Category: Morocco

No, not the Broadway play. Real live cats…the ones I’m allergic to…everywhere. I thought Lima was bad but it doesn’t hold a candle to Essaouira where they are underfoot at every turn.

I went out to a recommended restaurant to eat a couple of nights ago. A magnificent place, cavern-like with tables tucked away in nooks and crannies and at different levels. There were a couple of tables at the top of a narrow set of stairs next to me. I looked up at one point and a cat was bounding down the stairs. It paused momentarily, looked around the room, then jumped up next to – of course – me. And it was quite insistent about staying there until I explained my position with a series of hand gestures…

Today at brunch in a small, sunny square, same scenario. Cat jumps up on the seat next to me. I explain in two languages to get the hell away from me. Kindly, of course, but I can’t risk what’s happened to the guy at the next table…

In other medina news, I was propositioned by a shopkeeper today…a guy in a stylish, brocade-covered dress. It always starts off so innocently. In this case, “I like your bracelet” turns into tea in his shop followed by him offering to cook me dinner at his place tonight. This is not someone my age. He has a three-year-old daughter which could make him anywhere between 16 and 55. I’m thinking early 40s. He says I have eyes like a Berber woman…if that means sick and tired of male bullshit, then I’ll take that as a compliment.

As much as I’ve enjoyed this little break, I’m ready to leave Morocco. Being vegetarian in most countries isn’t an issue but I’ve really struggled here. Not only with meat dominating menus, but with the markets where the sights and smells of slaughtered animals are impossible to avoid. The taste of meat seems to be in everything whether it’s actually present or not. And then there are the cats…

So I arranged with Lahcen the property manager to do laundry this morning, and we were chatting on the rooftop (in French) about stuff. I tried to tell him how important it is to be able to wash clothes when you’re traveling for months on end. And then he asks me if I’m from Spain. 

Now I know my French is rusty, but Spain?’ Then I realize I’ve been saying “si” to him instead of “yes” since my arrival. The results of seven weeks in South America. Roberto, my Spanish teacher, would be proud! In Marrakech, the guy who looked after the pool asked if I was from Norway And here’s me thinking I’m gradually turning a nice shade of dark white. 

I’ve learned three new words in Arabic: thank you, hello/goodbye and please. Smiles are also communication but I have to remember that they can sometimes send the wrong message in this culture. 

This afternoon I stopped for mint tea at a place close to my apartment. The owner sat with me and we talked about the resident cat who was born with a deformity – one back paw that didn’t  develop and just hangs there. He gets around just fine though (the cat) and has lots of kitten left in him, freaking out for no reason and beating up on the carpet. He didn’t charge me for the tea, so of course I returned tonight for dinner. Such a savvy businessman. 

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First impressions aren’t always correct. When I first laid eyes on my tiny apartment here in Essaouira, my heart sank. It felt dark and dank, not at all what I expected, and I shuddered to think of what the next two weeks would be like. Three days later, I am loving my little pied-à-terre. Sure, it’s a bit noisy given its location in the medina and next to the mosque, but it is otherwise perfect, especially with the rooftop available for reading, sunbathing and playing with the Gigi, the resident cat.

One of the joys of traveling in warm countries is the abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables. Morocco is no exception. My foray into the market a few days ago was highly successful…peppers, tomatoes, red onion, green beans, cherries, bananas, green grapes, avocados, six eggs and a huge round of warm bread, all for $8. I scurried past the dead fish and live chickens; I swear they were ringing their necks on the spot and I didn’t want that memory seared into my brain…bad enough to see people walking through the crowd with limp birds swinging upside down.

I walked along the magnificent waterfront that lines the town for a few kilometres, starting inside the walls of the medina. The beach itself looks clean, the water calm. I noticed a few folks in it yesterday but certainly not crowds which leads me to believe it may not be all that warm. I’ll go back today for a closer look and the touch test.

The driver looks rested and happy. It’s only three hours to Essaouira but I’d like to think he wasn’t out partying last night. I am sitting in the first row across from a French-speaking woman of a similar age, and all the young people are chattering away behind us. A few days away from my 65th birthday, and I’m squarely in the seniors’ section. 

