Although it may not be about Gambia
per se, as most of you readers are, in all likelihood, either related to me or are friends of my mother, I feel a rundown of our time in Morocco is called for.
After a quick and easy three hour flight to Casablanca, I jumped in a cab and made my way to the hotel. Other than the drastic change in auditory surroundings--my ears filled with the guttural animations of Arabic and the enchanting flirtations of French--the first thing to strike me was the cleanliness of the city. It was immaculate. Not a hint of garbage, the landscaping was impeccable, and the edges of the streets sparkled with decorative lampposts. I had forgotten a city could look like that, and I was impressed. (Gambia, there's so much to love about you, but pleasing aesthetics just isn't one of them.)
As I hadn't slept a wink the night before in order to catch my 3:30 a.m. flight, I crashed a few hours before hitting the streets. When faced with the decision to check out the local markets or the enormous cement blimp of a building called the Morocco Mall, shamefully, I chose the mall. Now, I generally avoid the mall like the plague in America . The claustrophobic chaos of the building itself, the deep sadness I feel at seeing my fellow inhabitants of Earth dressing their offspring in shirts stating things like "I'm with sexy", and the smell of McFried Foot and Feather is usually too much for me. However, the thought of finding a nice pair of shoes, a steaming cup of coffee, and a cute something or other all while listening to techno pop remixes in line at an H&M was just too tempting, so I went for it, and it was everything I'd hoped for and more. I tried on impractically high heels, drank a Starbuck's drip of the day, bought a cute beaded skirt from a mildly trashy teen store, and even walked through the GAP just to make things official. After four hours, bags in tow, I ended the day by getting a salad and coffee to go, sitting on a park bench and watching the locals gather on the beach for their Ramadan break-fast. Leisurely making my way back to the hotel, I went to the gym and awed at the invention of treadmills and those cushy floors, then ordered room service in a very poor attempt at French, and slept for the next 13 hours.
Having the whole next day free before my mom arrived, I planned to post up at the pool after breakfast. But, breakfast, as it turned out, took a bit longer than expected as I had not anticipated the buffet offerings in terms of my wildest dreams. They had dried figs, apricots, almonds, fresh nectarines, peaches, plums, cheese, slices of meat, olives, and an omelette station. AN OMELETTE STATION. So, sufficed to say, I enjoyed my morning meal well into the early afternoon, and also managed to smuggle a pistachio flavored yogurt and like four nectarines into the room for later. With a well-fed smile, I baked in the sun all afternoon, and peeled myself up to ready for the nearing reunion.
Gymed and showered, margarita in hand, I sat and kept watch for my mom to arrive. Before I knew it, she ascended a staircase and stood right in front of me. We both squealed and pinched each other to make sure it was really us. Bags to room, us to table, wine to lips, and vacation had officially begun.
The next morning we made off for our first stop, Chefchoeun, a beautiful town nestled in the Riff Mountains. The drive was long, but made fairly painless as we had an air conditioned SUV, a driver willing to cater to the cries of female bladders, and a few historical stops along the way serving to break up the monotony.
We viewed the largest mosque in Morocco, the Mausoleum of Mohammed V in Rabat, and the Chellah Ruins before making it to Chefchoeun. Once settled in, we walked the alleyways of this magical town, found a place to eat, and played cards before trying our first real Moroccan fare, vegetable-topped salad, olives of every size and color, chicken tagine with cinnamon and spiced carrots, and lamb kafta. Everything was delectable; the only thing missing was wine, but turns out finding alcohol in a Muslim country during Ramadan is harder than you might think. Exhausted, we headed to sleep early to prepare for exploring the following day.
After indulging in the breakfast spread of every variety of crepe and spreadable (including local goat cheese,
omg), we grabbed a map and set out to see the town. "You cannot get lost in Chefchoeun," boasted the village credo, but I am here to insist otherwise. The beauty and the blue are distracting enough, but mixed with the sharp turns, the hundreds of cats leading you and your camera lens astray, together with my own pathetic inability to read a map and tendency to gravitate towards any and all fruit stands, our sense of direction was lost for approximately 92% of the day. That aside, it was a lovely afternoon, capped by a walk up a steep hillside to view the sunset over the city as the call-to-prayer echoed through the horizon.
