We met a French guy and his new American friend, and as an odd mix of people, we went into a club for it’s last fifteen minutes. People were still dancing strong despite the hour, and the floor being covered in broken glass. Although I still felt like an observer in this Spanish style late night that is so legendary, I was still glad to at least witness it before leaving.

Ibrahim had not told me, but he was planning to stay up with me all night because he felt bad for me not having a place to stay, but I insisted that he go back home, to his friend’s apartment where he lives, and sleep. I wandered a bit more and saw the dregs of the night. Stumbling guys taking their pick of the hordes of competing African prostitutes, a man doing a line of coke off the table of a closed café in the shadows, arguments escalating between bros high on machismo.

I made my way toward the beach, stopping every few minutes to read from the book I had been carrying in my pocket all night, until my eyes grew heavy, and I would walk again. I timed it perfectly, and got to a good spot on the beach to lay down and doze as the sun came up.

An hour and a half was enough, and soon after I woke, I made my way into the day, slightly self-conscious about my general appearance, though still feeling ok because if it was obvious that I had just stayed up all night and slept briefly on the beach, people would be totally cool with that.

I met up with Ibrahim that afternoon, before I had to leave for the airport, because he had asked me to take some portraits of him around town, so that I could bring them to his family when I visit Senegal. Here are a few that we came up with.

I managed to reach the airport with public transit several hours before my midnight flight, which I discovered to be delayed. When the plane finally boarded at 3:00 AM, and with only a brief sleep the night before, I was too tired to even care much about my destination and comprehend that I was finally going to be back on African soil in a matter of hours.

How to get to Spain with your thumb

Lise left Marseille on Monday, and on Tuesday I was back on the road. Meeting up with Jonathan was still proving complicated, and he was caught up in Turino, Italy, and decided to just fly to Morocco from there later since there were really good fares. So I decided I would try my best to hitch a ride on a long distance ferry from either Sete, France or Barcelona, Spain. I had heard this was possible by talking to the truck drivers before they board, since they pay per truck, not per passenger.

So I left my wonderful couch surfing host Lia’s house early on Tuesday, though not as early as I wanted to due to alarm failure. By 9:30 I was in my spot, with my sign for Sete, and felt like it was a good start. Twenty minutes in, however, a girl passing by informed me that this was not the way to Sete, and that I should go to some other highway (one I was not familiar with). I actually knew that there were two routes to Sete, and I was on one of them, in fact the one that google maps suggested, but I would have felt foolish to remain standing there when all the locals knew that it was not the normal route. So I headed in the vague direction she pointed and looked around desperately for signs for the other highway heading west instead of north. I won’t go into the details, but I eventually found it, and it didn’t begin close to where I had started at all. I walked for at least an hour before I had found my new spot, where there was actually a sign that said “Montpellier”, which is right before Sete, which was comforting.

I was happy it was not raining this day, but after a few hours of waiting, I could feel the sun was just killing me, and I was almost out of water. I grew unsure of my hitching spot, until I found a cardboard sign that read “Marseille” on one side and “Montpellier” on the other side. This was a good sign, literally and figuratively, so I adopted it, and held it up for good luck since it had worked for someone else.

As I waited, I grew fascinated with the people I saw walking back and forth on a trail that led somewhere under a freeway overpass. It was like an anthill. I would see these disheveled people, most wearing worn out and obviously found clothes, walk off the trail and onto the streets and disappear for maybe half an hour and then they would return with random objects. They mostly seemed like makeshift building materials. Scrap wood, a door, piles of cardboard, buckets, whatever they could pull together from whatever the streets had to offer. I wanted desperately to see what was going on, or at least more about them. I wondered if these were gypsies, a people I have only heard bits about over the years. They seemed to fit the description of the fringe of city livers straddling a line of a nomadic artistic people with a rich culture, and an oppressed and impoverished homeless people. Eventually one of the guys, about my age or younger, who was wearing a shirt about two sizes two small, with pink glittery writing on it summoned me to the corner to ask where I was going. I showed him my sign and said Montpellier. We hobbled along in conversation for a few minutes before we both realized that this was because neither of us spoke much French. He asked where I was from, and I said America. “Oooh la-la”, he said. “Me, Roma.” So that answered my question that these were indeed gypsies. Now that our origins were established, he felt it was proper to ask me for some money, which I said I didn’t have (well, I had a 20 euro bill). He persisted, as did I. Then he said something that I didn’t understand, but he pointed toward wherever they were living. I imagined that this was an invitation into their living space, but I could not be too sure. Then he asked if he could come with me to Montpellier. This caught me off guard, and I said that I was then going to Sete, then taking a boat to Morocco. I thought this would deter him, but it only seemed to confuse him, and then persist that he wanted to come with me. I think if I would not have been so caught off guard I would have considered it, but at the moment, it just seemed like it would just add stress, and also make it harder to get a ride. If you have been following the news, gypsies are not always looked upon favorably in France.

