Exploring Morocco's South Atlantic Coast

SAFI, OULIDIA, & SIDI BOUZID -- April 15, 2006

After spending a relaxing evening with Said, we became fast friends. I gave up my overnight bus ticket to Fes which I had purchased after returning to Essouira, and opted instead to spend the next few days traveling with my new friends up the Atlantic coast and on to Chefchaouen, a relaxed northern town set deep in the Rif mountains.

The following morning, we began our drive up the coast, passing beautiful scenery as we worked our way northward.

Highlights include:

*Stopping for kefta (barbecued lamb served with Moroccan bread) and fresh oranges from a small roadside stand en route

*Walking along the lookout above Safi's port, and nearly blowing away in the blustery breeze

*Watching as the color of the Atlantic changed before my eyes to a deep sapphire. The color was absolutely magnificent, and the rocky coastline looked like chocolate moon craters! Amazing! The waves crashed against the coast, spray flying through the air like an endless fountain, and the foam sizzled as it settled into the deep pockets in the rock that salt has, over time, eroded away. It reminded me of a bottle of soda shaken then opened. Then, as the foam settled, water trickled down through the craters to the sea below, forming miniature cascades as it ran into the sea.

*Pulling over in a farmer's pasture to snap a few photos of the rocky shoreline below. Walking between goats and cows and seeing the puzzled expression of the face of the farmer as we stepped out of our shiny black car to tiptoe through his pasture. We handed a few dirham to his young son as we scooted back into our seats -- that brought a smile to his face!

*Spending a little time in Oulidia (means in Arabic, "my parents"). A beautiful little beach town. As you wind downhill towards the shore, a calm lagoon appears. The water is tranquil and oh-so-blue. On the seaside of the lagoon, past a narrow strip of raod and boardwalk, a garden of chocolate moon craters stretches out towards the sea. Here the fishermen sit, with heavy rainjackets for some protection from the heaving waves, waiting patiently for their catch. Here, among plentiful varieties of fish, oysters are netted in -- the only place in Morocco to find them fresh.

*Enjoying a cold drink from the terrace of a snazzy cafe in Sidi Bouzid, where we stop for the night.

*After putting away a delicious tajine, taking a midnight walk along Sidi Bouzid's boardwalk. The sound of the waves crashing in the distance... I never tire of it!

~Melanie

Highs and Lows in Imsouane

IMSOUANE & TAMRI, MOROCCO -- April 12-13, 2006

Ali, Adir, and I arrived in Essouira at 4AM, but after having no luck at finding accomodations, slept for a short three hours before waking again to continue to the small fishing village of Imsouane, another hour and a half down the coast. Imsouane is known to a few European travelers, who come for the excellent surfing waves that this small harbor have in abundance.

It was here we found a small apartment to rent, in the same complex where a young Englishman, Jack, from Cornwall was staying. While we waited for the apartment to be cleaned, we wandered around the harbor to the shoreside, where a small restaurant specializing in the freshest catch of the day was happy to offer us a table.

Naturally, as everything works on a different timetable in Morocco, we told the owner how much fish we wanted to buy, and he sent the fisherman off to catch it. It was a few hours later before the fish had been caught, cleaned, and barbecued tajine-style. When it was finally served, I was baffled by the incredible flavor and texture of this ocean fish. Honestly, I would say it is the best fish I have ever eaten. Well worth the wait.

By now, however, I am running on absolute empty. My 14-hour bus ride from the night before netted me only a couple hours of quality sleep, and added to last night's 3 hours crammed in a sedan with two other people, my body had had it.Having fought a losing battle against a raging urinary tract infection -- on top of traveler's diarrhea -- for the past 10+ days, I began heading into rough seas with a fever that wouldn't stay down. My body was using its last defenses to burn off this infection, and it was wreaking havoc on me.

Even though the temperatures were in the 70's and 80's, I was wearing three layers of clothes, including two sweaters, to combat the chills. My energy levels were depleted, and nearly everything I ate seemed to create more intestinal discomfort. I was beginning to lose my optimism, beginning to find my heart filling with despair.It was at this time that I met Jack, who was kind enough to bring me some medicine and English company. Within minutes, I was passed out, and slept for hours, well into the night.

