Friday, June 06, 2003

6-6-03   Southern Morocco is shades of brown slashed with brushstrokes of vivid greens.  Browns from the almost white gravelly dust to the deep chocolate of fresh mud/straw buildings.  Greens of the Palms and olive trees tucked into the deep ravines along creekbanks.  The contrast hurts the eyes and provokes the imagination.  Groves of palms, called Palmeries, appear, in the rugged landscape.  No camels tethered by the stream.  The ship of the desert has been replaced by ugly diesel trucks spreading black smoke down the pock marked highway.  The camels now carry tourists dreaming of Lawrence.  Do they mind, I wonder?  Their talent is unconcern.  Placid acceptance of whatever comes, masters of privation, the perfect beast of burden.  Or tourist attraction.    We are moving northwards now, at the moment at the coast.  In an hour or so we will be moving on to Essaouira.  My guidebook tells me that the town was home to Jimmy Hendricks and Cat Stevens in the late sixties, a hippie outpost for many years.  A shrine to visit, I suppose.  I could sit at a café table and smoke a funny cigarette in memory of the Day.  We’re just hoping for a clean campground.  Our laundry bag now holds most our clothes.  A washing machine is an impossible fantasy.  It will be good for us to spend some time side by side at the laundry tubs.   These past two days have been rejuvenation by the ocean time.  This campground is primitive and barren, gravel and small bushy Betel nut trees scattered about.  There is a jumbled bamboo fence along a low cliff to the ocean where the soothing sound of the constant waves has eased my mind.  The beach is wonderful.  Perhaps two hundred yards from our truck to the water’s edge.  The slope is very gradual, the water warm as San Diego.  Past the second row of breakers and the water is to my chest, the waves clean and perfect, almost large enough to body surf.   Of course, I’m thinking, why not another day?  The free traveler’s dilemma.  Italy and Greece are waiting.  The laundry bag is full, and the washtubs here are unusable.  In pursuit of clean underwear we must move on. 2:41:01 PM    comment []

Reasons to visit Morocco…     To insure that you will never again be intimidated by traffic. I feel I owe the Spanish and Portuguese drivers a huge apology.  Now that I’ve experienced true vehicular insanity, I take back all the harsh words I’ve said in the past couple months.  What had seemed like careless disregard for lives and property now is remembered as a graceful ballet of the streets.   I am nostalgic for the chaos of the Iberian  roundabouts.  Morocco is a different ball game all together.   Our van does not have a horn, probably just a blown fuse.  I am a musician in a symphony without an instrument.  Just as well, I suppose.  My lack of skill would be immediately obvious to all.  The graceful little tootle to remind the driver at the front that the light has changed a split second ago, the beep-beep to let the car to your right know that you are about to enter his passenger compartment with your Fiat, these notes must take years of practice to perfect.  But the most amazing thing about Moroccan traffic is not the cars, trucks and busses at all.  Not even the donkey carts.  It’s the pedestrians who take the game to a whole new level.  In Spain and Portugal, people cross streets whenever they like, just an advanced version of the New York City full utilization of every opportunity technique.  In Morocco the street just is an extension of the sidewalk, a larger area on which to roam.  A perfect place for conversations with friends.  Movement or direction do not seem to matter.  Across traffic, with it, against it, between lanes, standing, walking, running, no one cares.  And all ages can play.  Well dressed women stroll through rapidly moving traffic without seeming to notice the side mirrors brushing past their elbows at 30 miles an hour.  Spanish drivers usually show a certain respect for the lane dividing lines, especially the larger sets of double ones… not that they don’t cross them, they often do.  But not in the face of oncoming traffic, blinking their headlights to notify all that this territory has been claimed.  All of this against the normal European background of double, triple and quadruple parking, random lane changes, U turns at will, and right and left turns across any number of lanes of traffic, occupied or not.  It feels like WW I dogfighting, a duel to the death, with scarves flying, eyeballs glaring, and toothy, menacing scowls.  But these Moroccans are downright cheerful, chatting with friends, seemingly unconcerned about the death and dying.  We have yet to see a single accident, no crumpled bodies of pedestrians in the gutters.  And that is the most amazing thing of all.   To obtain immunity from the techniques of the most persistent salesman.  