Sandals and Kif in the Rif Mountains

...of Chefchaouen.

Okay, the promised story now.

The characters:
Daniel-a British national from Birmingham, oddly short for his age with blond hair, one eye brownish, the other green. He's 20 years old and dating Becky, below. His last name is Cohen, but he's not Jewish.
Becky-another Brit of Indian descent, she's also from Birmingham and going to school in Leeds. She's 19 years old.
Ibrahim-a Moroccan from Kenitra living a bit in Chefchaouen and everywhere in between.

So, I'm not sure where I last left off, but essentially I got into Chefchaouen and had the always momentous task of trying to find a way into town without getting horrible ripped off by someone or suckered into a scam (not very easy when you have this huge signpost of a backpack on you).

As a taxi drives just as I tried motioning for it, I hear a voice (in English!) behind me ask me if I want to share a taxi with them. It's Daniel, or Dan, and I instantly agree--putting out my hand and introducing myself. (Yes, there is that comon brotherhood, bond, of tourists...we're all easy prey...we all suffer together...and we're all there to discover a new country, culture, or the world...)

When we get into town we finally settle on a hostel--Pension Souika--that just opened a couple months earlier and is run by an awesome family. We share a room, they take the double I take the single bed, and we all turn in for a nap. It's nice to be on a simiar schedule of rest and recovery, and I am loving the fact that there are no real "sights" to see...and subsequently less stress. Here we can take in the beautiful city and the people...walk around and relax. The people are chill, the food good and cheap, everything laid-back, the city entirely painted in blue and white, very clean and scrubbed and at least seemingly safe...no hussle and no hustle.

Of course, there is one sight to see, and that's the spring and the mountains, the kif--aka marijuana--plantations. Tourists are informed by (as someone else calls it) the "Lonely Paranoid Planet" that it is not uncommon for people in the kif growing regions to plant kif or hashish on tourists who are looking for a smoke, and then to arrest them or embezzle them...if the police get involved the idea is to buy them off quickly before too many people get involved. In fact, it's expected you will buy yourself off rather than face what can be years in prison. Due to a natural paranoia...I tried to stay as far away from the stuff as possible...though, in a similar Amsterdamian craze, many tourists were obsessed with the goal of finding and smoking the "shit."

On my last day in Chefchaouen I went up for a hike in the mountains with Becky and Daniel. We were going toward the spring, where we saw local women doing there laundry and kids playing among the rocks and the water, going in for little dips...then we meandered up this mountain path toward the ruins of a mosque for a wonderful scenic view of the entire city. It reminded me of some of the landscapes you get in Yosemite Valley, but wider and more sweeping paranoias and wondrous architecture, colors and of course the sort of modern and ancient culture clash...

At the old mosque I wanted to turn back down and head to the hostel to make a tajine with the hostel family who we had told we'd be back to shop with at about 6 p.m...it was already nearly time and I thought we should leave...but Dan and Becky wanted to checkout the kif plantations up ahead on the trail by the second mosque...and well, we had traveled all this way, and the views would be stupendous.

So on we went. There were a number of mountain guys following us along the trail, talking constantly about kif and wanting to talk to us about kif, but we tried avoiding them, worried about falling prey to a "guide" that would later demand money, or worse, getting into some sort of kif-related fiasco.

As we went along the trail another guy named Jack from our hostel was walking with a Moroccan guy. We said between ourselves that if anyone got in trouble it would be Jack because obviously that Moroccan local was going to get in on kif or as a guide or something else.

As we continued on the trail I wanted to get up higher, past the Moroccan and Jack so that we could get back faster. Becky and Dan took their time though, and so it was that all five of us ended up hiking along together. The Moroccan would stop every now and then and magically take something out of nature--a piece of a tree that tasted like chocolate, a fig, or a blackberry...and give us each one to eat. I knew we'd have to pay for his kindness later though. Oh well, I thought, there was nothing I could do now, I was with the group.