~Melanie

Adir and Ali: Angels in Gangsta Disguise

IMSOUANE, MOROCCO -- April 12-13, 2006
(continued)

The following morning, I still felt quite ill, but agreed to join Ali and Adir to Agadir, an hour and a half south, to retrieve Ali's father from the hospital there. The kicker was that we would be stopping at a public bath house to take hot showers in Agadir, something I was desperately in need of, but our meager apartment in Imsouane couldn't provide. When you're ill, a cold-water bucket bath in a small and smelly room with a squat toilet for drainage is enough to turn you off to washing altogether.

In Agadir, we stopped at the souq to pick up soap, shampoo, and other bathing essentials. Souqs are like a shopping mall times 20, crammed into 1/20th of the space, with all wares on display, from floor to ceiling and in every conceivable nook and cranny. Vibrant scarves, racks of jellabahs, woodwork, metalwork, fine jewerly, clay tajine pots, every piece crafted by hand. I enjoyed every minute of that blessed hot shower. It was the first time in I can't remember how long since I had been able to give my hair a good wash.

Next we drove to the hospital. Ali had made an emergency trip to Morocco from Switzerland after learning that his father had a severe infection in both legs and needed to be hospitalized. Adir had found him in his apartment, all electricity and water cut off, in agonizing pain, and had called Ali to let him know of his father's condition.

Still, with this background, I was not prepared for the sight I beheld as I entered the hospital room where his father lay. His legs, blood red from open wounds and iodine, were bloated and looked painfully infected. Huge portions of his outer tissue had been cut away. If you can imagine leprosy, this did not look far from it. I had a sudden appreciation for the wisdom, knowledge, and hygienic conditions of our medical facilities in the States. It made me think twice about sticking around any developing country for major medical attention.

I began a course of Ciproflaxin 500mg (which can easily be obtained over the counter from any pharmacy in Morocco, unlike at home, where a prescription is required). By morning, my fever had broken, and I could feel energy returning to my body. The worst was over. My optimism was returning.

Imsouane had been good for me, but I was ready to move on from my travels with Adir and Ali. They had come when I really needed someone, and were such perfect gentlemen. They would not let me pay for anything in the two days that I traveled with them. They sat up with me when my fever was at its highest -- 102.7F -- and put cold compresses on my head.

They brought me water and yogurt, and one night, when I was feeling strong enough to eat something more substantial, offered me the best part of that night's tajine. I couldn't recognize the taste, so I asked Ali what I had eaten. I wasn't sure whether to gag or choke back my laughter at his response -- goat testicles!!

These two young guys -- the closest thing to wanna-be gangstas I've ever seen -- nursed me back to health, and expected absolutely nothing in return. For that, they will always be my angels.

~Melanie

Night Flight from Marrakech

RISSANI & MARRAKECH, MOROCCO -- April 10-11, 2006

After a long day of waiting around dusty Rissani and a nightmarish 14-hour bus ride, I am back in Marrakech. I have some decisions to make.

I have found myself in an increasingly difficult situation, where the boundaries between being a friendly traveller and doing what is in my best interest have been crossed and at times compromised.

I have had the growing concern that the young Moroccan I have been traveling with has plans to keep me here. Nearly everywhere I have gone -- literally with the exception of the hammam visit with his mother, and a couple of very short excursions on my own, I have been accompanied everywhere. I would hate to affix the wrong word to describe this situation, but concerns have been swelling within me, and I am feeling less and less comfortable.

I know it is time to make a break, so after a visit to the Jardin Majorelle this afternoon, I begin what turns into a 3-hour conversation with Monir about my decision to leave. It does not go well.

Back at his house, I am given a small window of time to do something drastic when he leaves to pick up a bottle of water from the market on the corner. I literally throw my belongings together and make a run for it. I know, this sounds Harrison-Ford-Fugitive-like and blown out of proportion. In all honesty, I have underexaggerated the situation here. And a sprint out of the door -- and out of town -- was entirely called for.

