Salaam from Morocco
Asilah
As the train hurtles out of town, Tangier gradually yields to unfinished residential blocks. Houses permanently lie in wait of the next storey to be added as the family grows. Women collect firewood, children kick footballs around muddy fields and goats wander aimlessly drawing their minders in their wake. Roaming the hills and mountains of Morocco on the whims of half a dozen goats remains a common occupation.
The trains are fertile hunting grounds for hustlers who melt into the crowds scanning for tourists and backpackers. The routine is the same as before and in time becomes boringly familiar; hotels, hash and carpets. Always hash, always carpets. Disembarking at Asilah i am approached by a young man who leads me to the town centre. Fouad provides the usual questions and i provide the usual lies. Here for a few days, i have a hotel booked, our house is chock full of carpets. Nonetheless Fouad persuades me to check out a small "guesthouse" run by his neighbours. The guesthouse turns out to be the bottom floor of the family´s house. It is however roomy and clean and for the same price as a cheap hotel a plate from the family´s dinner table is thrown into the bargain. So why not?
Fouad shows me around town. The Mujaheddin graveyard - forbidden to foreigners but you can have a peek from the 15th century Portuguese ramparts fending off the Atlantic Ocean below. The Medina, a blue rinse of clean, narrow cobblestone alleyways, hosts one of North Africa´s premier art festivals. And the local cafes, filled with men playing cards and board games; nursing coffees or mint teas; watching English and Spanish football on the TV; and smoking hash.
Under benignly smiling photographs of the King Mohammed V, Fouad introduces his friends. It would transpire that most of these young men earn their living from tourists in the legal and illegal service industries. Some have degrees in economics, languages or tourism, but nearly all despair of finding work related to their qualifications and studies. Graduate jobs are hard to come by - and often dispensed to those with the right connections or family name rather than the best qualifications. Munir tells of his forthcoming interview for a cabin crew position with an international airline. This is the job that will set his family up for the next thirty years -and brings the added bonus of travel outside Morocco.
Visas to travel to or work in Europe or America are now extremely difficult to come by. Most of the lads bemoan that since 9/11 the West sees them only as potential terrorists and they laugh at the portrayals on CNN of "the Arab street". Where is this street? Can we go there? Others joke about Al Quaeda and those "fucking Orientals" - by which they mean Syrians, Saudis, Egyptians, seemingly anywhere East of Morocco. Whats with all those beards one exclaims? If whiskers counted for anything, the cat would be King.
Absalaam, a friendly, unemployed literature graduate chats about Irish playwrights, Beckett and Godot. When I curiously ask how he spent his day, he snorts derisively. What is it that you see to do here?" he retorts. "I came here, drank tea, smoked some joints and killed time. That is all we have to do here. Waiting. In Morocco we are all waiting for Godot.
Rabat
Rabat does not delay me long. A stopover on the way South. The capital and administrative centre is a cosmopolitan city that - outside of the Medina - would not look out of place in Europe. In the evenings the nitespots are heaving, the girls wear the fashions of London or Rome, couples stroll the boulevards coyly holding hands. In short it is almost too familiar to draw me in. Mystery is thin on the ground but there is charm in abundance.
Dejamaa is the huge central square where the desert nomads once descended to trade, to be entertained and to relax. Though still catering to visitors from the South, it is now an echo of its earlier self that largely caters to tourists - but also bewitches the locals. The crowds still bustle and are still routinely split by vehicles forcing a way through the throng. Cars, horses, mopeds, bicycles and donkeys all push, beep and brey through at their own relative top speeds. There are monkey tamers, fire breathers, acrobats and story tellers. One man sitting on a rug offers dentistry services for small fees. The tool of his trade is a pair of pliers. In jars at his feet are the soured molars that serve to evidence his proficiency. An art student purchases a couple of hundred of teeth from him for a project. There are also witch doctors from the South selling their snake oils and potions. Storytellers, dancers and musicians amuse and entertain the locals in Arabic and Berber. Tourists breeze past unable to understand the preachings and tales that so clearly dazzle the Marrakeshis.