So up we went. Soon I was walking ahead quickly with the Moroccan guy while the three Brits chatted each other up and discovered they were all from about the same area. The Moroccan's name was Ibrahim, and we talked as we went up. He seemed harmless enough, and he seemed to want to practice his English. I practiced a bit of my Spanish and Arabic with him while interspersing English and French...it was fun.

As we kept climbing upwards the path got more and more steep and winding...the others were really lagging while I felt quite energized. I asked Ibrahim how long it would take to get to the top. He told me it'd take him about 20 minutes, but all of us...maybe a lot longer, since we walked slower.

Bah! I told him. It would take me 10 minutes, and I proceeded to dash up the mountain. My reasoning in this was two-fold. If he was a fake guide, then when we got to the top he certainly couldn't charge me anything if I got there first--what kind of guide follows their client? Secondly, I was worried about getting back in time. Well, and I suppose there was a third reason to all this, I really could do it in 10 minutes, or so I believed.

And so we continued at a faster pace now, with me leading. We were advancing quickly and I challenged Ibrahim to a race to the top, half-jokingly. He was game...and I was called on my bluff...I was wearing sandals! I told him that I'd surely race him if I had different shoes on. However, in a few seconds Ibrahim said..."1...2...3," and not being one to sit out a good race, off we went, up the path. A few seconds later we'd stopped, out of breath. We'd arrived, and below us were the kif plants...plus corn. Dan, Becky and Jack joined us and we gazed down in awe. We could have continued upwards, in fact, many people trek in the Rif Mountains, but I didn't want to be stuck up there after dark so we just hung around there a bit. Dan and Jack went running through the plants and got themselves a little kif. I held it for a second and moved to give it to Ibrahim and take a picture, but he jumped back frightened, and said "Non, non...la police, la police!"....

Ibrahim doesn't smoke or drink...so much for quick judgments. The others pocketed their kif, and we turned to continue back down the mountain. Ibrahim and I continued down the mountain. He seemed content that I'd been willing to race, and he jokingly started counting up again for another race, at which point, ironically, my flip-flop strap snapped and there I was, at the top of a mountain with cactus aplenty (yes, my foot had already been attacked by one...true to form. Everytime I hike where there is cactus...). We all stood there at the top. Another two hours of hiking before us down a steep mountainous path...and me with one foot bare from a broken sandal.

It was quite problematic, and we all tried to figure out a way to get me down the mountain...either they carried me...or I went barefoot, but with the insects and plant-life there...that wasn't a good idea.

Ibrahim stared at my sandal and then took off his own right sandal that was of strong leather, and gave it to me. He tired fixing my sandal, but limped along barefoot as I protested. But he wouldn't hear it. He grabbed a bit of root or stringy material growing along the path and tied up the sandal strap somehow securing it together at least temporarily, and then he put it on. "It's the new style!" he exclaimed. "You'll see tomorrow, everybody in Chefchaouen will be wearing it!" I took a photo.

I didn't know how to thank him. We continued on down the mountain as the sun started setting. Time was getting scarce...and because of the broken sandal we hurried up on ahead of the rest of the group, trying to buy time before the sandal broke again and became irreparable.

At the same time I was trying to be very careful and trip less than normally...I didn't want to break my other sandal.

Separated from the others again we made our way down the mountain, pleasantly chatting along the way. However, we soon found ourselves lost in the mountain and scrambling for the proper route, backtracking and the like...the sun mercilessly continuing its descent.

Luckily we found the proper path. But now we were worried about the others. Ibrahim and I continued on, and then decided to wait for the others despite the setting sun. We shouted their names a bit and then he asked some locals in Arabic about them. They were close by. So we sat down and I showed him pictures of my travels on my camera. He told me he had met a guy from California the day before and that the guy had given him a postcard as a gift. Ibrahim showed them both to me and asked me which I liked better...and then gave it to me. A gift, he said.

After 15 minutes the others still had not turned up, and we thought perhaps they had continued on down the mountain on another route. We hurried on toward the mosque ruins, yelling their names every so often. I was worried, but apparently all the paths on the mountains led eventually to a home of sorts there or down to the city.

