Morocco. Part I.

I have always wanted to be picked up at the airport by a driving escort. Being a 23 year-old penny traveler, I didn't think that this would happen anytime soon. Don't get me wrong, I would rather be greeted by hugs and smiles from loved ones. But come on, doesn't everyone want to see their name on one of those signs just one time at the gate? Well, this small dream of mine finally came true in Marrakech, Morocco when Liz and I were picked up at the airport. Ironically, a half hour later I was in a location far from having a personal driver.

As our taxi driver drove Liz and I from the airport into the red walls of the inner city (called the Medina) of Marrakech, I gazed out the window at a landscape and cityscape that seemed to appear from magic. It could have been the antibiotics I was on from the strep throat I was battling, but I was tripping out on where such a short flight on two connecting flights could bring me. Insert travel love here. Liz and I decided a long time ago that a large portion of our travel funds was going to go towards an intensive trip to Morocco. We got what we planned on our seven day vacation.

Marrakesh Medina

Shortly after we entered the walls of the city that seemed to barricade the hectic heartbeat of life in the Medina, our taxi driver stopped the car. We were on a dirt road in the middle of a market, being beckoned out of the car in a combination of Arab and French. I swear five mopeds wizzed by within seconds of stepping out of the car. Everyone has a moped there, and no street is too busy, small or off limits to drive on. The driver took our suitcases out and an older man in a worn suit, slightly dusted in the brown dirt that seems to hang in the city from covering the side roads, greeted him with the customary kisses on the cheek. The older man grabbed our suitcases and threw them in a wooden wheelbarrow sitting next to him. Our smiling taxi driver waved goodbye and before I could get out any form of money to pay him, the man with the wheelbarrow nodded in a direction to us and started walking. We realized we should probably follow him. So, we did.

This man defined the meaning of "barreled" as he ushered himself through the foot traffic of the Medina(get it...wheel barrow?) Ya, lame joke, I know. I couldn't resist. I can remember this walk so vividly because the change of location and culture for us happened so quickly. The hordes of the city's Muslim inhabitants (about 99% of the country's population is Muslim) shuffle around one another and the random tourist in this fast-paced, almost over-stimulating environment filled with Arabic, French and the sound of mosque's loudspeakers calling everyone to prayer. Aside from that, the new smells of the third world city combined with the bright and intoxicating colors of the pottery, scarves, fresh herbs and incense that line the streets can overwhelm upon one's first moments.

I knew I was in an exotic place at that moment as I made my way through the winding streets of Marrakech, following a random man with my suitcases. For me, this was paradise. I love being overwhelmed and over-stimulated by new sights, smells and foreign languages. I couldn't ask for a better environment. It is safe to say that I am addicted to the new. I think this can be one of the most dangerous addictions as life is a constant search for new stimulation, which isn't always what life is about with the whole responsibilities aspect. I think I'll always strive for both. However, I haven't found any rehab programs for addictions to "the new". You know my E-mail if you do.

Anyways, as we wound through the small streets, we found ourselves in smaller, less populated roads, only able to fit a moped or well, wheel-barrow. Liz and I both looked at each other nervously as we bumbled down the tiny roads. Even though the man didn't speak English, neither of us said anything. The man stopped at a dead end in front of an old door and after knocking and being greeted by the owner of our riad, I attempted to tip the man who had literally pushed our suitcases for a mile in a wheel barrow.

Rooftop terrace at our riad

This was quite comical as I didn't exactly have a grasp on the tipping customs in Morocco, something I kicked myself for in the moment for not researching before the trip. More importantly, I didn't know which coins and bills were what as new currencies always seem to be Monopoly money. The task of converting their value to Euros always becomes easy, but not within in the first hour of a country. If you didn't know, Moroccan currency is called Dirham. So I just stared down at my newly exchanged Dirham that seemed like I should use to put a hotel on Broadway or Park Place. I waited for a feeling, or just something, anything, to come to me to decide how much to tip. Nothing. I'm pretty sure I tipped him the equivalent of 50 cents, but I kind of blacked out what I actually handed him as I tend to do that when I get extremely nervous. Either way, the man was not content. Luckily our riad owner, a British man about 30 years-old, had money on him and helped us out. Embarrassing situation where I want to kill myself #1 out of the way in the first hour there. Success. I'm very good at this.

After some peach tea in the beautiful terrace of our riad and an hour of conversation with our new 30 year-old British friend, Liz and I were ready for dinner. In Morocco, you can opt to stay in a riad, which is a refurbished traditional Moroccan home, rather than a hotel. Because it's a home, they are usually situated in typical neighborhoods in the middle of the city. Ours was absolutely amazing. The traditional architecture and ambiance of these homes is unlike any hotel you could possibly stay in. I will take authentic culture over tourist fake any day.

Traditional Moroccan fresh mint tea and sweets

Our riad owner was also a skateboarder, so he offered to show us to the main square on his way to board with his Moroccan friends for the night. After being dropped off in Marrakesh's main square, Djemma el Fna, Liz and I found a restaurant with an indescribable view. We ordered some couscous (traditional Moroccan cuisine), freshly squeezed orange juice and and watched in awe as the sky turned to a deep red behind the shadows of the palm trees and the Atlas Mountains in the distance. To finish we had the traditional mint tea and looked down as the Marrakesh's most busy area bustled below us with snake charmers, mopeds, and locals walking to the nearest mosque to pray after the loudspeakers called all to prayer.

Djemaa el Fna

As you can see, I have so much love for this city. During our trip, Liz and I spent four days staying here, navigating our ways through the maze of streets. The unceasing noise and movement of the city is addictive, and while I can't say I wasn't grabbed or hassled by anyone during my time there, the majority of people were so unbelievably friendly, kind and helpful. I have full intentions of writing about the city and sites we visited as well as our trip to the mountains and desert, but it's too much for one blog.

Besos,

Kenz