The atmosphere is in stark contrast to the malevolent and risque air of Tangier, a frontier town where people, drugs and just about anything you're having yourself is smuggled in and out from the beaches to the mountains. Marrakesh has bags of vitality and a certain seeping resignation. A local proverb captures some of the Marrakeshi outlook: "The Dhiram is in the dog's arse and the dog has rabies. "
In the evenings the Dejamaa El Fna fills with the aroma of spices and barbequed meats. The food stalls pitch up lighting the dark sky into a blaze. Competition between the stalls is fierce. Prices are the same across the board - a three course meal costs less than €2.50. Quality varies and it pays take careful note of where the locals sit. But it is in persistence that the hawkers trade. Young men in white hats and coats draw the tourists to their foodstall, gently tugging at their sleeves, throwing out their tired pitches: "Better than Jamie Oliver", "Cheaper than Asda" , "Don't eat there, they serve dog". And just about anything can be eaten. Sheep´s brain has a creamy texture and a strong pungent aftertaste. Cow's lung is moist and squishy. Not to be repeated.
In the mornings a glass of orange juice, squeezed in front of you, costs 25c. But definitely ask for it "sans sucre". Moroccans are very fond of a drink with their sugar. Coffee is served with six or seven lumps of sugar and some will ask for more. The mint teas are laced with it. And it is considered a Western peculiarity not to heap the stuff into your OJ.
In the Hotel Ali, right on the Djemaa i share a dorm with nine other backpackers. There is so much through traffic they clearly have no idea, and couldn´t care less who is in the dorms. When i ask to check in for an extra nite the guy asks for €6 - which includes breakfast and a hot shower and excludes clean sheets and sufficient blankets. I ask if he doesn't need my dorm number and name to check it off in the register. He says not to worry about it. I ask for a receipt he replies not to worry about it. I dont. They keep sending people up to the dorms until somebody comes back and says that all the beds are taken. Then Hotel Ali is full.
And then it was on to the Sahara....
As the train hurtles out of town, Tangier gradually yields to unfinished residential blocks. Houses permanently lie in wait of the next storey to be added as the family grows. Women collect firewood, children kick footballs around muddy fields and goats wander aimlessly drawing their minders in their wake. Roaming the hills and mountains of Morocco on the whims of half a dozen goats remains a common occupation.
The trains are fertile hunting grounds for hustlers who melt into the crowds scanning for tourists and backpackers. The routine is the same as before and in time becomes boringly familiar; hotels, hash and carpets. Always hash, always carpets. Disembarking at Asilah i am approached by a young man who leads me to the town centre. Fouad provides the usual questions and i provide the usual lies. Here for a few days, i have a hotel booked, our house is chock full of carpets. Nonetheless Fouad persuades me to check out a small "guesthouse" run by his neighbours. The guesthouse turns out to be the bottom floor of the family´s house. It is however roomy and clean and for the same price as a cheap hotel a plate from the family´s dinner table is thrown into the bargain. So why not?
Fouad shows me around town. The Mujaheddin graveyard - forbidden to foreigners but you can have a peek from the 15th century Portuguese ramparts fending off the Atlantic Ocean below. The Medina, a blue rinse of clean, narrow cobblestone alleyways, hosts one of North Africa´s premier art festivals. And the local cafes, filled with men playing cards and board games; nursing coffees or mint teas; watching English and Spanish football on the TV; and smoking hash.
Under benignly smiling photographs of the King Mohammed V, Fouad introduces his friends. It would transpire that most of these young men earn their living from tourists in the legal and illegal service industries. Some have degrees in economics, languages or tourism, but nearly all despair of finding work related to their qualifications and studies. Graduate jobs are hard to come by - and often dispensed to those with the right connections or family name rather than the best qualifications. Munir tells of his forthcoming interview for a cabin crew position with an international airline. This is the job that will set his family up for the next thirty years -and brings the added bonus of travel outside Morocco.
Visas to travel to or work in Europe or America are now extremely difficult to come by. Most of the lads bemoan that since 9/11 the West sees them only as potential terrorists and they laugh at the portrayals on CNN of "the Arab street". Where is this street? Can we go there? Others joke about Al Quaeda and those "fucking Orientals" - by which they mean Syrians, Saudis, Egyptians, seemingly anywhere East of Morocco. Whats with all those beards one exclaims? If whiskers counted for anything, the cat would be King.