At the mosque ruins we were all reunited. There Ibrahim took out of his pocket a bit of a plant. I was stunned...kif...? No no, paranoia begone. It was peppermint...

We finally got back into the city and there we re-exchanged sandals. I thanked Ibrahim profusely. I would not have easily made it down the mountain without him. We all decided to meet again later that night for a cup of tea on a terrace. I invited Ibrahim for tea. My last night in Chefchaouen.

That night we all met up and Ibrahim and I had some tea. I gave him a book I had just finished, "The Alchemist"...so that he could practice his English, and to thank him for all his troubles. In it I wrote him a little message and left him my Moroccan number and email.

Oh yes, I almost forgot, we also did a little bit of shopping--the first thing I'd bought in Morocco...a pair of leather sandals for myself. Then he walked me back to my place...on the way over there was a nice small bag that I glanced at, I do hate carrying around a huge sac all the time. But it was a tad too expensive for me, so on we went. We stopped in front of my door to my hostel and shook hands again as they do here. Shake and then a touch of the palm to the heart. He invited me to stay with his family in Kenitra, near Rabat, but I said I couldn't...and we parted ways.

Things aren't always what they seem, huh? That wasn't the end of Ibrahim, but that's all I have time for right now. I'll be leaving in a couple hours for Cairo. I'm off to the airport here in Casablanca.

Turkish toilets in Morocco

I think every travel blog needs to have a special entry dedicated to toilets, and as I have some time to kill before I get going for the airport...here goes.

Basically these toilets are the classic holes in the ground found all over the world. The "Temple of Western Toilets" (aka Mc Donald's) is not as widespread here as in many other parts of the world, and so I eventually had to make do with learning how to manage.

I remember reading in "King Rat" by James Clavell about the toilets in Changi...these match the description as well as the description of how they are used. Essentially next to the hole in the ground there is a bucket and a faucet that pours out water. It's very utile...I'll avoid the more vulgar details and say that essentially you do your business and then probably squat about for a minute puzzled. No paper? But of course. You brought your own? Great idea! But don't throw your paper into the hole, because it is a somewhat hi-tech nonflush, flusher...Okay, well, perhaps a wastebasket then? Nope, none in sight.

At this point there is very little choice other than to do as the locals do, and that is to use the infamous left hand to clean yourself up, perhaps using a bit of the water from the faucet, and then to fill up the bucket and cleanse the receptacle--for the more acrobatic ones (and as it probably should be done) while squatting. G-d help you if you're suffering from the common tourist ailment, euphemistically called an "upset stomach." We all know what that means...

In any case, after you clean up yourself and the place, you go out and wash your hands (hopefully with the soap they should have available). Usually though, unless you are in a private home, there is no soap. Then, if you're like me, you use a bit of your disinfecting gel thingy to alcoholize and cleanse your hands.

Actually though, I find the bathrooms here often quite well kept and scrubbed, and most Moroccans and the Muslim religion itself is quite manic about cleanliness of one's person and one's home. It's kind of like an extra little bath...not so bad, especially when you consider the fact that a lot of toilets don't have paper or water.

Not always what it's cracked up to be...

Sometimes traveling can be highly overrated. You are "traveling"--constantly on the move--it's hard work. Traveling is not a vacation unless you make it so, and then you're often not traveling. It's a bit of that square/rectangle thing.

I was initially going to update about my time in Chefchaouen and my incredible/crazy day yesterday. But I'll have to hold the "kif" and sandal experience for another entry.

Today I had a bit of a breakdown...though the day started auspiciously enough. I woke up on time, had a great breakfast and took my time getting to the bus station, got a bargain on my taxi but being willing to walk the entire way to the station at 6 a.m. I then got my bus to go to Rabat--what everyone calls an "administrative city" and an example of the real, modern Morocco. It's also a bit of a beach city as I discovered, with people scrapping to get onto bits of sand that are available on the western coast. Because it actually has a growing commercial district and businesses that do not necessarily rely on tourism, there are more fixed prices and less tourist hassle--also fewer tourists, and so, ironically you are all the easier to spot as one, and to pinpoint in instances where there is someone to hassle you. But I digress.

