Note: As you can see, I'm having photo problems. Hope to have that fixed soon.
-Brian
TRAVELOGUE PART TWO
MARRAKECH, CARE TO HAGGLE?
Something I forgot to mention in the last installment. Most of the “toilets” in Morocco are holes in the floor, which you squat above. Think about that for a second … Oh yes, and they don’t seem to understand the notion of wiping your bum after you’ve shat. So often there is no toilet paper. But enough about unsanitary conditions, let’s move on to fresh-squeezed orange juice, cobras, and monkeys on a leash. Yes, I’m talking about the medina in Marrakech, the second-largest marketplace in Morocco.
But first, our train ride from Casablanca was the first pleasant travel experience we had had thus far, as I read Dicken’s Martin Chuzzlewit and E read Rand’s Fountainhead as we snacked on digestives (what the Brits call their cracker/cookie thingies) and watched the fairly comprehensive scenery, which was far from the desert we had expected to blanket Morocco. We arrived in Marrakech at 6 pm on the 27th, where we were met by a friendly and honest taxi driver (a rarity, many are friendly and dishonest) named Ahmed who took us to our hotel and gave us his cell phone number if we were interested in a guided tour of the city. Marrakech traffic, as we realized during this jaunt, is unlike anything we had ever experienced. There were lines on the road, but no one seemed to follow them. It was like the Indy 500, cars constantly jockeying for position on one broad expanse of road, while thousands of motorbikes and bicycles whizzed in and out of openings. If the congestion hadn’t kept our speed down, I would have been much more worried, as Jerry Seinfeld’s bit on the seemingly groundless faith taxi drivers inspire even when driving crazily kept popping into my head.
When we arrived at the Hotel Ali, a tourist/backpacker hostel that served meals on the roof terrace, we famished travelers rushed upstairs to wolf down a splendid buffet of Moroccan food while staring out into the marketplace located in the Djema’a Al-Fna, literally, the Assembly of the Dead, where sultans used to hold public executions and beheadings. After wandering around the square a bit, we called it a night. The next day was a whirl of seeing Marrakech.
We saw the Museum of Marrakech, which displayed modern art, including several great paintings, and was set in an old Vizier’s palace.
We saw the ruins of an old mosque that was now a tourist playground.
And we strolled through the Al-Bahi’a Palace in the southeastern quadrant of Marrakech, which looked like a mix between a hotel garden and deserted resort. But it was quite beautiful.
Later that day we went shopping, as I bought a leather bag and an Arsenal football jersey (but not without a lot of haggling). The jersey will come in handy this weekend, as I bought on impulse a ticket to the FA Cup Semifinal in Cardiff, Wales this coming Saturday, in which Arsenal takes on Blackburn. By the way, if you don’t already know, I’m a huge Arsenal fan. I’ve got a Robert Pires bobblehead doll next to me right now. Good ol’ No. 7. A few Arsenal pictures from my London leg of the trip will be in a later post. After the shopping, we decided to walk directly through the Medina to the bus station to buy tickets for our Tuesday (the 29th) morning trip to the Cascades D’Ouzoud, a gorgeous waterfall camping area three hours outside of Marrakech. I followed obediently behind Elizabeth, because she has some sense of direction, and I can generally get lost in my own house. We trekked around for 30 minutes following her father’s tried and true method, which is to ignore the streets and just be sure of going in the correct compass direction the whole time. 30 minutes later we turned into a square. It looked familiar, we both noticed, before realizing that we were back in the Djema’a Al-Fna. It was a splendid 30 minute loop. We gave up on finding the bus station that day. Instead, we took a taxi to the train station to buy our return overnite ticket to Tangier for when we returned from the Cascades D’Ouzoud. Of course, in my normal bungling fashion, I bought the tickets for April Fool’s Day, instead of March 31 like I should have. Oops. We later had to correct that on March 31, which lost us our beds on the train, and made for a miserable nite leaning against the window. But more on that later.
That nite, E and I felt in the mood for a drink, so we were going to check out one of the many terrace restaurants ringing the square. But we were informed that no alcohol is served near the square, and were instead directed to the Grand Hotel Tazi, five minutes away, where beer was served in a lounge at the front entrance. We were on our third Special Flag, the home-brewed lager, when an Australian at the next couch asked if he could join us. He introduced himself as Nick, and we later learned he was headmaster of a London reform school. E and I had a nice two hour chat with him over several more rounds of beer, before we called it a nite at 1 am to head to bed. He gave me his phone number, to call him up when I was in London, but unfortunately I never got around to ringing him up.
The next morning, we woke up at 545 still groggy, in order to pack, before catching a taxi to the bus station. But that’s the beginning of another story entirely, so I will leave off there.
