Snow Way, Dude!

Marrakesh, Morocco. Travel writers tend to exaggerate a bit. Flowery language is used to create a picture perfect world; one of far off realms, exotic locales, and endless beauty. They do this because they have to sell their literature in order to make a living, and strangely, romantic notions tend to sell better than ferocious diatribes. Nobody buys the travel book titled The Drunken Hellholes of Mexico. Sadly, hyperbole can become a necessary evil for these dreamy travelers. If they can't manage to sell their poetic pontifications they would just become a bunch of hopelessly unemployable hippies with no travelling money. Unfortunately, this desire to succeed makes for an extraordinary conflict of interest. Case in point, though little is written about it, prior to his career in politics Dick Cheney honed his particular brand of malevolent duplicity whilst writing cheery passages about the Middle East for Fodors. It's a shame really. A typical blurb about Morocco, from Lonely Planet, might read as follows:


If Fes is Morocco's spiritual capital, then Marrakesh is it's beating heart. Follow its twisting arteries to its pulsing energy source - the Place Djemaa el-Fna - a huge square in the medina where jugglers and storytellers jostle for position with snake charmers, magicians, and acrobats. Only in Marrakesh does this medieval pageantry survive.

Now I'm in no position to argue with Lonely Planet, they probably have lawyers. Let's just say that I strongly disagree with their word choice. For example, where they say storytellers, I might choose to precede that word with Arabic; and where they use the term medieval pageantry, I might use the phrase filthy pack of travel writing lies. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy Marrakesh, I most assuredly did. It's just that it really wasn't what I was expecting.

Arriving late, with our stomachs empty, Xander and I were hungry for food and excitement. Putting our trust in the infinite knowledge of our guidebook, we headed to the Place Djemaa el-Fna, in the center of the medina. The immense square was packed tight, everyone having obviously followed their own guidebooks. I'll be the first to admit that there was definitely energy in the air. As we entered the fray a traditionally dressed musician danced around us, his castanet-style palm cymbals clashing rhythmically. As he spun, a frilly tassel at the peak of his skull cap twirled skillfully around his head. It was exciting...and it lasted for about three seconds. He stopped, held out his hat, and aggressively pleaded for a tip before hastily moving on to the next set of tourists. We moved on to the celebrated snake charmers, a sight I was definitely excited to see. Now I don't know much about zoology, so perhaps it was merely the chill night air that had created the stupor in these venomous reptiles - or maybe they were dead. Three of these harmless critters lay on a carpet, limp and lifeless, the purported snake charmer playing neither fiddle nor flute. I think he was busy clipping his toenails. Upon our advance, one was quickly scooped up and placed over Xander's neck. They it lay, developing rigor mortis. "Take picture...take picture", crowed the handler, then proffered his hand for the fee of this charming service.



We hoped the food stalls would take our mind off this shameless hucksterism. Exotic smells filled the air, my nose blindly leading my body, as Jewish noses tend to do. There were over a hundred food stalls and visions of succulent meats braised, baked, or fried made my mouth water. The first stall was encouraging: piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. We fended off the hoard of hawks who tried to get us to sit and moved on to the next stand. Hmmm....piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. I looked further down the row but it was like looking in a fun house mirror, the same scene repeating into the distance. Everyone was selling the exact same thing, we had unwittingly entered some sort of culinary Twilight Zone. Even the prices were the same - too little for too much. In the end we found about a half-dozen unique stalls amongst this throng. Some were decidedly interesting, like the place where you could eat a lamb's face. I respect anyone who can look their food directly in the eye before peeling off the skin, removing the jaw, then happily munching on the cheeks. Personally I'm not much of a face eater, so I set my sights on the other end of the beast. As I gaze absently at a woman who is sucking on the marrow of a skull, I can't help but wonder if she feels the same touch of revulsion when she sees an American chomp down on a rump roast.



As for the title of this Tale, I once again have skirted the entire point. Having tired of this medieval farce, we decided to take a day trip to the Ourika Valley. Deep in the mountains of Morocco, about a two hour ride from Marrakesh, is a town called Oukaimeden; home to the most unlikely sight in all of Africa - a ski resort. After a confusing day of travel, involving, amongst other things, a clown-car taxi ride of eight people, and a late arrival, we found our hidden gem closed. The snow cover was light, as would be expected in Africa, if at all, so, downtrodden, we hiked as high as we could before giving up. As we hiked back down, the ski lift started to move. We could ride it up to the top, they said, sans skis, to see the view. So up we went. The snow cover was thicker at the top of the mountain and there stood a man renting skis. We strapped them on, of loose fit, and ancient age, and took one steep run about 200 yards down an untouched bowl, carving fresh tracks in immaculate powder. I can now say that I have skied in Africa. We were the Lord's of Creation -- that is, until we realized we had to hike back up to give back our skis.

