6-13-03 10:00 AM Onboard the ferry Boughaz
Leaving the dock at Tangier. A much nicer boat than the one coming over, but this thing has one incredible vibration problem. Rhona is a bit concerned… I told her, as long as the water stays way down there, we’ve got nothing to worry about. Okay, now, later, I realize it has maneuvering jets… like the Starship Enterprise. It doesn’t need tugs to get out of and into dock…. There are at least three huge jets on each side. And when they are pumping, the whole ship shakes.
I’ve gotten way behind, the last posting was written in Marrakech. Oh yeah, that’s right, in Marrakech we hid from the afternoon heat in an Internet café, but didn’t have the notebook with us… that must have been Monday the ninth. Tuesday we did a tourist day, hired a driver to take us around to the sights, then had a low budget but very nice Moroccan dinner. We went to a garden owned by Ives Saint Laurent, a place that had belonged to some potentate or another, a gigantic cistern in the middle of an orchard of olive trees that looked like a muddy Fleishacker Pool, and the Government Store, where supposedly you can by all kinds of tourists goods at a fair price without having to bargain. They really wanted us to buy rugs, but we refused to even look. But we did get some things for the four little granddaughters, and Rhona picked up the makings of a necklace. I cruised the huge showroom looking at leather jackets, and 30-50 K dining sets. Picture a table, six by ten feet, plate glass top. Below the glass the wood is terraced downwards and filled with patterns made with silver, stones, and bone…. They told me each table is made by one craftsman, it takes him over a year to complete, and he doesn’t begin another one until the last one is sold. Matching chairs. The salesman had a lot of time on his hands, knew that I wasn’t a “live” customer, so we just talked. He said when he was seventeen he lived in Tangier with Richie Havens, Keith Richards, and Bob Zimmerman. That’s how I knew he wasn’t just telling stories…. As you might know, Bob Dylan’s real name is Zimmerman. Anyway, interesting guy.
Wednesday we drove to the Cascades d’ Ouzoud…. We’ve got some nice pictures of the waterfalls; I’m not even going to try to describe them. I’ll be posting the pictures the same time I post this. Thursday in the tiny campground at the falls was a rough day for me. I woke up feeling sick, and soon eliminated all doubt. Took a nap, then we walked down to the base of the falls. Just incredible. It was a long climb back up to the campground, and then we packed up and hit the road. I didn’t want to spend another sleepless night there. Our basic goal at that point was to head north… we really weren’t sure how far we’d get, or if we would spend an extra day along the way. But driving through the mountains we came upon a large reservoir, crossed the dam, and down the road a ways, saw a camping sign. My theory is that the camp was the place where the workers lived that built the dam. It was a hotel, restaurant, campground, but only in the loosest definition of those words. We were the only people in the camping area, alongside a river that reminded me of the Feather River, in the canyon. Beautiful country, even though the facilities were primitive, to be kind. But quiet… that was the thing. I really expected the little campground at the Cascades to be peaceful, but it was one of the worst nights so far. People walking by, talking, barking dogs, cars and trucks going past, to who knows where… And the earliest rising roosters in the world.
Yesterday morning we rolled out of the dam camp early, and headed for Rabat, just about due north on the coast on the way to Tangier. There is a museum there we were hoping see where they have a collection of artifacts from Volubilis, the Roman ruins we visited outside Fez. After five or six hours of normal Moroccan traffic, we reached Rabat. Total disaster… there are no signs… at least signs that we can read. We got the worst kind of lost. You know, where the farther you drive, the more desperate the neighborhood gets? The unbelievable part was that we drove directly to the municipal campground. But we didn’t want a campground, we wanted the damn museum. We found a place that looked like it could be a museum, or at least, might be the Hassan II Mosque that is supposed to be near the museum… but were soon just as lost and confused as we’ve ever been. My patience with Moroccan signage is exhausted. I’m writing a letter to the King. Nice guy, I’m told. I’m sure he will read my complaints with interest.
Anyway, somehow we blundered our way northwards and out of the city, on the highway along the coast towards Tangier. Our challenge then became to find a decent campground… because our patience with filthy Moroccan campgrounds is worn as thin, if not thinner, than my patience with the street signs. We found a place that looked very nice. It will probably be a great place when the construction is completed. The showers were cold (not a big issue anymore), but obviously intended for pre-swimming pool use. Unisex with no doors. Rhona took her shower in her now world famous red bathing suit… I waited for dark and had a great, invigorating douche, as they call it here. Or there… because I’m now writing from the Fuengirola Campground. Yep, Jaine, the very same… town, not campground. More on that later, I’m trying to get up to date here.
