Loading up on the OJ

Part 5 Colors of Morocco
One thing I didn't find mention of in any guidebook is the HUGE business of growing and selling oranges in Morocco. It seemed that everywhere there were roadside stands selling a glass of orange juice for roughly 5 or 6 dirhams ( $1 = 9DH), with the oranges being squeezed by this mechanical contraption in front of you. Fresh off the farm, so to speak. On one occasion, having been quoted the outrageous sum of 10 dirhams, despite my initial misgivings I went ahead and paid for the glass of OJ and gulped down my drink. Upon learning of this, John had a chat with the proprietor and warned him of the dire consequences of his actions ("No more tour groups, mate!"), thus I was handed back a 5 dirham coin which I promptly blew on a second glass.

Wandering around at Djemaa el Fna, the intense competition among the numerous orange juice stand vendors is readily apparent. For one thing, their stands were virtually identical, were placed right next to each other, and there was no obvious product and price differentiation, thus they relied on their guile to gain your custom. A casual glance in their direction would elicit a stream of entreaties to approach and have a glass. In case one did fancy quenching one's thirst, taking a few steps towards any stand would result in cries from all directions begging you to approach their stand. Yes, you've died and gone to orange juice heaven.

Finally wilting under the hot sun, I approached a vendor's stand at random and ordered a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. "4 dirhams", he barked. A bit lower than what I was accustomed to paying, but this being Morocco no transaction is completed without some semblance of bargaining, thus I haggled down to 3 dirhams which he accepted somewhat grudgingly. I stood there for a few minutes, savoring my drink while watching the madness and chaos of Djemaa el Fna all around. Then it occurred to me to take a photo of the vendor's stand. Knowing fully well how the Moroccan people dislike being photographed and the need for some monetary inducement, I offered him a dirham and gestured towards my camera. He agreed, and I took the picture you see above (look at that frown!). Afterwards, much to my surprise, he filled up one-third of a glass of OJ and handed it over to me, at the same time putting him palm on his heart to indicate that it was a gift. A cynical traveller I admit to being, yet this gesture was quite touching.

Quickstepping in the darkness of Midelt

Part 4 Colors of Morocco

Morocco ranks up there as one of the most unlikelist places to practice my limited salsa dancing skills, being a conservative society with no ingrained Latin rhythms culture. Not even sure they've heard of salsa, in contrast to my previous Central and South American journeys, where sadly didn't get much opportunity to wow everyone - probably all for the best, since I sucked big time. Anyway, just when I was on the verge of questioning my sanity for taking salsa "On 1" despite its limited practical use in the New York club scene, developments in Morocco give me renewed life. (For non-salsa dancers: "On 1" is classic salsa style, "On 2" is New york club style).

As luck would have it, there was this Dutch girl "Bini" in our Intrepid group whom I overheard telling another woman that she liked to take salsa lessons and go to socials once a week or so. I expressed my pleasure at meeting a fellow salsero, replied that that I had been taking classes on-and-off for about a year but noted (as my usual disclaimer is) that my competency level wasn't all that great. Bini herself had been taking them for a year and a half, and was probably more dedicated to the craft than I was.

One night when we stopped in Midelt (in possibly the worst auberge in the entire of Morocco and where moths laid a nest in our bed), after dinner the hotel wait staff, no doubt eager to please yet another batch of captive tourist audience, proceeded to play some Berber music for our entertainment. Or rather, they tried to - sounded like a cat being strangled was the general consensus. After a few minutes of this torture to which we clapped politely on cue, predictably enough they dragged each of us tourists to the dance floor to heave our bodies to the rhythmless music. Not kidding - each of us was clapping and shifting around to different beats! Total asynchronous disorganized dancing at its finest!!! Finally this rather aimless but still joyous celebration had wound down, and I was ready to call it a night, but then - Bini stops by, grabs me by the shoulder and insists we practice salsa...so I was like, "Uh, now? Where???". My hesitance was due to her being the more experienced dancer, my forgetfulness and general ineptitude in executing complicated turns - just ask Frenchie**), and discomfort in performing in front of a large group of people (yes, 12 people qualifies as such).

