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LISBON-
MARRAKECH-
BARCELONA
2004
PORTUGAL:
Tides and Tiles
MOROCCO:
Into Interzone
Medina Medina O Let Me Sleep
Like Prozac in the Desert
The Chicken Thieves
1001 Guides through Fès
Chilling in Chaouen
SPAIN:
Ruining of the Bulls
MOROCCO
(video)
color, 4'22"
June/July 04
View/Download:
Quicktime-
240x180, 8.8 MB
[ PHOTO ARCHIVE ]
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Marrakech - Dadés Gorge / Morocco
02 - 03 July 2004
In the Kasbah of Ait Benhaddou.
The roads start getting small and windy after an hour or so, not even too far of a distance from the big city. The small towns are unremarkable; mostly dirty, depressing looking places... women walking around in various stages of work, men often sitting drinking tea in the shade or squatting next to a building or curb. I don't know why it's like this, but it seemed to be an absurd equation-wherever we went, particularly in those two days, I saw women working and engaged in some kind of labor, and more often than not, men lounging about. Strange. You get the idea someone lost a bet. Or someone smokes way too much Kif and is permanently lazy.
Steve at the Wheel. On the way to Dadés Gorge.
Stranger are the straggly characters who come out into the middle of the road when you try to drive by. They wave large rocks, stones, and minerals at your windows, and they duck out of the way just before you would hit them. Trying to get you to stop, look at their silly wares. Every most scenic viewpoint in the mountains and passes seemed to be graced with a souvenir shop or table of rocks and three-toothed vendor. We even drove past one desperate looking man, who appeared to need help with his automobile. He stood confused-looking before his open hood, gazing at the engine, and as our car neared him, he jumped to the street and tried to flag us down to pull over. Having been warned of a scam that sounds quite identical to this, we continued driving. And the bastard didn't even wait until we were past and fully out of sight before he re-approached the hood of the car, slammed it closed, shrugged his shoulders and got back in his car to start it up! We laughed for quite a while, but it was also somehow sad to me that if he HAD really had a problem, it was a pity no one would help him.
The Kasbah of Ait Benhaddou.
We take a side road, head north down an older looking road, and after 9 km get to the massive Kasbah, literally an ancient city-village on a hill, at Ait Benhaddou. A few Hollywood films have been made here, since the place looks so old, so forgotten. I was excited to hear that both 'The Sheltering Sky' and 'The Last Temptation of Christ' were filmed around here. We wandered out of the car, not sure if we could trust, let alone understand, the small boy who seemed to be trying to extort a ransom from us should he watch and protect the car. We walked on and wandered up partially into the Kasbah, marveled at the bizarre structures and landscape, snapped some photos, and spied on some sleepy residents. Back at the car, the small boy, who had in fact not stayed with the car, but followed us half-way to the Kasbah was now turning up the intensity on his request for a few Dirham for 'watching the car,' which he could not truly claim to have done. The notorious puppy-dog eyes and I'm-gonna-die-of-hunger-in-five-minutes frown, which promptly vanished as soon as we shut the car doors and began to back out of the parking lot.
Most of the drive through this landscape was very lunar. Rocks and more rocks, dry, red, and orange earth. Dust filling the air. Very few other cars on the roads. Slow paced kilometers from one ghost town to the next. It all reminded me somehow of Arizona or New Mexico, the American Southwest.
Excitement struck in Ouarzazate, where we stopped to have lunch. Hungry and thirsty and confused we pulled up to the first tourist-receptive looking restaurant on what we thought was the main strip of activity in the town. Unfortunately, we were off by about a kilometer, as I'd misunderstood the map. Which would explain why we were being eyeballed like we were the first non-Arabs they had seen in a few months. After a minute of dual-directional complete lack of comprehension, we said SORRY and walked across the street to another place to see if they understood the word 'Menu'. They did, and after some fumbling French and sparse English we'd ordered drinks and food for lunch. There was some confusion as to the price of the grilled chicken which was labeled on the French Menu as costing 14 DH (about 1.30 EU) and the price he repeatedly said and pointed to in my Arabic phrasebook, 18 DH (about 1.80 EU). But we seemed to agree on 18, in three different languages, primarily however with his saying, clearly, 'AEIGH-TEEENNN'.