Imagine being able to walk onto any used car lot without fear.  Be free to roam furniture, home electronics, and mattress stores without endangering the credit card balance.  Just a few afternoons in a Moroccan Souk can give you all that.  That, or a cargo container full of rugs, copper pots, daggers, carved wooden table tops…  your choice.  The funny thing is that our guide books all warn us about their techniques, tell us exactly what these guys are going to say.  Once you step into their shop, they say it all, chapter and verse.  Rhona laughs, “Don’t these guys read the guidebooks?  Realize we all ready know?”  Maybe they do… but they keep using the same pitch.  It must work a good percentage of the time.  A fellow camper told us, if you go to Morocco determined not to buy a rug, you will buy one.  If you go thinking you’d like to buy a rug, you will buy ten.   Simple math.  So we had to do it… no, not buy the rug.   But expose ourselves to the pitch, dive into the white water, tumble over Niagra without the barrel, hang ourselves out like fresh meat on the shiny hook, walk into the Meknes Medina, find the Carpet Souk.   We were surprised to learn that we were welcome in the man’s shop, that we weren’t expected to buy anything at all.  We were told, and we believed, that it costs nothing at all to look.  We liked the salesman right away, especially when, after hearing that we were from California, we learned that he had friends - in Berkeley.  I think I may have met some of them, on Telegraph Avenue.  Selling T shirts.  We had a moment or two to glance around the shop, observe the Lawrence of Arabia dagger display.  Always thought it would be cool to wear one tucked behind my belt buckle, but I suppose it would make boarding planes a hassle.  He thought we might like to learn something about carpets… it seems his family, the Berber family, has been in the carpet business for quite some time.  We took our place in the seat of honor, the killing ground, I think it’s called in the carpet salesman’s manual, as he began his purely informative, no cost, no obligation, lecture on the types and materials of his family’s carpets.  The Berber family.  I think it’s a pretty big family, actually.  Rhona and I do know what a Kilim is, there is a Kilim store back home in Tahoe.  I wonder if that guy took the same rug salesman’s training course.  Okay, a Kilim is the Berber style of carpet, woven on a loom, it’s flat.  Often embroidered after weaving.  The best are made from natural materials, wool or silk dyed with natural dyes from local plants and minerals.  Cheaper ones are made with cotton and synthetics, colored with chemical dyes.  The important thing is that every natural rug is different, each an individual work of art.  It’s what makes them so expensive you see.  That way, no one is going to walk into your living room and say, “Hey, we bought that exact same rug from the Berber family in Laguna Beach.” We went for the full treatment.  Rhona, while insisting that we were not going to buy a carpet, did allow, after intensive questioning, that she preferred the small yellow one.  Well, we were curious as to what such a rug might cost, not that we had any intention of buying one, you understand.  A battered little notebook appeared.  I think the number he scribbled was 900 dirham, about 90 dollars.  Rhona was shocked, because she had seen similar rugs at Cost Plus for much less… like 80 dollars less.  He wanted her to say, actually, to write in the little book, how much she thought the rug was worth.  The game was on.  She refused, he pleaded, she blushed, he begged.   He told us how lucky we were to be in his shop after the troubles in Casablanca, that the tourists were not coming, and that prices were at catastrophic levels.  Rhona said, “How low?” He said, “Catastrophic!”  She thought that perhaps 900 Dirham ($90 US) was nowhere near a catastrophe, that perhaps, 30 Dirham ($3 US) might be.  Ah, she had named a price.  Just in passing, not as a offer to buy… but a price, none the less.   What was fascinating to me, is that I do remember playing this game years ago on my previous visit to Morocco.   Wanting to buy, not a carpet, but a belt, I think, maybe a pair of sandals.  This encounter seemed different, because we insisted all along that we had no intention of buying anything.  This was simply a polite social encounter, just a visit to his shop.  And, after all, it costs nothing to look.  There was a level of subtlety here that seemed to inspire him to an even more passionate performance.  We learned that, because of the catastrophic prices, his family was desperate for money.  Surely there was some way we could be convinced to buy.  I was expecting the American used car salesman’s standby, “What’s it going to take to put this carpet on your floor?”  That must come in the advanced class.   Escape was not easy.  