Yes, I had a bit of a breakdown. The thing with traveling alone in general is that you cannot trust people--add a pound of paranoia to my regular daily paranoia. Sure, I do take some (somewhat risky) chances and gauge people--trust some, don't trust others when traveling...at least mildly. In Europe and most of my other travels it has been very easy and intuitive to do that. But here, in Morocco, my intuition is all screwed up with the knowledge of the multifarious scams and people who are willing to go through all sorts of forms of self-abasement (at least morally) to reel you in and screw you. Today I was hassled by at least 10 people who came up to me and asked me if I was traveling alone, who wanted to do henna for me ("free! free!")...who wanted to guide me around ("out of kindess, not for money!")...

Most of these people were men, or in the cases of the henna people women that were easy to spot. It's also key to remember the huge amount of unemployment (I believe it's almost 20% or more, as well as the huge illiteracy in the country--70%--though Moroccans are quite gifted at languages. In any case, the last person I just spoke with me broke the (if you'll allow me this cliche) camel's back. I had just been hassled by some guy here, and this kind woman turned around. She was walking with another man, her friend. I asked her for directions and smiled (I've tried weaning myself off this, and I'm usually quite good at poker facing everyone, including even children!...but most women don't tend to be scam artists, or I haven't heard of one yet). The woman said she was going in the same direction as me and asked me about where I was from and stuff. Now, the thing is, as soon as people here hear USA, dollar signs often flash into their heads (Disclaimer: Not referring to all Moroccans, but a vast majority.) I've a number of different stories I tell people depending on how good my French accent is that day, how tan I've become, what they initially guess and who they are (for example, I usually reserve "the truth" for the police and other offials who could easily request my passport for something). Anyway, as I was saying, she found out I was traveling alone (this time I told her the truth, usually I am meeting friends, distant relatives, or others somewhere in town). After she found that out she invited me to her home for dinner with her family. Apparently she is married to a Christian guy from Martinique, so she is now no longer Muslim but Christian. I told her I currently wasn't really practicing anything, but believed in G-d...(technically true).

So she invites me for dinner with her family (which happens often with plain kindness and hospitality here to people), and that's it, for a while. We're walking along and then I ask her about the beach, and she kind of normally says she could go with me because I was mentioning that it's not easy to go alone when you have a lot of valuables that need to be looked after. Anyway, as we continued walking along she said I could even stay at her place if I wanted. Then we walk some more and she mentions that I should take my camera to the beach to take photos. All the while I start getting this bad feeling. If this woman wanted to steal my belongings or my camera and passport, that'd be walking right into things. Or, she could just be kind and gracious right now. We talk some more and I find out that she's not really with her husband any longer--they're together, but not living together, or some other weird story--oh, and she doesn't live in Rabat, but Sale...which is not far, just like Buda and Pest, but still odd and a trek out from my hostel in Rabat (which is nearly empty and "cell-like"). The woman suggests I just go straight to her place for dinner and then stay over, and tomorrow we go to the beach. I make up an excuse about having to go back to the hostel to pay them still...feeling horrible about my doubts, but still. As we continue walking, she tells me about her job at a textile factory in Rabat and about how little she is paid, and shows me her employment/salary slip. I just feel very odd, and have a bit of that foreboding feeling.

I ask her for an Internet cafe, and she says I could go to her place tomorrow and use the net cafe, and seems a bit hesitant to have me contact my parents (as I was mentioning--and seems to keep the sleezier people away when they know I am in constant contact with home). Anyway, I take her phone number and she kindly wishes me safety, good luck, to take care of myself, and says we'll see each other tomorrow. She asks me where I'm going, and I say I'm going to go back to use this other Internet cafe we'd passed...and that's that. I get a little choked up walking away because I can't tell any longer whether peoples' intentions are good or bad. Here there are very few tourists (I haven't seen any really)...and it's hard to trust people in general, though fellow tourists are often better. So anyway, here I am, I've made my way back to the net cafe here, or the "cyber" as they call it here. I was yearning for some relief, and I'm listening to some music on my iPod to calm my nerves...I'm a little disappointed this cafe doesn't have Skype, but I suppose I will use it later tonight at another cafe.