After he left, I regretted not asking to see their home, but it was too late because I was almost immediately picked up. He wasn’t going far, but after 5 hours of standing in the sun, I was happy to be on the road.

He dropped me off at a roundabout, which had a snack bar (looked like a taco truck) tucked away off the road. I considered going there because all I had eaten was a bit of saucisson, but before I got a chance, the car pulling away from it was stopping to pick me up. And he was going all the way to Montpellier! And he was listening to Rihanna!

The boat from Sete was supposed to leave at 7:00, so I knew it would be a long shot to get there in time. We would getting to Montpellier just before 6:00, and Sete was another 20 or 30 minutes away on a different road. My ride did not think I had a chance, so I decided to point my thumb toward Spain, and try to get to Barcelona overnight.

I was dropped off in a truly terrible spot, so I walked along the highway for about a kilometer and a half (dangerous, yes) because there had been a sign for a tollbooth in a kilmoter. I don’t know what happened, but it was not there. So I got off the freeway and hit the nearest onramp for the highway in the direction of Barcelona. The only problem was that for all the traffic getting onto the freeway, they were all going east, while I wanted to go west. At one point I counted cars for about twenty minutes, and there was a 27:1 east to west car ration.

At 9:00, having still not eaten, or refilled my water bottle, and needing to pee, I walked to the nearest gas station, assuming that I could complete all these tasks while also getting some badly needed road information. I purchased a ridiculously over-priced tiny sandwich (there was no price tag) assuming that this would get me rights to the bathroom, water filling and road information. No bathroom, no water, but I did find out that the tollbooth was about two km further down the highway. It seemed like my only hope.

A long walk back to the freeway, then a long walk along the highway in the dark, and as expected, she had underestimated the distance. After 20 minutes of walking I arrived at the first sign saying that the tollbooth was in 2 km. I took comfort in knowing that they would at least have water and bathrooms as they always seem to. In this process, I found out that I walk, with my pack on, about 1400 steps per kilometer. Very useful information. Truck drivers would occasionally honk at me as they passed, though I am not sure for what purpose. To let me know they were there? I knew already, this just scared the hell out of me every time. It was probably to tell me to get off the road, but maybe if a truck driver ever stopped to pick me up I wouldn’t be so desperate as this.

When I got to the tollbooth I was horrified to see that there was no rest stop portion, nor a good (safe, visible, or legal) place to hitch from. I gave it my best shot, and after a couple hours, very close to what I had designated as my sleeping time, 1:00, a small diesel truck stopped for me. There were two guys, who were speaking Spanish, a relief to me, and an even bigger relief that it was not Spain Spanish. They were from Peru and Ecuador, and the three of us were delighted to have met fellow Americanos. This was actually very comforting, and it seemed like a familiar face in this long and depressing night. Their names were Alberto (the more personable driver), and his companero, Juan, or as Alberto called him “Yackie Chan”, for obvious reasons. It felt good to be speaking a second language and having it actually work, plus these guys were just typical fun-loving Latinos just loving life. I had expected to sleep immediately, but I easily stayed awake for at least an hour and a half. They were transporting equipment from Germany. They said they could drop me off at a town near the border, because they were going to sleep before heading on to Barcelona. Eventually, though, they offered for me to sleep in the back of the truck and then take me all the way to Barcelona the next morning. Sounded perfect to me.

They woke me at about 8:00, and I was still excited to have not had to sleep in the grass on the side of the highway the night before. They even cooked me a breakfast of rice and tuna, which was surprisingly amazing, though I was surprised that they weren’t eating. I offered to share, but they insisted they would get something on the road. They also insisted that I have one of their Beck’s beers that they had brought from Germany. Might as well enjoy the rambling life!

Alberto had a unique creative streak and improvised a plane from a bottle and some cardboard.

An hour and a half later, they dropped me off in a suburb of Barcelona and gave me the warmest wishes for my travels. This will be one of my more memorable rides, with some memorable guys.

Troubles in Hitchland

After finally getting in touch with Jonathan, it sounded like picking apples in Italy might not work out. But I did found out where in Italy he was, and that if I headed there, we could keep looking for work, otherwise, I could just hang out in France. I decided that since hitching had worked so well thus far, I could probably make it all the way to Trento, Italy in a really long day of hitchhiking.

It took me about two hours to get from my couch surfing host’s house to a proper hitching spot in Marseilles. It was a bad start, but I was still upbeat as I waited in the friendly Mediterranean sun.