He kept moving the little carpet, picking it up to show the fine material, the skillful stitching, then placing it back on the floor between us and the door.  The discussion of the Berber family’s financial condition continued.  His price began to fall.  800 Dirham came quickly, 700 soon after.  I tried to be direct with him, tell him that we had only been in Morocco for a day or so and that we were not ready to make a purchase.  He asked how long we had to be somewhere before we recognized a fantastic opportunity, a year?  Didn’t we know that Meknes was the place to buy carpets?  Not Marrakesh, not Fez?  That the finest carpets at the best prices were available here, and for this very short time only?  I think that word Catastrophic was used several more times.  Rhona headed around the left side of the carpet like Jerry Rice going for the goal line. Moving like a linebacker he shifted to block her.  I stepped across the carpet with a long stride any running back would be proud of, and we were at the door!  “400 Dirham” he shouted,  “My family is starving.”  We reached the street, heading for the open archway leading from the Souk to the street outside.  “300 Dirham!”  Then,  but as it was obvious we were making a clean escape, I think I heard him say, “I never liked you anyway.” 2:39:06 PM    comment []

6-4-03    On the coast of Southern Morocco   A rest day.  The past three days have been very difficult, with the most intensive driving of our journey so far, one of the most difficult physical challenges, and without a doubt, one of the most interesting evenings of our lives.  We drove across the Sahara.  Well, across the top edge of it anyway.  Our basic plan was to visit Meknes and Fez, which we did, then travel south to Marrakesh.  In Meknes we were leaving the campground, Rhona was in the office paying the bill.  I was sitting in the van waiting for her.  I was approached by the owner of the little tourist souvenir shop.  He quickly accepted the fact that I was not leaving the van to look at his wares, perhaps buy several dozen carpets.  Could not have taken more than three minutes for me to convince him there was absolutely nothing he could say to leave my seat, wallet in hand.  I was greatly impressed by his understanding and kindness.  Moroccan “salesmanship” has just about worn me out.  I have been rude, I confess.  Not violent, yet, but rude.  But this fellow made a businesslike approach, took rejection gracefully, and then we had an actual conversation.  His English was very good, and English speaking Moroccans who are not trying to sell you something are very rare.  He asked where we were traveling to next… I said, to Fez, and then to Marrakesh, where we would not be buying carpets either.  I showed him on our Michelen map the route I intended to take. He was appalled.  “Oh, no,” he said, “Very boring, nothing interesting that way…  you must go south.”   I told him I was worried about the car, whether it would be strong enough for what I imagined to be dangerous, poorly maintained highways .  He said, “No problems!  The government takes care of these roads for you tourists.  You have a good car, a camel, you will do fine!”  Now, in my mind, I’m trying to figure out where the profit is for this man to convince me to take his advice… does he have a brother-in-law that owns a hotel he will soon mention?  An uncle who owns a chain of Bedford truck repair shops along the way?  Is he hoping the heat will weaken us to the point we will patronize his brother’s carpet store in some oasis in the middle of no-where?  But no… he seems genuinely concerned that we have an enjoyable trip.  There is the problem for me.  I really do like these people.  They are extremely helpful and friendly.  I feel I have much in common with them.  I too can be stubborn and persistent.  I can say “no” longer than they can say “buy”.  They are such nice people, but if you don’t want to own a carpet, or rather, a dozen carpets, or a house full of sheep skin lamps, you,d better keep your guard up.  But by the time Rhona got back to the car, we had a new plan, and it didn’t involve visiting any of this man’s relatives.  He had pointed out several interesting places to visit on the southern road, and if we ever get back to Meknes, I’ll look him up and thank him.  Might even buy a carpet or two.    So much has happened between now and then.  A couple stories to tell.  I think I will post them separately.  The first will be a little bit about the traffic in Morocco, and Souks in Meknes and Fez.  The second will be about the Fingers of the Monkey, and Ezzaytouni  Saiid. 2:36:48 PM    comment []