I was lucky that tonight was the festival for Mohammed's (hailed prophet of the Muslim religion) birthday, and the streets were absolutely packed with people. That was good news -- there was no chance I could be found. The bad news is that every hotel, guesthouse, and available bed was taken. I had few options at this point. I had used up my adrenaline, had been fighting a UTI and fever of over 100F, and was exhausted and in need of someplace to sleep.

I met two interesting young guys, Ali and Adir, also Moroccan, though one of them (Ali) had actually lived in Florida and Switzerland for the past 10 years. Fortunately for me, Ali spoke fluent English, and something told me I could trust him. I'm learning to listen to those gut-level intuitions. He had a car and was leaving Marrakech for Essouira (coastal town 3 hours away), and after weighing out all my options, I decided to join Ali and Adir.

About 15 minutes into our drive to Essouira, we pulled into the lot of a cafe/restaurant. I assumed we were all stopping for something to eat/drink, since Ali had mentioned we would stop before driving the rest of the way, so I left my bags in the car. But after Ali and I got out of the car, Adir sped off -- some errand to run before we left town. I was trying not to panick when, an hour later, Adir still had not returned. ALL of my belongings -- including my passport, my emergency cash, everything, were in that car. In my small backpack, which laid in the backseat were my iPod, my cameras, and other valuable items that would be easy to pilfer.

My only consolation was that Ali seemed concerned as well. We waited for what seemed like an eternity. The cafe closed down, and we were left just standing on the side of this desolate road as the night creeped on. I was seconds from demanding we take a taxi back to town and sort things out with the police, when suddenly Adir appeared.

My first instinct was to check my bag to find out what had been stolen. I tried to be inconspicuous as I unzipped its compartments. I was surprised -- and very relieved -- to find that everything was there, exactly where I had left it. It was at this moment that I realized I had found someone I could trust. And it was a good thing. Because over the next few days, I was going to need them.

~Melanie

Morning Breaks in Hassi Labied: Sunrise Camel Trek to the Dunes

HASSI LABIED, MOROCCO -- April 10, 2006

We meet our guide the next morning at 5:15 AM outside the kasbah. Two camels are sitting pretty just inside the fence in the courtyard. He points to the tall pile of blankets and padding headed upon their backs, and we carefully hoist ourselves into the "saddle." On command, each camel rises first with its back legs and then with its front, pitching us high in the air as we grip tightly to the handholds to stabilize ourselves. As quickly as that, we head out immediately into the dark towards the dunes, chasing the dawn.

I can't get over the sensation of riding camelback. It is similar to a horse, with a rocking motion that keeps your torso and upper body forever creating a rhythm of front-to-back motion. But the camel's back is much higher from the ground, and he seems to waddle or sway slightly from side to side. It's enjoyable enough for a short journey, but I'm glad we're not caravaning to Algeria.

We approach the first of the dunes. The guide walks ahead of us, ahead of the camels. He walks barefoot through the sand, with only his rope and the sound of his voice to keep the camels in step. A white turba encircles his head, and the light blue jellabah he wears wavers in the steady morning breeze. We bear down the side of a dune, and I grip tightly to the holds to keep myself arighted on the camel's back. We trek for nearly 30 minutes into the dunes, and then dismount to begin our ascent on foot to the top of another dune.

We scramble behind our guide, whose steps -- both pace and placement -- are evidence that he is well acquainted with these dunes. Our feet disappear in the thick sand as if it were puddles of nutmeg swallowing our ankles whole.

We spend the next 30 minutes on the cusp of the dune, watching as the sun gradually works its way above the horizon and filters over the wind-shaped dunes, casting deep shadows in the placs the sun won't reach. I stand facing the sun, my arms spread wide open towards the sun, a cool breeze washing over my body. It is a perfect moment. I feel fortunate to be standing here in this place, at this time, living this experience.

Suddenly my bubble of euphoria is burst by the throaty calls of a few young tourists who have settled with their caravan on the adjacent dune. I can tell by their accent (or lack thereof) that they are American. They seem so oblivious to the calmness that those who have trekked to the dunes wish to experience. For the first time since I began my travels, I shrink at being American.