Until tomorrow, here's your moment of zen, straight from Marrakech:
-Brian
TRAVELOGUE PART TWO
MARRAKECH, CARE TO HAGGLE?
Something I forgot to mention in the last installment. Most of the “toilets” in Morocco are holes in the floor, which you squat above. Think about that for a second … Oh yes, and they don’t seem to understand the notion of wiping your bum after you’ve shat. So often there is no toilet paper. But enough about unsanitary conditions, let’s move on to fresh-squeezed orange juice, cobras, and monkeys on a leash. Yes, I’m talking about the medina in Marrakech, the second-largest marketplace in Morocco.
But first, our train ride from Casablanca was the first pleasant travel experience we had had thus far, as I read Dicken’s Martin Chuzzlewit and E read Rand’s Fountainhead as we snacked on digestives (what the Brits call their cracker/cookie thingies) and watched the fairly comprehensive scenery, which was far from the desert we had expected to blanket Morocco. We arrived in Marrakech at 6 pm on the 27th, where we were met by a friendly and honest taxi driver (a rarity, many are friendly and dishonest) named Ahmed who took us to our hotel and gave us his cell phone number if we were interested in a guided tour of the city. Marrakech traffic, as we realized during this jaunt, is unlike anything we had ever experienced. There were lines on the road, but no one seemed to follow them. It was like the Indy 500, cars constantly jockeying for position on one broad expanse of road, while thousands of motorbikes and bicycles whizzed in and out of openings. If the congestion hadn’t kept our speed down, I would have been much more worried, as Jerry Seinfeld’s bit on the seemingly groundless faith taxi drivers inspire even when driving crazily kept popping into my head.
When we arrived at the Hotel Ali, a tourist/backpacker hostel that served meals on the roof terrace, we famished travelers rushed upstairs to wolf down a splendid buffet of Moroccan food while staring out into the marketplace located in the Djema’a Al-Fna, literally, the Assembly of the Dead, where sultans used to hold public executions and beheadings. After wandering around the square a bit, we called it a night. The next day was a whirl of seeing Marrakech.
We saw the Museum of Marrakech, which displayed modern art, including several great paintings, and was set in an old Vizier’s palace.
We saw the ruins of an old mosque that was now a tourist playground.
And we strolled through the Al-Bahi’a Palace in the southeastern quadrant of Marrakech, which looked like a mix between a hotel garden and deserted resort. But it was quite beautiful.
Later that day we went shopping, as I bought a leather bag and an Arsenal football jersey (but not without a lot of haggling). The jersey will come in handy this weekend, as I bought on impulse a ticket to the FA Cup Semifinal in Cardiff, Wales this coming Saturday, in which Arsenal takes on Blackburn. By the way, if you don’t already know, I’m a huge Arsenal fan. I’ve got a Robert Pires bobblehead doll next to me right now. Good ol’ No. 7. A few Arsenal pictures from my London leg of the trip will be in a later post. After the shopping, we decided to walk directly through the Medina to the bus station to buy tickets for our Tuesday (the 29th) morning trip to the Cascades D’Ouzoud, a gorgeous waterfall camping area three hours outside of Marrakech. I followed obediently behind Elizabeth, because she has some sense of direction, and I can generally get lost in my own house. We trekked around for 30 minutes following her father’s tried and true method, which is to ignore the streets and just be sure of going in the correct compass direction the whole time. 30 minutes later we turned into a square. It looked familiar, we both noticed, before realizing that we were back in the Djema’a Al-Fna. It was a splendid 30 minute loop. We gave up on finding the bus station that day. Instead, we took a taxi to the train station to buy our return overnite ticket to Tangier for when we returned from the Cascades D’Ouzoud. Of course, in my normal bungling fashion, I bought the tickets for April Fool’s Day, instead of March 31 like I should have. Oops. We later had to correct that on March 31, which lost us our beds on the train, and made for a miserable nite leaning against the window. But more on that later.
That nite, E and I felt in the mood for a drink, so we were going to check out one of the many terrace restaurants ringing the square. But we were informed that no alcohol is served near the square, and were instead directed to the Grand Hotel Tazi, five minutes away, where beer was served in a lounge at the front entrance. We were on our third Special Flag, the home-brewed lager, when an Australian at the next couch asked if he could join us. He introduced himself as Nick, and we later learned he was headmaster of a London reform school. E and I had a nice two hour chat with him over several more rounds of beer, before we called it a nite at 1 am to head to bed. He gave me his phone number, to call him up when I was in London, but unfortunately I never got around to ringing him up.
The next morning, we woke up at 545 still groggy, in order to pack, before catching a taxi to the bus station. But that’s the beginning of another story entirely, so I will leave off there.
Until tomorrow, here's your moment of zen, straight from Marrakech:
posted by The Oracles @ 10:46 PM
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