We woke early the next day and, meeting our driver, Hassan, took off for a hike to see the Akchour Waterfalls, just outside the city. It proved a long hike, but a gorgeous one. Hiking not really Deanna's thing, she was an awesome sport, hanging on to roots of plants and scooting down cliff-sides on her bum for the (more than) six hours round trip. The real star of the day, however, was Hassan, as he did the whole thing with us, but as it was still Ramadan, he did it without food or water. Because of this though, I think he reveled in the ice-bath at the foot of the fall more than any hiker in history.
That evening, we ate at a cafe on the main street and watched as hundreds of locals broke their fast together with milk, boiled eggs, traditional spiced tomato soup, and sticky sweets. It was incredible to see and hear, but was also so evoking of my life here in Gambia during Ramadan, I was glad my mom got to experience a bit of that with me.
While the mountains were striking, it was time to head south and reach our next big destination, Fes. One of the ancient capitals of the country, Fes looks and feels eerily similar to the way it did centuries ago. It too has winding alleyways filled with mazes of merchants and markets, and aside from the comically large number of TV satellites adorning the roof tops, it gives the feeling of going back in time to the Morocco of centuries past.
One thing not evoking this time travel was the highly-evolved manipulation skills of the locals. Well aware of the potential profits tourists provide when purchasing their wares, locals, usually young men, wait in alleys and listen to the conversations of travelers making their way through the confusing backstreets. Once they peg your country of origin, they sick someone on you who speaks your language; they offer advice, directions (not always accurate ones) or help in finding the best of the best in Fes. If successful in leading you into a shop, these men are later given a commission by the shop owners as payment for choosing their store. It's a tricky business, but one that works, for as much as Deanna and I were aware of it and ready to dismiss every attempt from these persistent perpetrators (I even took to speaking Pulaar to throw them off our trail), we still ended up falling prey to their games on at least one occasion. Getting stuck in a downpour, one kind man said, "Hey, you ladies are at Riad Andalib! I work there...Let me help you find the way back." Desperate, we followed, figuring he knows where we're staying, so he must know us. After an untraceable number of twists and turns, we did end up back at the hotel, but we were also confronted for money since he was, for all intents and purposes, our guide. #instinctfail. We had a low key dinner at the Riad and decided to close the blinds and not set an alarm.
Waking at an incredible 11 a.m., we were greeted by a quiet day in the Medina, or old city, as it marked the holiday celebrated once the fast of Ramadan is over. In some ways, this was unfortunate, as most of the shops were closed and we couldn't spend fortunes drenching ourselves in piles of jewelry and leather goods, but in other ways, it was ideal, as the streets were clear and easier to navigate. We did manage to visit the tanneries, though, which was a big check off both our lists. From many floors above a leather shop, tourists are able to look down on the hundreds of vats containing natural dyes and soaks for the hides of the animals brought in for their transformation into coasts, shoes, bags and furniture.
It really was fascinating to see all the work that goes into the production of these leather goods. We managed to escape the post-tour sales trap, getting only respectably ripped off, and had a couple of small round ottomans and a belt to show for it. Later, we enjoyed dinner on the rooftop of our Riad which, accompanied by a perfect Syrah, was one of my favorite meals of the trip, and slept well before we packed up to begin our journey into the Sahara.
Coffee still warm on our tongues, we left early as the ride was going to be long, but the excitement of what lay ahead was enough to keep us going. The next days held the most anticipated part of the trip--the camel trek into the desert. After driving for what seemed like an eternity, we stopped for lunch. Hassan was happy to indulge with us now that Ramadan was over, so we all posted up at a little table in the garden behind...a gas station. An unlikely spot for culinary wonders, yes, but this ended up being a pleasant surprise and memorable feast. Leaving the ordering up to him, we waited for the food to arrive. The customary mint tea was brought, then some traditional bread, and finally, the main event--a platter cradling nothing but two kilos of grilled lamb. Apparently, you simply name the type of meat you desire, how many kilos you think you can manage, and then you just go for it. With hands, teeth, and entire being, we enjoyed our meat.
At this point, I had already ingested more meat in one week than I had in the whole year previous, but this definitely put me over the edge and subsequently put lamb in the #1 slot for my fav meats. Hours later, we arrived at our desert Kasbah; after surviving an intense sand storm and dining al fresco to the vocal and percussionary stylings of our hosts, we turned in early.