Two hours later, no progress. The passing people seemed indifferent to my thumb, but sometimes almost confused. I walked to the train station to use the McDonald’s free wireless to find out a better approach. I got kicked out of McDonald’s. A new and hilarious experience, but either way, I was able to get the info I needed.

I took the train north for half an hour to Aix-en-Provence, which would put me in the right direction. Plus, my couch surfing host informed me that they never check tickets on this line, so I didn’t have to pay. Thirty minutes of walking, and I felt like I had a great new hitching spot. People passing by looked amused, friendly, and often apologetic that their car was full, they were going a short distance, or they just didn’t feel like stopping.

After two hours, I was approached by a young frazzled looking guy with a gas can. He didn’t speak English, but explained that his car had run out of gas, but if I walked with him to it, he could take me to the tollbooth, which he said was a better spot. His name was Antoine. On the way we communicated in a mix of Spanish, English and French. He was a college student in the town, and also liked to travel by thumb. He shared a package of cookies with me. By this time it was after 5:00, so I realized that I would not make it to my destination by the end of the day, but if I hitched through the night, I could make it by morning.

This tollbooth was huge and the cars seemed to be moving too fast to see me. It took an hour, but I got a ride with a guy, William, in a big dirty van going Antibes, a town between Nice and Cannes, a little over an hour away. He was going there to buy a motorbike.

So at 9:00 I started again at a tollbooth, but after an hour, security came and said that it wasn’t safe for me to stand there (which was ridiculous, if you could see where I was standing, and how small of a toll booth it was) and that the cops would kick me out if I stayed. So I changed spots, waited another hour or two, then changed spots again.

At 1:00 AM I was freezing. I had packed for Africa, not for hitching to Italy to pick apples. Cars had grown rare at this hour. I realized that even if I did get a ride, it would not be far, and I would be out in the cold again. I decided to get into my sleeping bag and stay warm for a few hours, then give up the Italian dream, and turn back around to Marseilles, where at least I have a couple of couch surfing hosts and beaches. I was unable to sleep, so at 3:00 I decided I would endure the cold again in hopes that I would get a ride, since Marseilles, less than 2 hours away would be less ambitious than going to Italy.

At 5:30 a van stopped, and when I opened the back door, and an empty beer can fell out, I should have refused the ride. But I was cold and desperate. It was three young guys. Wasted. With a dog. They said they couldn’t take me far, but at least get me to a better spot to hitch from. They dropped me off about 2 km away from a tollbooth. I still don’t know if they did me a favor. I mean, it is better to be at a toll booth, but these guys did not know what they were doing, and could have dropped me off sooner. Anyway, I didn’t mind the long walk as it warmed me up. When I got there, I waited intently for the first moments of daylight so I could warm up or be seen by more cars.

By the time the sun rose I felt like a zombie on drugs. I was barely awake, sometimes falling dozing with my thumb out. When I gazed at the asphalt, it seemed to swell and shift like a weird hallucination. I felt panicked that I looked as crazy as I felt and would never get a ride. After about three hours of waiting, I got picked up by the first girl of the trip. Her name was Alexandria and, by American standards, she would have been too young and petite to be picking up hitchhikers. But it is a different story here in Europe where it is a dying, but still common practice for practical purposes. She said she often hitchhiked from her home to where she studies, about an hour and a half away. I was unbelievably grateful to have the ride. She took me all the way to Aix-en-Provence, where she is from, and where I could take the train (for free) back to Marseilles.

After the train ride, I got to the beach as quickly as possible, and proceeded to sleep for several hours. When I got up, I wandered back through the city, and at 8:15 I gave a ring to a potential couch surf host. She said she wasn’t home, but that she could still host me, although she already had two surfers from Lithuania, so it would be crowded. I had the option of either waiting outside her apartment for her to come home, or to come to her friend’s apartment, where she was hanging out. I confirmed that I was welcome, and hopped on the metro to where she was. She and her friends all welcomed me warmly and offered me beer and wine. We hung out until close to 2:00 in the morning, at which point we headed back, where I had a small cot waiting for me in the living room floor.

Lias shoes

I had just started to fall asleep, when the door opened and I realized that the Lithuanian couch surfers were finally arriving. In my grogginess I started talking to them, asking them if they knew about Šarūnas Marčiulionis, the glorious basketball star that played for the Sonics in all of his mustachey glory in the ‘90s. The two girls informed me that he is a hero and he will always save you, wherever you are. They were hilarious, and we stayed up for an hour talking silliness about goat cheese and hitch hiking (they had hitched from London).

