Colors of Morocco (Morocco, Part 3)

After exploring the ancient cities of Fez and Marrakech, and following the trip out to the Sahara, there was still plenty of Morocco to get to.

From the desert, right on the eastern border (with Algeria), we went back through Marrakech and out to the Atlantic coastline. It felt a huge journey in itself to go from the sea of sand that was the Sahara to the sea itself within 48 hours.

 

 The town was called Essaouira. The city walls were right on the water’s edge as if to protect the city from a tsunami, and the medina was bustling, but it was far less frantic and tense than the previous cities. There was action like anywhere in Maroc, but after getting familiar with the town, after the cutting the dreads out of my hair (and thus ridding myself of fleas), and giving ourselves two more days than necessary, it ended up being somewhat relaxing – I never expected to be relaxed in Morocco.

Maybe because of the long hair, maybe because of the peace sign on my shirt, maybe because I looked ‘feral’, but I was offered drugs continuaously here. This town was where all the famous hippies came to escape back in the sixties so I guess some of those vibrations, and habits, still reverberate around the place. Most of the dealers were cool enough when I shook my my head, but one guy went nuts when I refused to buy his hashish. He called all the bad curses he knew in English, most bizarrely ‘Liar,’ and ‘Convict,’ and most memorably ‘Faggot Motherfucker,’ which Rin adopted as my nickname over the next few days.  

A highlight of Essaouira was heading over to the port on dusk as the fishing boat cruised back in filled with a boat load of fish,being trailed by clouds of sea gulls. The folks of the town waited on the docs to get the fresh fish straight off the boat. Dusk was a busy hour on that little port, and me and Rin just stood amongst it letting it all convulse and flow around us. The Sahara was extraordinary, and this was entirely ordinary, but no less important.

 

Casablanca was next. This city is famous because of the glory days of the French occupation, and the movie of the same name. Well the glory days are long gone, and all the people who remember Casablanca are dead or dying, so what left of this place? Not a whole heap really, except for being the economic and business capital of Morocco, having shantytowns amongst skyscrapers, having lots of coffee shops filled with men, and having the world’s tallest minaret. The minaret was immaculately detailed and shockingly huge, if you can see the ant sized people at its base in the photo. That was the ‘extraordinary.’ The ‘ordinary’ highlight was sitting in a dingy restaurant and having the staff come up behind the table, lay a carpet down in the direction of Mecca, and start the prayer song. When he was done, the guy hawking shirts on the sidewalk came in and used the little space himself while the restaurant staff looked after his gear.

 

A town called Meknes was a favourite for a few reasons. 1. Upon arrival the taxi driver didn’t rip us of – didn’t even try. 2. When we checked in we were upgraded to the Royale suite, far more than we hoped for the $16 each per night we paid. 3. We walked around for hours and hours and seemed to be the only foreigners who had found the town. 4. Great street food of lamb sausage and spice on plastic chairs in a litter ridden car park. Meknes had everything I love about Morocco – exotic looking city walls and gates, camels heads hanging up in alleyways, a sense of controlled chaos, and cheap everything.

If Meknes didn’t make me happy enough, next was Fez, which I had previously visited before Rin arrived. I was her tour guide and when I got back into the town it was a reassurance that this is my favourite place in Morocco, and one of my favourite places on this big, wide world. Rin had to go through the shock process again (didn’t help that just after we arrived some weirdo shopkeeper begged Erin to be careful about the men in the medina), but soon she understood what I love so much about it.

Heading north, we took a bus into the Rif mountains, home the most extensive marijuana cropping activity on earth – 42% of the world’s produce is grown here! We stayed in small town called Chefchaoun, which had a labyrinth of streets soaking a blue paint wash. Like every other town in Morocco, I was offered hashish at every turn, and the hotel we stayed even had some growing on the rooftop terrace. It was the town of blue and green.

 

 

The final stop of our grand tour of Morocco was Tangier. The seaside town sits right where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic, and faces off across at Europe, the mountains of southern Spain standing out on the horizon. Tangier has interesting history, having been occupied by folks all over Europe. In the 60’s it was made into an ‘international zone’ where several countries had share, and this led to it becoming a base for artists, shoddy businessmen, cold war spies and international fugitives. Capote, Burroughs and Kerouac all did some writing here, and artists such as the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan came for a getaway from the western world and some artist ‘inspiration.’ It must have been a hoot. Safe to say those times have passed, and it has since been returned to Morocco.

I had one last tagine and soaked in the energy of Morocco and its people, glad that I had been able to see so much, yet wishing I had bus tickets back south to some other dusty and wild town.

After a month in this crazy country it was time to leave and cross that narrow stretch of water into a whole other universe.