Forty-five minutes later I was already finished with my boring as hell Vegetable Tangine, and the grilled chicken arrives. Never mind that we had just watched a man leave the restaurant, cross the street and go down two places and then return, avoiding our stares, with a small bag about the size of a small grilled bird. So the chicken is on the table, the 3 others indulge, remark how it is cold, cold like it came out of the fridge. Cold, as in the temperature which even our drinks are not and probably never were. No matter, their hunger must be attended to. The chicken was eaten by my co-travelers, and shortly thereafter the bill arrived. Instead of the clearly spoken '18' now I see on the bill it written as '80' (about 8 euros) - the price you might just maybe pay at a top restaurant in a big city, but never ever, at some small town café in the middle of nowhere that serves only locals. In fact, back in Marrakech, even on the square one could get a HOT grilled chicken of the same size and appearance at the quite-touristed food stalls for 20 or 25 DH. Still a quarter what this joker was trying to take from us.
As always happens, when we tried to debate the bill he suddenly knew absolutely no English, asides from a now very clearly articulated 'EIGHT-TY! EIGHT-TY!' We tried to reason with the poor chap, in French, in English, from the Arabic phrasebook, but he was insistent that his cold chicken costs 80 DH-- which is more than most Moroccans earn in 2 days of working. I re-wrote the bill, even changing 18 to 20, giving him an extra 2 DH, re-totaled it and we handed him 50 DH, for a bill that was 110, but should have been 48 Dirham. Some would argue that you just pay the six euro difference and leave, not wasting the energy or effort or frustration for such a -by western standards- relatively small sum. But I'm of the strong conviction that allowing yourself to be duped, especially when you know someone is trying to swindle you, is not just about that small change difference then and there. It's about every tourist that comes after you, and every local who will get pushed away because the merchant has been trained that his tricks will work and tourists are walking wallets who will dispense any sum on command.
We walk to the car, get in, and make to leave, but the waiter and two of his buddies come out to the street where we are about to pull out. They are telling us NO NO EIGHTY EIGHTY but we just keep saying SORRY BYE BYE, and we manage to calmly pull out and drive away.
The afternoon joke became that we were the STOLEN CHICKEN BANDITS or the CHICKEN THIEVES and that the police would be setting up road-blocks for us and there would be fat, sweaty Arab sheriffs to reckon with, or armies of rock-hurling Cold-Chicken-Avengers. Of course we were careful not to laugh too much, at least until after we got past Ouarzazate city limits-- the little gate structure, however solely symbolic, before and after every town or city. And even then we knew the next day we would have to drive through that town again. It was hilarious, but there was also a certain air of uncertainty, concern.
Through more lunar Death Valley landscape and dust, we reached more small towns with squatting men and working women, and then the Vallée des Roses and town of El Kelaa M'Gouna, somewhat famous for selling every imaginable rose product- rose water, rose powder, rose oil, rose anything, with hand-painted signs Rose-ing up the place. Shortly before dusk we reached Boumalne du Dadés, and in the dirt parking area, a scarab beetle bigger than my hand. We chase it around a bit.
Your author in Boumalne du Dadés.
Our second attempt at finding a reasonable and price-worthy hotel was successful, we unloaded and surveyed the view of the canyon and valley from the terrace. Quite breathtaking. And the rooms are clean and good, we can't complain. Then we headed down to the downtown, one block away, where we found some cold drinks which turned into a long dinner on the roof-top restaurant and some conversation, laughs and photographs with a number of locals. Back at the hotel, we sat up rather late into the night talking on the terrace, a cool moon up in the dark sky. We talked of being away from your homeland for months or years at a time. We talked of work, careers, money, and social obligation. We talked of different customs and different languages and different attitudes.
And then I went to my room and shut off the lights and heard the crickets and frogs doing their nightly duet as I read and then fell asleep.
Twisting Roads in Dadés Gorge.
Kasbah #43617. Dadés Gorge.
Overturned Lorrie on the side of the poor roads.
The next morning we have breakfast at the same down the street café as the previous night. Back into the car and then we start driving north-east on the rock-strewn, often uneven dirt roads. Little villages, dusty towns, people working in the fields, guiding animals, carrying loads. We pass a recently overturned truck in a ditch on the side of the road. Frightening.
The drive up the Gorge was nice, comfortable and spectacular visual stimuli. Through most of the winding roads a thin body of water flowed alongside the road. Small shops, even a handful of little guesthouses, speckling the path and the odd hillside. I was a little sad to recognize then that we could have stayed the night somewhere outside of town.
After a few hours of driving the windy roads through the canyon we decide we have reached the point where having a four-wheel drive car would be essential for continuing. We turn around and head back. Stopping next to the flowing water at one point there is a woman guiding her goats down the road. She picks up rocks and begins to throw them at the car! We get the message and speedily move on.