Lithuanians

The next day the four of us joined forces in the morning over a simple breakfast of coffee, bread and cheese. Still loving this French eating. We did a mix of sight seeing and errand running. We went to the Notre Dame de something. Sorry, but when it comes to these kinds of sight seeing things, I remember the people and the experience more than what we were actually doing. There was a great quote from one of the Lithuanian girls that is more fun out of context, “It is really hard to be a deaf gay”.

Tourists

The two girls left soon
after to hitch hike up to Amsterdam. They were on a few weeks of vacation from their jobs in England. They were very good hitch hikers, and I was impressed with how efficiently and casually they traveled. For me, hitch hiking rugged or hardcore way to travel Europe, but they just had this attitude that it was an obviously convenient way to travel for cheap. They never seemed to have problems getting rides, and would always try to travel at night to save money on accommodation. I was impressed, but at the same time, they said they got a lot of rides from truck drivers, so it obviously has something to do with their gender, as I have very rarely gotten a ride with a truck driver while hitching.

After we all parted ways, I went to the train station to pick up Lise, as she flew into town for the weekend to visit. The Air France connection continues to pay off. It was her first time in Marseilles, so we wandered around the streets for a while before joining Lia and her friends at a tucked away folk show. It was sort of cliché music, but I liked it, and it was cool to be watching it in a venue that was tiny and virtually invisible from the street.

This night there were two new couch surfers, and Israeile couple who were also traveling by hitch hiking, couch surfing, and sleeping wherever. They were great to chat with, and seemed to make a point of not being the stereotypical Israeli traveler, not that I cared much.

Marseille food

Lise and I spent the next day just wandering around the city. We really enjoyed the neighborhood known as the “panier”, or basket, which seemed like it must be one of the oldest districts of the city, with colorful building and a network of mazy streets. It is true that the narrower the streets, the cooler the neighborhood.

My cliche bike in front of cool wall Europe photo

On the way back, we went through another protest, again against the rise in retirement age. Dynamite sized firecrackers (not exaggerating) shook the streets. I thought it interesting that they didn’t tone down the explosives in response to all the warnings of potential terrorism in Europe. Or maybe they did tone it down.

At around 10:00 that night, Lise, the Israelis, and I set out for a big street party that would be part of an annual celebration in Marseilles. Getting out of the metro and emerging to streets in chaos was a welcome shock. There were makeshift bars and food carts all over the streets to fuel the crowds dancing to different bands or DJs on every block. We wandered block after block looking for Lia and her friends, and on every street it seemed to be a different kind of party with a different kind of music, like all the bars and clubs had just been turned inside out. It was impossible for me not to think of the Grateful Dead song, France. “When the club can’t contain the beat, it just rolls out in the street”, which is specifically referring to the south of France. During the whole night, I think I saw one security officer, not even a cop. I couldn’t imagine how this sort of thing could actually exist, and not erupt into violence or riots. Or maybe that is just what we are told would happen in America. I mean, relatively mild 4^th of July celebrations in parks are crawling with security and law enforcement. At big events, with bad reputations, police bring what seems to be a portable jail or drunk tank. And I am sure it sees plenty of use. So I know that the ability to have unregulated and uncontrolled parties in the streets is not the type of “freedom” that freedom lovers in America are referring to, but damn, it feels pretty good.

Because it was Lise’s first time in Marseilles (though not the south), there was a lot of discussion of the differences between the people. Both sides seem to think of the other as less friendly, for whatever reason. I did find it more difficult to make eye contact and greet people in Marseilles, but I eventually realized that it is because everyone has downcast eyes as they watch out for the frequent dog poo that litters the streets. So I can’t fault them for that. The conclusion I have come up with is that while there might be a difference, there are bigger and more noticeable differences between communities within a location. For example, hanging out with Lise’s friends, to me, felt not too different than hanging out with Lia’s friends, or my friends, or other couch surfers or traveler types that I have met. And in the same way, there are huge portions of the population in Seattle that I might not get along with, as would be the same with Lise in Paris. So trying to generalize people by location seems like a general waste of time, though it is always tempting.

On Sunday afternoon, Lise and I took a relaxing trip to the outskirts of town to visit a former fishing village that Lia had told us about. We wandered around, and yes, it was cute, but it had obviously grown far away from its roots as a blue collar fishing place and was now selling its catch. Elderly tourists were abound to wander the white rocky surrounds that Marseilles is famous for, before eating at one of the many fancy seafood restaurants. We didn’t spend much time there before deciding that we preferred the less quaint town our bus had stopped at on the way. So we hitched a ride back to it and had a basic kebab dinner at a very unpretentious diner populated by heavy smoking middle aged townies playing cards. This was an authentic scene that I think Lise and I were both glad to be witnessing. A different side of France that definitely had a familiar Americana parallel. We really aren’t so different after all (though don’t tell that to Lise).