Days like this make me yearn for a friendly face and some creature comforts. Traveling like all things can be good and bad, days can be good and bad, and I understand that. I've found that when I'm in doubt, though I may miss out on the best possible of experiences, at least I am not in constant turmoil and have some peace of mind. Perhaps tonight or tomorrow will be better. Onwards and upwards.

Finally "vacationing!"

Sorry about the lack of contact. These last days have been crazy for me. I am finally here in Chefchaouen, in the Rif Mountains of Morocco. The most Berkeley place I've been to yet. Quite "chilled out"...it's also the biggest producer of marijuana for Europe, exporting the majority that goes up to the Continent and the UK. The city is squeaky clean and not too busy, but still full enough with a variety of backpackers from everywhere--that means cheap prices, good accommodation and a nice diversity of people. It also means a chance to hook up with fellow travelers and to share experiences, which is always nice.

So let me recap a bit on my last couple days here. It's hard to remember everything, but luckily I will (hopefully soon) have figured out how to post photos without freezing up whatever computer I am on, and that will jog my memory.

Last Saturday I spent a beautiful day in Essaouira--a nice port/beach city on the west coast (the best coast!) of Morocco (actually, I believe the northern coast is better, but I'm just showing my US roots). I woke up early and drove over with Aziz, a friend of mine in Marrakesh who was somewhat frightened of passing cars on the road at the beginning. After an hour or so he got up some courage and we managed to get to a more speedy 60 mph on the two-lane road. Needless to say, it took some time to get there, but I thougth that my parents would quite appreciate his caution as we puttered over there. After swimming a bit, lounging around on the beach and taking some photos we went and enjoyed a delicious fish lunch for two, all for less than $2 (that's what happens when you go with a Moroccan). After walking about the entire city and taking in a cup of mint tea, we drove back to Marrakesh. It was a lovely day.

That night I met up with another tourist I'd met on the trip. We had a cup of that delicious and famed orange juice on the place and then a cup of tea. It was nice to talk in English for a bit after talking almost purely in French for the previous five days or so. Throughout the last couple days I'd felt the creeping on of an illness, but had ignored it (per usual) until it overtook me. Sunday morning, I woke up fully ill and used the day to rest a bit (though not as much as I should have), as well as do laundry and prepare myself for the desert the next day.

Monday morning I headed out to the desert in the early morning driving through a number of cities--I'll list the big ones here: Ouarzazate, spent the night in the Todra Gorges, then Merzouga, where the road literally ends in the Sahara Desert. Hopped onto a camel there and road into the dunes for two hours...just as the sun was setting. Boy are camels uncomfortable. I'll just leave it at that. I could barely walk when I got off of mine, and the next day...my entire lower body was sore as heck.

That night we ate dinner in the desert and danced with the local Berbers as they played the drums around the fire. Out of a group of 14 people (mostly girls), leave it to one of the only guys there to snore all night and keep everyone awake. I didn't sleep much at all, but then again, neither did the guy (and to be honest, he's such a great person I can't really get upset with him about it). We "woke up" before dawn in order to catch the sunrise. I climbed up to the top of the nearby dune...and nearly died trying to do so. It was very deceptive--that dune. Climbing up only a quarter way, you felt you were halfway there, but the distance continued to grow and grow. I have no clue how Moses did it. Everyone in my group conked out...and 30 minutes into the climb I was the only one going, coughing up a lung in the process, my eyes bleary and burning from lack of sleep. A Spanish family was climbing up alongside me, and they gave me some strenght--or maybe stubborn pride--to keep going. At the top it was all worth it, and I have some great pictures.