The group had gone out on the rooftop terrace for drinks, and we decided this was the place to practice - in pitch black darkness no less, and in front of a dozen instant salsa critics. I had unleashed a monster LOL. Despite my initial misgivings, we managed to go through several steps and turns we both knew while having a lot of fun, and even managed to impress our audience. There was even some suggestion of us conducting a basic salsa class for everyone at some point during the trip (sort of like "talent night") - an idea I agreed to as long as Bini taught it. Hahaha...

A couple of nights later, relaxing in the beautiful setting of Todra Gorge in another poorly ventilated hotel, after yet more drinking in the hotel terrace, Bini requests some salsa music to be played and before I knew what was happening, was getting dragged out to dance...half dizzy, half drunk, managed to muddle my way through a few steps and turns - neglected to mention that at this point I had consumed an entire bottle of Moroccan white wine (which wasn't bad at all) - the only reason I drank all of it was that the rest of the group preferred red wine. Jordi, whose family owns the auberge (memo to Jordi: put fans inside the rooms please), told me that in Spain white wine was known as the ladies' wine...oops. In this hampered state, I told Bini to demo some shines which she did while I just puttered about doing the basic step while trying my best not to fall face down on the concrete...so eventually we finished an entire song to much acclaim. That turned out to be the conclusion of my salsa adventures in Morocco, as plans to visit the salsa club in Marrakesh fell through. Fun while it lasted.


**my sometime partner in salsa class who habitually berates me for holding
her hand too tight, failing to catch her after a turn, almost stepping on her feet,
and other egregious sins - all in that cute French accent of hers

Friend for a Day in Casablanca

Part 3 Colors of Morocco

If you're anything like me, instead of watching dumb inflight movies (usually along the lines of "Big Momma's House 2") you like to kill time by practicing your sarcasm on your seatmates, hoping at the same time they wouldn't get too annoyed and put on their headphones. The seven hour flight to Casablanca proved to be quite different though.

Sitting next to me was Karen, and after the initial introductions, we managed to get a good conversation going. She was just connecting at Casablanca and moving onwards to the country of Guinea (NOT to be confused with Equatorial Guinea, people!) where she will be working at a reproductive clinic for a couple of months as part of her Masters in Public Health degree. I sheepishly admitted to having less lofty objectives for my visit to Morocco, only playing the part of not-too-idiotic tourist. Strangely enough, we found each other's planned trip to be fascinating, and this fueled further delving into the other's background and life interests.

Upon arrival at Mohammed V airport, Karen and I decided to share a grand taxi into town. Quite fortunate for me. Her impressive French language skills managed to keep the driver occupied, while I tried to listen for phrases here and there that were comprehensible. The driver tried his best to steer us away from our destination, the Hotel Rio, by claiming it was substandard and suggesting an alternative hotel (plain old Economics 101: the power of incentives, in the form of commissions from the establishments - bien sur!). Among his other "paid for" recommendations were getting massages at a newly opened spa, and somewhat puzzling, touting some newly built condominiums as a great bargain.

The first item on our agenda was to visit the Hassan II mosque, one of the rare mosques open to non-Muslims which possesses the tallest minaret in the world. Visible for miles around, the complex was built at the cost of $800M and was completed in 1993. Guided tours are scheduled a few times per day, with different groups for Spanish, German, French, Italian and English speakers. After paying our 120 dirhams, our group was ushered inside to marvel at the finely decorated interiors, elegant furnishings and design. Almost all of the granite, marble, wood and other materials used in the construction were flown in from Italy, and over a thousand master craftsmen worked around the clock. The mosque can accommodate over 25,000 worshippers inside, and an additional 80,000 in the courtyard. It has its own hammam (communal bath) as well to serve as a social gathering place for locals.