A beautiful day awaited us as the weather not being nearly as suppressingly hot as we had expected. Together with both our host, Amed and our now good-buddy driver, Hassan, we toured the area; we saw French excavation sits, danced with some local tribes from Sierra Leon still settled there from times of slavery, and experienced tea with a nomad family in the hills. Later that evening, we tied up our scarves, packed a small bag, and headed out into the Sahara on the humped hindquarters of our very own camel. The ride was peaceful and uniquely scenic, rocking slowly while layers of sand moved quick and heavy under the feet of our enormous beasts. Around sunset, we spread out at our camp, ate, and chatted the night away under the stars. Sleeping outside has become on of my unpredicted loves here in Gambia, and it was wonderful to do it with my mom. She awed at the expanse of the sky, the deceiving touch-ability of the stars, and we both felt humbled by the thought of being the only people for miles and miles--yet another assertion of our planet's spectacular beauty.
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| Learning the "ancient ways" (still used in Gambia!) |
With a quick shot of coffee and a saddling up of our hairy chariots, we took off back through the sand and into our 4-wheel drive with Hassan. The markets selling fruits, veggies, and livestock provided interest on the way to a Berber pharmacy where we purchased a few goodies before leaving for an overnight near the Skour Oasis en route to Marrakesh. After a walk through Todra Gorge, a dip in the pool, and a delicious sleep, our drive continued into Marrakesh, making a couple of stops along the way to see the ancient Kassbah Amridil and the old city of Ait Benhaddou, where 'Gladiator' was filmed.
It was then, riding the sharp edges of the mountains, that we agreed not renting a car was in our best interest. The desert had been amazing, but we were ready to indulge in the comforts of our gorgeous hotel and a nearby restaurant that had not only wine, but cocktails, a menu to die for, and belly dancers for good measure. We had arrived in Marrakesh!
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| Mom tries Sheesha! |
Waking and reveling in the double espresso and fresh squeezed OJ, we finally made it out into the city to look around. We bargained, did some sight-seeing, and then decided to visit a Hammam, or spa. These differ from your typical hour at a classy day spa. How, you ask? Well, the first step is exchanging your clothes for a hilarious paper thong in preparation for a vigorous, sudsy, molestatious scrub down in a marbled steam room by women who, if they do speak English, chose not to for the added comic effect. This is followed by a body mask and an oil rinse, neither of which is relaxing, but proved more a practice in the art of composure as the sights and sounds of slick naked bodies sliding around like wet seals on marble counters combined with the look of mild to moderate terror on my mother's face and her attempts at avoiding death by feet tickling all created a memorable afternoon. Cleaned and ushered into a dimly-lit room, the two-hour massage commenced, and, let me assure you, there was nothing funny about that portion of the program. Feeling relaxed, we chose to have an early night in, which I later opted out of and decided instead to call up our trusty driver-friend, Hassan, and search for some dancing.
We woke early the next day for our cooking class, which was such a great way to spend an afternoon. We made zucchini salads, chicken tagine with preserved lemon, and baked fresh bread in clay ovens all without lighting ourselves on fire. That evening we listened to jazz piano at the first Riad in the city where I attempted to try my first beef carpaccio,but, falling victim to deceptively flourished menu fonts, actually tried
beet carpaccio, which, I can attest, is not the same thing.
The following day was spent wandering the endless streets of the city, getting an unexpected make-over from an over-friendly shop keeper, then I relaxed at the pool while my mom went back out for some solo souvenir shopping. That night we made reservations at a swanky tourist restaurant with incredible food, decor, dancing and overall yes factor. We laughed, relaxed, talked and ate our way through the night knowing that reality and flights to our respective homes loomed before us.
Enjoying a lazy breakfast, we chose to sunbathe by the pool before our final trek back to Casablanca by train. Although we did suffer a few minor hiccups on the way (my luggage a la Gambia finally broke and
we may have purchased tickets to the wrong place) but both parties managed to make it to the airport hotel with time to spare.
It was a simple night spent reviewing the adventures of the trip and taking in the last of each other's company before waking at dawn to get my mom and her bags on the shuttle for the early morning flight. It was, naturally, a teary goodbye, but knowing how lucky we were to have had this time together, it was cushioned by joy.
Thank you, Mom, for such a fantastic time full of these wonderful memories and so many others. Start stocking up on Syrah, I'll see you in no time!
That night, I passed around pictures on my tablet, describing the different things I saw in Morocco. They marveled at the size and number of mosques, the hugeness of the mountains, and were in complete awe and disbelief that Moroccan fare lacks the white rice serving as bed and base for all Gambian meals. I passed around small gifts for everyone, then slept the deepest sleep I'd had in weeks, under the silent skies of Sare Ngai. 