While I have a great view, it’s also nerve-wracking. Lots of kids going home from school, swerving along on foot and bicycles, men on carts and the backs of donkeys in the blazing desert sun. The driver is wearing ear buds and appears to be talking on the phone. 

My thoughts stray to my stay with Hamid, the genteel Moroccan man of French descent who lives life like a country gentleman in the midst of chaotic Marrakech. He seemed set in his ways and routine. Every single item in his home – and there are many – placed with intent and focus and with an expectation that they would remain in place until told otherwise. 

Breakfast each morning the same as the last, with dishes placed exactly as they have been for perhaps countless mornings before. I like his taste in music – classical, well-known French songs from my parents’ generation, the Beatles. He sings too, and while the sound is cheerful, there is just a tinge of loneliness…

About 45 minutes into the bus trip, we come up behind a semi tractor trailer with about 10 young men sitting atop the cargo on its flatbed. A series of hand signals ensues between them and the bus driver. Fifteen minutes later, we pull off to the side of the road and stop. The driver gets out, and the woman across from me explains he’s going to buy pastèques from the flatbed. Happens all the time she says. Another WTF moment until some lengthy googling reveals that pastèques are watermelons.

Finally, the coast comes into view, and Essaouira is laid out before me, Although visibility is limited. Look, a beach!

It started off well. Fortified by a hearty breakfast at Hamid’s Airbnb, I set off mid-morning to brave the alleys of the Marrakech medina. I had Google maps and Maps Me on my phone. What could go wrong?

For starters, it was 32 degrees at 10 a.m. I don’t give a damn if it’s a dry heat. Secondly, modern technology sometimes fails when it comes up against the old ways. So what started off as complete trust in GPS ended with a technological whimper and a lot of asking for directions. More on that later.

My first mistake was following some guy who said he was going to the main market, which is where I wanted to go. Of course, he was not going to the main market; he was taking me to the first place that would offer a commission for delivering an unsuspecting tourist – in this case the tanneries. From the sounds of that, it’s not a place for vegetarians or any animal lover for that matter. When I declined to enter, the merchant refused to pay him, so he asked for a tip from me. Since I wasn’t heading there to begin with, he was out of luck on that count as well.

I stopped for coffee in a small square and got my bearings, walking the rest of the way to Jemaa el-Fna with two young women from France who were more lost than I. We finally reached the shade of the marvellous souks around the square, and I lost them in the crowds and the wonder of my surroundings.

It wasn’t long before I fell for scam #2, the old where-are-you-from-I-have-a-friend-in-Toronto routine. This was from two women selling henna tattoos in the square. Before I knew it, one of them was drawing on my left hand and throwing glitter on me. I protested and said I had no money but that didn’t stop her until it finally dawned on her I might be telling the truth (I wasn’t) then she made me promise I’d go back and pay her “whatever I want” after visiting the ATM machine. I did promise, however I lied. I’m learning to play the game.

But the search for the ATM was real, so I continued but not before stopping to get all the @#&%()$# ink off of my hand as it was melting in the sun and running down my arm, onto my backpack, etc. Of course, the glitter was everywhere. And in my panic, I accidentally turned the phone off. When I turned it back on, the SIM card that I bought at the airport was locked and I needed a code to reactivate it. 

Full blown panic. I’m in the middle of the medina with no idea how to get anywhere and without my phone which can at least pinpoint my location I’m truly screwed. But first, I need dirhams. Found the bank. First try, machine out of order. Second try (because I’m learning), success! Then a quick visit to a phone shop and I’m back in business. If you’re ever in need of a secret code for your SIM card, it’s 0000. WTF?

Now, to find a vegetarian meal. A little hole-in-the-wall place with a rooftop and sun protection advertised vegetarian couscous. Unfortunately, it was as Evi warned…everything tastes like lamb. I was hungry, and it’s possible that if it had tasted like chicken or even trout, I would have gone ahead and indulged. But baby sheep? Not gonna happen. Thankfully the salad, lentils and bread were good.

When giving instructions for both going to and leaving the main square, folks in Marrakech will tell you to bear right. This can only be true for one or the other scenario. It’s up to you to figure out which.