After the tour, what with the heat in Casablanca, we hopped on a petit taxi to one of the finest restaurants in town, Al Mounia, which serves traditional Moroccan food in an elegant setting. It would've been wonderful to sit outside in the garden, but the heat was unbearable and we were both dying for some AC. The lamb tajine dishes were sweet and superb, even if the price was a bit on the high side, and the decoration quite traditional - the quintessential Moroccan restaurant. From then on, it was another petit taxi ride to the new Medina where some shopping for cheap, high quality scarves and babouches (pointed flat-heeled slippers) was done by Karen (I wasn't in a buying mood yet, being so early on the trip).

Finally, jet lagged and wilting from the heat, we looked for a place to have a cool drink and ventured inside the Hyatt hotel (the fanciest digs in town). Unfortunately, after perusing the menu and finding the prices to be a bit stiff, we slipped out to one of the numerous outdoor cafes lining the main streets of Casablanca. One thing most tourists notice immediately is that the clientele is almost entirely male - I thought there was either a massive shortage of women or an entire cadre of unemployed men whiling away their time sipping mint tea - this is not due to any explicit ban on women sitting in cafes, but in traditional Moroccan society the woman's domain is the home and that is where she is normally found. After a couple of Cokes (no alcohol - hey it's a Muslim country) and some interesting conversation, we walked back to the hotel where Karen was being picked up for the ride back to the airport.

Thus ends the day's adventures, an amazing and unexpected experience that only travel can bring. "Friend for a day" is really a misnomer, as we continue to keep in touch. Read more about Karen's adventures in Guinea.

Dentistry at Djemaa el Fna

Part 2 Colors of Morocco

After spending a bit of time in Morocco observing and mingling with the locals, my attention was caught by one trait they consistently possessed, from Casablanca to Fes to Marrakesh: bad teeth. As in grossly misshapen, decaying teeth that would leave me staring in mid-conversation and wondering about the state of dental care (or lack of) in the country. How did this happen? Was it from all those sugar cubes in the mint tea, perhaps? (Speaking as one known to drop in three of those for some very sweet tea).

I finally gathered enough courage to ask Hakima, our guide for the day in Fes, about the situation. According to her, most of the population were unable to afford proper dental care and had to resort to illegal or badly trained "dentists" whenever their toothaches were too much to bear. Well, if you happen to experience such pain, do not have possess dental insurance, and are travelling in Marrakesh - you're in luck. Just wander over to the central square Djemaa el Fna - a madhouse of snake charmers, fortune tellers, story tellers, acrobats and food stall vendors - and make your way to the tooth puller's stand (near the locals walking around placing snakes on unwitting tourists' shoulders, causing some very unpleasant surprises). Marvel at the row of neatly piled molars and rows of false teeth. He will wipe his pair of pliers clean, give you a maniacal grin, and ease your suffering for a few dirhams.

The Case of the Missing Window Handles

Part 1 Colors of Morocco

According to the wildly informative Lonely Planet Guide to Morocco, taxi drivers remove the window handles from their cabs "because it is believed in Morocco that the wind makes you sick."

Unfortunately, as many tourists can attest too, the ever-present hot sun makes the insides of taxicabs pretty stuffy and quite an uncomfortable ride, especially on long distances like the 30km or so from Casablanca airport to downtown. Usually I ask the drivers, "How do I roll down the window?", at the same time making hand signals showing how unbearably hot it was - most instances this request is met by an amused smile, shrugging of shoulders, and the reply, "Sorry, we don't have the window handle". In short, grin and bear it.

One time though, having made such request, the driver opened up the glove compartment, brought out the missing window handle, and passed it to me. I then inserted the handle into the slot and rolled down the window, savoring the welcome respite from the stuffiness inside the taxicab. Afterwards I passed it back onto his outstretched, waiting hand. We both burst out simultaneously in knowing laughter.