I have to admit that one of the problems for me about making the Moroccan trip was the prospect of coming back through Moroccan and Spanish customs. That scene in the French Connection, when they cut the car apart? I could see that happening. The morning trip to the ferry went well…. We put the last of our Moroccan money in the gas tank. Traveling in Europe with the Euro has removed the hassle of changing money at every border. But it’s stupid to bring Moroccan money back to Spain. So then there’s the hassle of trying to figure out how to hit the border flat broke… The solution… play the gas gage so there’s room, and then stop before the ferry and put everything in…. gave the guy our bills and all our change, and he turned it all into Sans Plomb 95… that’s what they call regular unleaded. Added benefit, when we got to the dock the guys that run around helping tourists through the paperwork in hopes of a nice tip were told, hey, we have no money for help…. Which brings up the major Morocco issue. I really like the Moroccan people, especially the Berber people we met. But too often, we felt like meat on the hook, surrounded by, what? Vultures? I mean, you can’t really blame them. The average Moroccan income is something like $3500 a year… and there are a lot of wealthy Moroccans. Children learn to beg at a very early age. We met 18 – 19 year old well dressed young men giving us the “feed me” sign (bunched fingers to the mouth, repeated until all hope is extinguished.) Are they really hungry, or is it force of habit? They’re probably hungry. Can we travel the country handing out money to every Moroccan we meet? The hard part is when they come on as friends, just trying to help you out. Nothing you can say will stop them… especially when the circumstances (totally lost with no official guidance) demands assistance, from somebody. And then they expect a “tip”. And are very unhappy with less than they deem satisfactory. The government obviously is aware of the problem. They have taken steps to license official tourist guides, set fair rates, and are trying to enforce their regulations…. We saw plainclothes police in the Souks… being outrun by kids, yes, but at least we saw that Moroccan officials are aware that tourists do resent being constantly hustled. It was a problem for us all the way along our trip… whose help to accept, what to do when they are in our faces and won’t go away… it’s very tough. A couple examples: We stop at a gas station, fill up. Drive over to the air and water place, I need to check the radiator, top it off. This little kid shows up, takes over the hose. I tell him we have no money for him, doesn’t matter. He’s in the damn way. But he’s a cute little rascal. He’s also a beggar in training. What do I do? I do the best I can to take care of my own business, shoo him out of the way as best and as politely as I can. Then, just as we are about to leave, and he’s standing there with the best starving kid look in the world, I hand him an orange. Big smile, total success.
On the other hand. At the Cascades… Our guidebook said, “Ignore the useless guides”. It also said something about which way to go at the top of the falls… I thought it said right, it could have been left… I figured out later that the book was assuming that we were entering from a different place than we actually did…. Anyway, we came to the top of the falls, and went right. Found ourselves on a steep hillside of terraced olive trees. There were a couple interesting overlooks, but I realized we were on the wrong side of the canyon. We could see a nice developed area on the far side, with stairways down the the river. So we started back, intending to go left at the top. We met two Moroccan guys, in their early 20s I’d say, not kids. They said, you want to go to the Cascades? Swimming? That way…” Pointing back the way we had just come from….
Rhona asked one of them, “Is there an easy path? Can I make it down?”
“Oh yes, no problem, no problem.”
So we turned around and headed back. I saw one of the two guys cutting through the trees below us. There was no kind of path, just the terraces and trees, springs coming out of the hillside, irrigating the olives and heading down over the brink into the river below. At one point, when we made a turn to descend, he yelled at us, “No, not there, further on.” Then there he was, taking Rhona’s hand, helping her down a steep section, now… guiding us. I was trapped. What could I say? For all I knew, the choice I had made would have caused us to walk off a cliff. He led Rhona, further and further down the hillside. At the bottom, bingo, we walked right in to a clearing, into a little campground, restaurant. What a surprise. I threw my hands up in disgust and walked out, down to the river, where I sat by myself, enjoying the small waterfall and pool before me. Our “friend”, led Rhona further down the river, to the next little campground, restaurant. After a while they were back. As I sat and thought about it, I realized that at the very first we should have said to the guy was, “We have no money for you.” Because it was obvious that he felt that he owned us. And he was not going away until we bought ourselves back. I had the paper money, Rhona had some coins. Too many coins for my liking. But I told her, look, you want to pay him, fine, you pay him. Wasn’t really fair to her, but I was really feeling angry and trapped. It was clear by then that if we had gone back to the top and gone left, we would have been in a much more manageable situation (as we did the following day). Basically the guy lied to us, conned us, if you will, and then, under the guise of helping us, was expecting payment. A big payment. I’m not sure how much Rhona gave him to ease her guilty feelings, and I don’t blame her a bit, but the guy was not happy, he obviously wanted more. My feelings were not in the least bit constructive. Braining the guy with a rock was probably not a solution. But I did learn an important lesson. From that moment on, whenever we came into contact with any “friendly” Moroccans, I said, “We have no money for… help, a guide, you, whatever was appropriate. Worked just fine at the ferry today. Once they understood that we were not “customers” they were friendly, we had conversations about how wonderful our trip had been, and… they helped us through the process. The things about that are… it’s an official government action, immigration and customs. No signs, not a clue as to what we are supposed to do. These guys are running around with plastic identity badges, they take your paperwork, your passports, your ticket, your car registration, you assume they are official. And when it’s all done, they expect payment. For good service. In Euros, please. Well, today, they didn’t get it, and they were fine with it… because the next tourist will pay.