We wait for the barbarians to depart, and then saunter back to our camel. I slide down the side of the sand dune, using my rear end as my boogey board. It is hilarious fun. By the time I reach the camels, I am a mess of sand. My shoes feel filled with lead, I am carting so much sand inside them! Too soon we are back at the kasbah, dismounting our camels for the second and final time. But oh, the experience... I hope I'll ride a camel again before leaving Morocco!

~Melanie

Into the Dunes

HASSI LABIED, MOROCCO -- April 8-9, 2006

I was up at 5:30 AM this morning and caught a brief glimpse of the sun rising beyond the dunes. Only me and the roosters are awake at this hour, or at least as far as I can see. After chasing down the best view I could find of the rising sun, I settled into the same spot where I enjoyed the cricket concert last night, mesmerized by the absolute stillness of this place, this tiny town on the edge of nowhere, with enough sand to bury Mount Rushmore and then some.

Aside from the pesty flies, there is everything to love about this place. It doesn't scream in your face, "Follow me, I make a special price for you!" It gives you space to come on your own. And you find that before long, you are happily comfortable being surrounded by the absolute quiet that it gives to you to lavishly.

After a light breakfast, I am off to find the dunes. I pass through a small vegetable garden fringed with palm trees, and come to an adobe mud wall that is begging to be climbed. On the other side, I look out over a wide expanse of scenery I have never beheld in my life. Sand dunes, rising into the deep blue sky like mountains of red-gold, fill my view. The dunes stretch across the horizon, their peaks and valleys a patchwork of shadow and light.

I set my sights on the highest dune and begins climbing towards it. My feet sink in the sand like deadweights, and for a moment my legs are convinced they are not in the desert, but climbing the stairmaster which seems to be stuck at level 20. It's surprising to me how much effort it takes the climb even short distances here among these other-worldly sand dunes.

The journey to the tallest duen is must further and more difficult than it appears. As I reach the top of one dune, another appears before me, like an accordion unfolding a bit at a time to reveal it surprising length. We reach the top of one dune and stand of the cusp of its perfectly formed edge, where winds heading in two separate directions collided and left their mark. Everywhere else, the surface of the sand is streaked with the ribbony waves of the wind.

Finally, we settle for the second tallest dune and sit on our high desert perch, surveying the rugged landscape below which transitions from mountains of sand, flattening into a narrow green oasis, behind which are the simple kasbahs of Hassi Labied. And in the far distance, mountains of the Atlas Range rise majestically in shades of purplish-blue.

The silence, the immensity, the striking contrast of sand and sky is spellbinding. We sit with eyes wide open as the desert wind gently blows at our backs. A few hours later, back at the kasbah, my skin reveals a scarlet-red Saharan sunburn. Not quite the momento I had in mind!

After an afternoon nap to wait out the worst heat of the day, I wake to the sound of wind screaming across the plains. My plan was to trek out to the dunes again in time to watch the sunset from my perch on one of the dunes. But the wind is intense -- a vicious sandstorm is in the works. The sky is gray from flying debris. Any hopes of seeing the sunset are shattered.

I fall back into a deep sleep until 8:00 PM and awake to a Berber-style dinner -- omelette cooked in tajine with tomatoes and green pepper, and the traditional Berber all-purpose seasoning known as the "44-Spice." I don't think I can name 44 spices. Nonetheless, it is dangerously hot but delicious. We wash it down with the juice made of mango pulp. Delicious.

We take a night stroll through the village, reveling in the peace of a place so desolate. Because of the heavy winds, which have since slowed to a light breeze, the starts are thickly covered in clouds of dust tonight.

We return to the kasbah, and are invited to tea with Rashid and Isabel, owners. I enjoy an hour of conversation in English with this French woman who came many years ago to Morocco as a backpacker and left with a husband, only to return three years ago to build this kasbah and being her own business. She offers us an excellent price for a camel trek into the dunes for sunrise tomorrow. When we had arrived last night, Rashid had quoted us 400dH per person (for a 2-hour trek). Now, we have been offered a price of 150dH per person. We can't possibly refuse.

~Melanie --Posted by Melanie to The World Beckons. And She Moves. at 12/09/2006 01:17:00 PM