5/29/2003, Meknesh, Morocco   Rhona and I agree – she likes hot, I like cold, but our mutual least favorite weather is wind.  The hills of southern Spain around Gibraltar are covered with modern windmills, like the Altamont pass.  We spent last night in Asilah, Morocco, on the Atlantic coast, just south of Tangier.  They have the same winds as Tarifa, no question.    Yesterday we got going a bit earlier than usual, left the Tarifa campground and went into town looking for the post office.  Mission accomplished, headed for the ferry.   We had driven into Algeciras the day before and bought our ticket, so we knew where to go, what to do…  a great way to divide the tension into two days, make the whole experience more enjoyable.  Our first problem is navigation, the street signs are always confusing – or missing, just when we need one.  We’ve learned to quickly double back at the first evidence of a mistake…  In Europe, there is no such a thing as driving around the block, believe me.  We’ve wasted lots of time and gas learning that lesson.  Sometimes those roundabouts come in handy when we’ve missed the last sign.  Anyway, yesterday all we had to deal with was our second biggest problem….  Are we getting ripped off?  The answer is usually yes, but it’s a matter of degree.  Sometimes it’s more convenient to be spend a little extra money….  For example…  When we came into the port to buy our ticket, this little man was running around the parking lot.  He told us it was okay to park right under a very graphic tow-away sign.  He spoke very good English, asked us where we wanted to go, then lead us into the building to an agent’s office.  We had checked the fares in Tarifa, so we knew about what to expect, but I was surprised to see the identical prices.  The agent told us that there was a “pool” of the ferry companies…  that it didn’t matter which company, or where you bought your ticket, the same price applied… and also, it didn’t matter what day or time, or what line you actually sailed on… the tickets were open… way open.  So, basically, it’s a price fixing cartel.  Which means… yeah, we were getting ripped, but it was a very convenient one….  No worries about getting the best deal, that’s for sure.  As far as the little man in the parking lot, well, I suppose he did get a kickback for bringing us in.  Could we have saved a little money by avoiding him and the agent?  I really don’t know.    So yesterday, we drove down to the docks, got in line for the ferry.  Guy on a Honda copy of a Harley, is doing a little tuneup in front of us…  Clowning around a little, pretending to use the chain lube for deodorant…  Comes around to my window and we talk…  His name is Jeff but it’s really Joseph, and he’s from Belgium.  He’s Flemish, so he doesn’t speak very much French or German, but his English is pretty good.  We kill some time talking….  Turns out he’s a machine operator… runs a NC milling machine in a factory.  I asked him if he went to Technical School and got all the diplomas…  He laughed and said no… that he used to work on a pig farm, on the feeding end of the business.  No, I didn’t ask if he had to start at the bottom and work up. Anyway, after a disagreement with the boss of the pig farm, he went to the factory to see if they had any work… next thing he knew he’s running a computerized milling machine machine…  not bad for a guy who had never seen a computer or a metal shop in his life.  I asked him how business is, and he said terrible.  All the work is going to India, he said.  His company is only working three days a week.  But he smiled and said, “I work three days and I have enough to live, so there’s no problem.  If I work five days, maybe I have a more expensive motorcycle…  big deal.” Have to like the attitude.  Economy in the pits, here he is, on vacation in Spain and Morocco, enjoying life.    Ferry ride was okay.  The major benefit was that we had been told there would be a Moroccan official on board and we could have our passports stamped.  There were some announcements made in French and Arabic, which, of course, meant nothing to us.  But a little investigation and we found the blank forms, and a line at the end of one of the compartments leading to a little man behind a desk.  We filled out the forms, joined the line, in a few moments, we had our Moroccan visas.   On the dock in Tangier, we were led by waving police to the Customs gate.  We were greeted by an Engish speaking Moroccan with little plastic identity badge, who I assumed was a Customs officer.  He filled out the forms for me, took me over to a small office where the police checked their computers to make sure I wasn’t an international criminal.  I’m not.  Meanwhile, the real Customs official had come to Rhona at the car.  So, the guy in the little plastic badge is just a “volunteer” assisting us poor tourists with our paperwork.  Of course, when he was done, a small “donation” of a few Euros was expected.  There were no signs (that we could read), no way for us to know what we were supposed to do.  So… ripped off again.  But nicely… conveniently.  The real Customs guy was back, papers all approved, we are ready for the road.     2:34:57 PM    comment []