Here's Looking At You, Yid

Casablanca, Morocco. The elevator slows, comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. Our escort leads us down a long, poorly lit corridor. It is painted a dull, drab, beige and is completely silent, empty. The only sound is our feet as we walk, each step echoing lightly. We pass no one in the dusky hall, but this is not particularly surprising given the late hour. Our escort leads us around a corner and through a large door. The room is cavernous, bare, the walls completely unadorned. Not all of the bulbs are lit and much of the room is dim. Long windows grace the outermost wall, but they are tinted, and nothing but a few pale points of light filter through. A few old computers sit atop basic desks, though no one is at the keyboards. There is too much space and not enough to fill it. It feels abandoned, cold, lifeless. There are two men at the far end of the room, tapping away at one of the computers and talking in Arabic. Our escort leads us over and we are told to sit in a set of folding chairs behind them. A rapid exchange takes place between the three, then the escort leaves. As he walks away my eyes follow his weapon, a snub-nosed, semi-automatic machine gun. As the two officers swivel in their chairs to face us, I have to wonder: How in the world have we wound up here, on the fourth floor of the massive Casablanca police headquarters in the middle of the night?


Let me explain. A few days ago we were killing time in Rabat. We were supposed to be in Casablanca getting visas for Mauritania, but it was Friday and the embassy was closed for the weekend. Figuring it was better to explore than continue to sit in one place - unlike that month I spent at home playing video games until my eyes started to bleed - we set our sights on the capitol, though we heard it was a rather characterless place. Rabat was not nearly as dull as I had presumed. In fact, it has both the frenetic energy and motion of a motor rally. The motorized carriages that Moroccans have dubbed CARS (Camels Are Really Slow) race through the street at break neck speed - as do motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles, and thousands of pedestrians. Truly the most fun you can have in Rabat is dodging traffic. Even the most major of intersections have no crosswalks, nor crossing lights of any kind. To make matters worse, the traffic lights themselves are no where to be seen. For the life of us we could not figure out how traffic knew to stop; perhaps a sudden realization that even the most standard of vehicles come with brakes plays a roll. Regardless, the best way we found to cross a busy intersection was by carefully listening to the sounds of the road. If you hear a loud thumping noise, for example, you know that your body was just hit by a car. This means that you shouldn't have tried to cross at that particular moment. Wait a few minutes, and if you can drag your battered body back to the sidewalk, try again. Unfortunately this method gets progressively more difficult. Better to watch what the locals do, I suppose. The pedestrians of Rabat have developed a fiendishly clever way of counteracting this particular menace. It is quite amazing, really. First, people slowly begin to mass at a point on the sidewalk. Like a malignant tumor they grow, rapidly expanding, until - with no audible or visible communication whatsoever - they all step into oncoming traffic at once. The traffic has no choice but to stop or plow into everyone, risking not only extensive damage to their car but a significant increase in their monthly insurance payment. It is a sight to see.
On Sunday night we headed to Casablanca. The name itself evokes strong images of romance and intrigue. In my opinion nothing could be further from the truth; unless you find Hilton hotels intriguing or skyscrapers get your pulse pounding. Still, we had a great time. Casablanca has one thing that all the other cities in Morocco lack - namely, bars. The Islamic religion prohibits the imbibing of devilish liquors like BudLight and Zima, so heretical pubs are few and far between. These have been tough times for us. Those who know my travelling buddy Xander are aware that without a constant supply of liquor he slowly devolves into a thoughtful, well-spoken, intellectual. It's quite scary, really, but we seemed to have dodged that particular bullet.
Early Monday morning we dropped off our passports at the embassy, hoping to have them back by mid afternoon, as our guidebook said. Unfortunately the bureaucrats at the embassy had a better idea - not giving them back until 10am the next morning. Though we were a little disappointed to have to stay another night, we certainly made the most of it. As we hopped from bar to bar we met some fascinating locals. At one joint we met a drunk-as-a-skunk magistrate. Speaking slowly, with a thick Moroccan accent, his words slightly slurred, he gave us a surprisingly cogent civics lesson. He asked what we had done to defend our civil liberties since the institution of the Patriot Act. I could only shrug, surprised that a Moroccan judge could be so passionate about the outcome of a New England football game. This seemed to upset him. With each word getting louder he said "You...are all...contr'lled...by...da MED-IAH". Unfortunately I wasn't paying much attention, an old Pepsi ad was replaying in my head. He repeated it again, this time much louder, a few people turning their heads. I felt...well, I felt like Chicken Tonight, Chicken Tonight! Hmmm, maybe he had a point. I agreed with him, suggesting that I felt the same way about my government and national media that he did. The judge bellowed: "No d'ffrence...between you and govn'ment. No d'ffrence! I can NOT SEPARATE THE TWO". We calmly assured him we did not agree with the current political regime. Once again he barked: "No d'ffrence!". He rotated his chair to face me and - much to my surprise - palmed the front of my skull with one large hand. Spit flew from his mouth as he roared in my face, "YOU BRAIN....IS...WAR!!"
I'm sure you've guessed by now how we ended up at the police station. If you haven't figured it out yet it's because we had left our passports at the Mauritanian Embassy and all hotels require a passport to check in. We had photocopies but these weren't sufficient. When we came back to our hotel in the evening they forced us to get the copies verified by the authorities - which we promptly did, though it was quite late. You didn't actually think I was stupid enough to get into a fistfight with a local judge, did you?