The morality of all this is tough for me to figure out. Obviously, we can’t travel around the country handing out cash to everyone who asks for it. I suppose there are many who do, figuring they are helping the poor Moroccans, and paying for little conveniences along the way. We drove down these little country roads, mile after mile, passing men, women and children begging for Dirhams. What are we suppose to do? Carry a big bag of money, throwing out the window as we pass by? Imagine a whole country of “homeless people”.
It’s a Third World Country, no question about it. No lepers in the streets like I’d seen in Viet Nam, but the impact of the smells, the filth, the poverty, is almost overwhelming at times. Everything seemed to be under construction. The heat was oppressive, the drinks lukewarm, ice found only in the rare giant supermarket outside the largest cities. As I’ve described, driving in the traffic is bizarre. I gradually came to the conclusion that it’s not collective insanity, there is a method to the chaos. They share the road in ways very difficult to comprehend. A truck coming over the double line coming at you in your lane is not a big deal… you honk, sure. Blink your headlights just to say hello. But you slide over, the guy alongside slides over, and all is well. They think nothing of double lane left turns. I mean, the guy in the center lane is trying to make a left turn across traffic, the next guy swings around him to the right, and passes him as they both turn left. And waves. And makes some friendly comment about the weather as he goes by. I know my comments sound like I’m complaining… whining…. No, by the end of the trip I was genuinely impressed by how practical the chaos actually is. Everyone gets where they are going at their own rate of speed, sharing the road – walking, on bikes, donkeys, horsecarts, Vespas, tiny shitbox cars, BMW and Mercedes sedans, buses, and huge diesel smoke belching trucks. We did see one accident as we were leaving Marrakech, in front of a big fancy hotel between a big car and one of those high powered sport bikes, but that doesn’t even count. There are two or three a day of those kind of wrecks in the Bay Area.
Rhona just read this over and she says I’m ending the Moroccan story on a negative note, and she’s right as usual. We had our doubts about going to Morocco… only decided to after meeting a few people in Portugal and Spain who had recently returned. Their advice was good… no danger, very pleasant people happy to see us, and incredible sights to see. Even with all I’ve said about the insistent salespeople, the obvious poverty and mind-blowing traffic, we don’t regret going for a moment. Meeting Said at Dades was worth the entire trip. The beach at Tagazoute was an amazing experience, camel ride and all. Our adventures in the Souks left us with sights, sounds and smells we will never forget. We traveled the country for two weeks, it seems like six months. Everywhere we turned we saw things we had never seen before. It was challenging, but definitely worth while.
Where was I? Sorry about the rant. Am I up to date? Nope… left some good stuff out, I know. Especially about today, this afternoon. We got off the ferry, and drove through Algeceris down the Costa del Sol… or as the highway signs say, Costa del Golf. To Fuengirola. Where Jaine and I spent the winter of 1970-71. And the idea of Kristina Marie began. Well, actually, more than just the idea.
I knew, I had read, that the Costa del Sol has been “ruined”. I was still shocked. It looks more like San Diego than Spain. Condo developments everywhere, makes the Algarve in Portugal look pristine. Huge billboards in English, advertising everything from Gentlemen’s clubs to furniture supermarkets. Heavy freeway traffic. I give up, impossible to describe. I remember Marbella, a hot spot for the jet set in the seventies. Now, another Long Beach. Fuengirola, the little fishing village with just a taste of tourism in the 70s… well, there was that Chinese wall of concrete highrises along the beach, even then. Miami Beach today. No exaggeration. Now, first question, what the hell’s the problem with Miami Beach? What is lost? Who is hurt? Comments from Florida? Tiff, Neil?
This afternoon Rhona and I sat in a bar called Bogies’s, across from the yacht harbor, in a building called “Old Town”. I’m quite sure that in the 70s there was nothing but sand in front of the fishing pier, maybe a small bar… but an Old Town? Ah well… Great food, ice cold beer. The streets are full of tourists of all persuasion. We spotted five Irish bars so far. This is really the belly of the beast. If tourism is a bad thing, this is where the evidence is to be found. It took us a while, but we found the campground; it’s almost full. Looks like a lot of year round campers here… televisions glowing all over the place. Is this really a campground, or the world’s wealthiest refugee camp? And just what are these people refugees from? English winters, that’s for sure… the high European cost of living, maybe.
Tonight, we don’t care. Hot showers. Washing machines. Ice in the campstore. Sit down toilets. And – miracle of miracles… free toilet paper! Rhona just came back, walking in an aura of soap smell, I guess it’s my turn. I think this is worth a day or two to check out.
7:40:18 PM 
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