Then it was onto the camels at 6:30 a.m....and at 9 a.m. onto the vans, and we were driving out of the desert. At 9:30 p.m. I got back into Marrakesh and dashed to my friend Massin's place to grab my stuff and he prepped his moto to zoom me over to the bus right before it left at 10 p.m. I checked my stuff in and he threw me a water bottle he'd just bought me for the ride. Into the bus I went, and off it (and I, luckily) went. At 5:45 a.m. I pulled into Fes and spent a extraordinarily hot and hectic day there. All I have to say about Fes is that it is highly highly overrated, and not that great--it's a smaller, seedier Marrakesh, with shadier guys...or so it seemed. I was glad to get out of there the next day, early in the morning (today, that is). I don't know if I didn't like Fes because Marrakesh had become home by then, or because it seemed just...dodgy. I suspect it's the latter.

Chefchaouen, on the other hand has been lovely. It's a peculiar city in that it has been relatively isolated from the rest of Morocco and has a great Spanish influence because it is so close to Spain up North. I believe I'll have a great chance at practicing Spanish here, as well as catching up on sleep and building up my strenght. I met two really down-to-earth Brits (a couple) at the bus station and we're rooming together here, which makes it cheaper, about $6 a night. Although it's relatively easy to get to Chefchaouen, it's quite hard to get out of here because most coaches are full and coming from other locales...I will have to figure that out tomorrow.

Anyway, that's all bare bones for now, though I think I will be able to update a tad more frequently now that I have found a net cafe (though pricier) with a better keyboard, connection...and I have some time...

On a more final note I would like to say something about prejudices and conceptions (of people/others/things) while traveling. It's been very interesting traveling as I am, who I am, with my history, background, religious, ethnic, nationality, etc...I run into a lot of interesting discrimination. For example, the Brits on my trip to the desert were very surprised to meet an American traveling in Morocco (most do not seem to know the first thing about the States or distances in the States--or, worse, they pretend to and make these broad generalizations). True, there are very few Americans traveling in Morocco. I've walked past one (accent), and actually ran into another one today in Chefchaouen. The Brits were, perhaps genuinely, surprised that Americans are even mildly informed about the world and though all they said to me was overwhelmingly complimentary as the days wore on...it was also quite double-edged. I mean, come on...could they really have such crude and crass generalizations of all Americans? Oh yes they do. And the crude and crass comes from listening to their imitations of our accents...ouch. I would have to say that others are no better, thinking Americans are all quite blandly the same, lack culture, live in a souless, materialistic country. There is very little thought put to context or actual informative facts when these ideas are stated. They are merely stated.

In all of this though and through all of this it has only made me more proud to be American, to be brought up in the United States and in California where, despite perhaps our problems with whatever, we are (for the most part) much more open minded about differences in cultures, races, ethnicities, religions and class (a big one, especially for the Brits).

With my last name and the "look of me"...everybody thinks I'm Moroccan here, and I fit in quite nicely if I want to and go around with a local or on my own. My basic Arabic is good enough as long as I don't banter with them (but Moroccans love banter, so I am often quickly found out). I'm hoping to study a bit more, though I should be working on that Spanish too. Good thing I'm in Chefchaouen.

Anyway, I should get going as it is getting late. I leave on Tuesday for Egypt and will be there for about three weeks. I only have a couple more days here and I'll probably take it easy and not dash about as much. Hope everybody is doing well, enjoying the last couple days of "summer" and/or the start of classes...

Where was I...

Everytime I start an entry here I find it hard to remember where I left off.

Anyway, I don't think I mentioned specifics about Marrakesh, where I have now stayed a total of three full days. I wrote an email to my family earlier describing the interesting juxtaposition you have here between the modern and the ancient, new traditions and the old traditions. The current king Mohammed VI has made increasing tourism his number one goal...from 2 million to 10 million people a year. There are all sorts of laws protecting tourists because of this. What is intersting though is that despite all of this modernization, growing hotels and a booming tourism industry, there is still an older mentality and culture that remains embedded in daily life. Walking down the roads you will see people cycling along on bicycles, on motorcycles/mopeds, donkeys, horses, carts, trucks, cars...almost every mode of transportation known to man.