Absalaam, a friendly, unemployed literature graduate chats about Irish playwrights, Beckett and Godot. When I curiously ask how he spent his day, he snorts derisively. What is it that you see to do here?" he retorts. "I came here, drank tea, smoked some joints and killed time. That is all we have to do here. Waiting. In Morocco we are all waiting for Godot.
Rabat
Rabat does not delay me long. A stopover on the way South. The capital and administrative centre is a cosmopolitan city that - outside of the Medina - would not look out of place in Europe. In the evenings the nitespots are heaving, the girls wear the fashions of London or Rome, couples stroll the boulevards coyly holding hands. In short it is almost too familiar to draw me in. Mystery is thin on the ground but there is charm in abundance.
Marrakesh
As with Tangier, Marrakesh has somewhat of a reputation for hustlers, pick pockets and faux guides. And for those who arrive directly from the airport, the madness of the Dejamaa El Fna square can be a little overwhelming. But after a few days of acclimatisation, we veterans sit in the cafes ringing the square smiling at the bemused faces of the newbies. The bustle, the crowds, the smells, the sounds break on newcomers like giant waves. But measured against Tangier the hustlers here are positively lovely. Almost pleasant. Nowhere near as aggressive or persistent. You can almost hope that saying "La, shukran" (a roughly translated no, thank you) to every entreaty will suffice to ward them off.Dejamaa is the huge central square where the desert nomads once descended to trade, to be entertained and to relax. Though still catering to visitors from the South, it is now an echo of its earlier self that largely caters to tourists - but also bewitches the locals. The crowds still bustle and are still routinely split by vehicles forcing a way through the throng. Cars, horses, mopeds, bicycles and donkeys all push, beep and brey through at their own relative top speeds. There are monkey tamers, fire breathers, acrobats and story tellers. One man sitting on a rug offers dentistry services for small fees. The tool of his trade is a pair of pliers. In jars at his feet are the soured molars that serve to evidence his proficiency. An art student purchases a couple of hundred of teeth from him for a project. There are also witch doctors from the South selling their snake oils and potions. Storytellers, dancers and musicians amuse and entertain the locals in Arabic and Berber. Tourists breeze past unable to understand the preachings and tales that so clearly dazzle the Marrakeshis.
The atmosphere is in stark contrast to the malevolent and risque air of Tangier, a frontier town where people, drugs and just about anything you're having yourself is smuggled in and out from the beaches to the mountains. Marrakesh has bags of vitality and a certain seeping resignation. A local proverb captures some of the Marrakeshi outlook: "The Dhiram is in the dog's arse and the dog has rabies. "
In the evenings the Dejamaa El Fna fills with the aroma of spices and barbequed meats. The food stalls pitch up lighting the dark sky into a blaze. Competition between the stalls is fierce. Prices are the same across the board - a three course meal costs less than €2.50. Quality varies and it pays take careful note of where the locals sit. But it is in persistence that the hawkers trade. Young men in white hats and coats draw the tourists to their foodstall, gently tugging at their sleeves, throwing out their tired pitches: "Better than Jamie Oliver", "Cheaper than Asda" , "Don't eat there, they serve dog". And just about anything can be eaten. Sheep´s brain has a creamy texture and a strong pungent aftertaste. Cow's lung is moist and squishy. Not to be repeated.
In the mornings a glass of orange juice, squeezed in front of you, costs 25c. But definitely ask for it "sans sucre". Moroccans are very fond of a drink with their sugar. Coffee is served with six or seven lumps of sugar and some will ask for more. The mint teas are laced with it. And it is considered a Western peculiarity not to heap the stuff into your OJ.
In the Hotel Ali, right on the Djemaa i share a dorm with nine other backpackers. There is so much through traffic they clearly have no idea, and couldn´t care less who is in the dorms. When i ask to check in for an extra nite the guy asks for €6 - which includes breakfast and a hot shower and excludes clean sheets and sufficient blankets. I ask if he doesn't need my dorm number and name to check it off in the register. He says not to worry about it. I ask for a receipt he replies not to worry about it. I dont. They keep sending people up to the dorms until somebody comes back and says that all the beds are taken. Then Hotel Ali is full.
And then it was on to the Sahara....
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