Take You Wonder By Wonder

Fes, Morocco. It is dark and cold. Two thick opaque blankets cover my head, blocking out all light, sheltering me from the world. The chill air has penetrated my weak defense, seeped deep into my flesh, sent slivers of ice through my bones. The call of the Muezzen has roused me from my frigid slumber, a shrill cry eminating from the top of the minaret; first one, then another, and another. The sounds joined one another, jostled with one another, a rising crescendo, a blaring cacaphony of prayer. Dogs started to howl in solidarity, a barking benediction, or perhaps they just have no way of covering their ears as I had now done. It was pitch black under my woolen shroud, permanent night, and I had no concept of time. I let out a soft groan and pushed the button that lights up my digital watch. The luminous, blue indiglo blinded me and I cringed, trying to focus my eyes. It was 4:48am. Holy mother, mercy, of Christ, Yaweh, Zeus, or Allah. The Quran is very explicit in one regard: the Muezzen does not have a snooze button.


Now I'm not one to criticize another man's religion - unless they wear funny hats - but for a major religious movement, this pre-dawn zeal strikes me as preposterous. I'm not sure who or what god is, if he/she/it even exists, but what otherworldly being, what purportedly benevolent deity, would demand a call to prayer before the sun comes up? Hell, most people can't even put their underwear on straight until they've had a couple of cups of joe. That black, spiritless libation has surely roused more spirits than even the most purified sanctification. Nevertheless, every morning the call begins: "Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and my feeble brain, crushed beneath twenty-eight years of constant media bombardment, finishes for him: "Yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh." In truth it continues in Arabic but I always get a kick out of the beginning. This occurs every morning without fail. Piety in today's world can be refreshing but it would be nice if they took a morning off sometimes. Maybe even just once a month--sleep in, have a late breakfast, maybe read the paper. Afterwards, by all means pray. I'm sure it would help retention rates. I can even imagine the billboard: Islam, Now With More Coffee!" Obviously I jest. The morning call, when not accompanied by the howling canines, is often beautiful. I have lain awake carefully listening to the melodic words, the almost hypnotic tone, appreciating the sanctity of the burgeoning day. Then I roll over and go back to bed.



The medina of Fes beholds a fascinating array of sights, sounds, and smells. Wandering the ancient, medieval streets, one has a sense of being transported back in time - to about 1983. Seriously. People are dressed in one of two ways here: either in traditional garb or in street gear from the 80s. Faded flourescent jackets, old addidas jumpsuits, and worn Nike sneakers pass by at random intervals. One vendor had a pile of mismatched snow gloves and I'm positive I spied a couple of sets of Freaky Freezies atop the mound. I'm not sure where it all comes from but the denizens of Fes have unwittingly attained the heights of retro fashion. We walked for days around the winding streets and endless markets. Clothing, jewelry, art, rugs, a variety of crafts, and an immeasurable array of junk. The junk is the best. Countless rugs are spread out in the street, the vendors selling the most incongruous of items side by side: two dozen watches, a pile of remote controls, some potatoes, a doll with a missing head, three tampons, and a large bolt cutter. Persumably this last item has been used innumerable times to collect the junk on display. It boggles the mind. Food vendors abound: piles of juicy, ripe tangerines; hillocks of potatoes and onions; mounds of artfully arrange dates, figs, and nuts; barrels of beans and pasta; towering pyramids of brilliantly colored spices. Meat vendors display the choicest of cuts and proudly present the pieces we throw out--heads, tails, toes, stomachs, brains, kidneys, livers, and testicles. The only thing that might go to waste is your appetite. I even saw an entire camel head hanging limply from a hook. My personal favorite has definitely been pigeon. Cooked into an unlikely dish containing layers of pastry dough, secret hobo spices, lemon, and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar, it is amazingly good. If anyone happens to notice a dearth of pigeons trotting around Central Park in the coming months it probably means I'm back home in New York.



Fes is incredibly large and complicated. 9400 twisting streets and alleyways. 350 mosques. Dozen upon dozen of site of interest. Despite our aversion to touts we decided we might need a guide for this one. Couscous (as he called himself) seemed a genial sort. He seemed to know the city, spoke decent English, and had a good sense of humor. Though skeptical at first, he won us over, and we arranged to have him lead us around the next morning. We were mildly surprised when he showed up with a replacement, claiming to be too busy. We hemmed and hawed a bit but agreed to go with the new guy anyway. The price was still too good to beat. The new guy ran us around the back alleys, occaisionally showing us an ornate doorframe or some ancient buildings, claiming all the while we were seeing what very few tourists saw. Our tour was supposed to last approximately three hours. I wasn't the least bit surprised when after sixty minuted he wanted to show us something extra special. You guessed it--his cousin's carpet shop.