Further down we pull over to get out and wade in the river a bit. The water is ice cold, makes a beautiful sound as it rushes by. The sun beams down brightly, but it is not too hot. Goats climb on the hillsides precariously. Butterflies and dragonflies buzzing around. And the goat lady is catching up-- we get back in the car and drive.
We pass the over-turned truck in the ditch and now there are men from a second car who look like they are working on the truck. On closer inspection I realize they are salvaging, or should I say stealing, parts and diesel from the truck. Robbing it like a dead soldier! One of them is trying to syphon diesel out of the tank into a small tin can, another sorting through broken glass and items on the dirt next to the smashed driver's side door. When they see my camera one guy starts asking me in French-esque why I am taking photographs. I reply with, "Why Not?" and as I turn to take another photo, I realize they are all getting back in their car and getting out of here now. Well, someone didn't want his picture taken!
We drive slowly back to the town of Boumalne du Dadés, check out of our rooms, load up the car and begin the long dusty drive back to Marrakech. The lunar landscape seems somehow even more desolate than yesterday. We pass mirage like oasis time and time again, as well as Kasbahs off in the distance. Then we are back to the winding roads and street-walking car-threatening mineral characters.
On the Road - Back to Marrakech.
Boy with Wheel Toy. Village in the High-Atlas Mountains.
Back into Marrakech we are completely disoriented. Using my compass and the map we try several times to navigate to something or somewhere recognizable. It's useless. If there are street signs, they are in Arabic usually. After one lap around town, or so it seems, we are back at square one and end up driving into the Medina. Which I was afraid might happen. The streets are packed and scarcely wider than the width of the car plus one bicycle sliding by, or a fat man with a donkey, but not all four. Children, women, shop men, everyone is walking about, crowding the streets of the Medina, and it's almost dinner time. We are driving slowly into the maze and it's getting thicker and darker.
A boy on a bicycle appears magically at the passenger side window and asks us where we want to go. We tell him 'train station!', and he sets off telling us to follow. One tiny street or alley after another. But really we should not be driving here at all, as there are rarely other cars and no one can appreciate it anyway, especially now. The boy darts down one path, then around a corner. We gingerly make the corners and follow the streets past chickens, sheep, children, vegetable sellers, butchers, and mini-mosques. When we exit the Medina we seem to know almost immediately that we are close to the Djeema el-Fna square. Knowing the car rental place is just around the corner we decide to botch the train station planned visit with the car, and go later with a petit-taxi to get tickets.
The boy with bike of course scowls at our idea of a reasonable tip for his help, but then disappears as quickly as he had arrived. We are directed to park the car in a lot next to the office, which turns out to be a pay parking lot. By this time the woman who works the Car Rental comes down and starts telling us, yes, first we need to pay to park the car (!) and then to have the car washed. We tell her she's out to lunch and that the car isn't due back until the next day and we are returning it at an advantage to her 12 hours early. Nevermind the fact that these charges were never previously mentioned and can't be official. Of course the pressure to pay for all the extra costs dissipates after moments, she didn't require much convincing, and we unload our bags. In walking away from the car something didn't feel right, I don't know what. I've learned to trust sudden feelings like that in traveling. They usually mean something. I go to check the car again and see that, indeed, my hunch and feeling of incompleteness was justified-- there is a full wallet still laying there on the back seat. Needless to say, the wallet's owner was very happy with my decision to have checked the car once more for any remaining belongings.
"Ah, Don't worry about it! You can buy me a fresh orange juice on the square." One is of course not enough, and I buy the second round.
Leaving the Australian couple some peace after two days with us in the back seat riding through the desert, that evening Sebastiano and I repeat the Djeema el-Fna outdoor market mayhem eating ritual. We allow ourselves first to be lured by a good number of the places, just to see what they were offering to eat, and to have some fun with the game. These guys do appear to either be really angry or upset should you not let them plant you on the bench in front of their grilled assortment, but no worries, they are most certainly just faking it and will happily move on to the next set of hungry looking passer-bys. The first two nights and dinners on the market square were excellent. This one unfortunately doesn't match them.
S and I hang out up on the roof of Hôtel Ali rather late and we over look the activity on the square. We discuss politics and he tells me about Madrid and the Media, and we talk about the U.S. led war going on in the Middle East and the upcoming 2004 elections.
Between sentences and cigarettes the sounds of the square drift in the night. Dozens of snake charmer recorders piping away, drums and strange percussion instruments beating rhythmically from the dancing circlets of people, lights of the vendors glowing shapes into the night, smoke lifting to the clear warm heavens from a hundred food stalls under the moonlit Moroccan sky.
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