My first day here I woke up to a full Moroccan breakfast prepared for me by my kind hosts: cheese and bread, moroccan tea, orange juice...The night before I didn't have a chance to go to the bank because I got in so late, but it was fine because my host lent me 400 Dh right off the bat (I have already paid him back--in cash--now worries!)...

Then I went to see the Menara Gardens here, which are absolutely beautiful. I shall have to figure out how to get these pictures here without having the computer freeze up. Anyway, the main mode of transportation for me here has been the back of my friend's motorbike, which is nice because of all the wind. Thankfully it's been a rather cool summer--about 86 degrees/30 celsius during the day. After the gardens I went swimming for a bit at a friend of the friend's house--was attacked by their puppy who is kinda crazy...but luckily he didn't break any skin (even the second time...ah yes...that's another story). The bruises will soon go away. (I'm okay mom and dad.)

After swimming I went into the city to Place Jamea el Fnae, which is one of the most famous market gathering places in Africa--only pictures will do it justice. There are snake charmers, performers of all stripes, food carts throughout the place, orange juice booths (3 dh!...or about $0.40). Of course, the charmers also try and charm tourists out of their money, and anything and everything will cost you a dirham (taking a picture, smiling at someone...even that!)...Or you will be accosted for being a tourist by the local sketchy people who will try and, as my host says, "brainwash you" into thinking they are awesome people, and manage to take your money. Here it's all about "money or sex"...I suppose they're more honest than some other places...

My second day here I went about the medina area and I saw a couple palaces that were breath-takingly beautiful. These ancient palaces that are like oases of solitude in the middle of a crazy hugely populated and noisy city. You wouldn't even know that behind these high walls are these wondrous riches, shady palaces with beautiful tiled floors, patterned walls and ceilings, etchings...just amazing. There are no words.

Anyway, lucky for me, most people here think I am Moroccan, therefore I have few problems (thus far) with being hassled like others. I've memorized some basic Arabic, and otherwise with my French (I don't know how people who don't know French get around here, but I am sure they are constantly screwed over)...I manage to get people to leave me alone. Really though, the picture I'm painting is not so bad, with toursits you'll always have these types, even in Europe...though here it's not so much the pickpockets as the pick-everything-you've-got-and-you're-sanity-too. People here are quite tickled by my background, and my Iranian lineage gives me a lot of "street cred."

Oh yes, I forgot to mention, I saw a Jewish cemetary here where that Pinchas guy (no offense intended) was buried, and caught a funeral there even (...yeah...). It was very strange to see so many Jews there, and I was given a clearance once I told them the truth about me. (click on the italics for more...j/k).

Okay, well, let's continue...today I woke up and I went to walk around the Garden Marjorelle...which was previously owned by Yves Laurent, apparently. (There's a cool museum there too.) Then, I went to walk around the souk (outdoor markets), visited another museum, the medersa (religious school), and then an old palace that had been destroyed.

Well, time is running low here, I shall finish up with henna, Essaouria and the desert tomorrow...

So far so good...(sorry about the lack of detail here, was trying to download photos, skype and email at the same time)...

A little more time.

Well to recap as I wait for a last redeback from my chef...

Bratislava turned out to be a beautiful city (aren't they always?) as I prepared to gear up for my numerous flights into London Heathrow and then out of it after a day there.

Let me just say that London is city so steeped in history...I loved it. My friend once went there and came back and told me London is like New York but not as cool. Au contraire, I found London to be like New York, but much cooler (sorry New Yorkers)...there is so much to see and so much history there, it's hard enough to see everything in weeks, let alone a single day. So, I did my best, knowing I'll be heading back there one day. I saw the Tower of London (magnificent!)--where I saw on display Japanese armor given as a present to King Henry VIII (I believe) by George Saris. This was especially cool because I had just read a book this summer on Williams Adams, the English explorer who became a royal retainer or hatamoto to the Shogun Hidetado in Japan. Since I've read up quite a lot of extraneous information on that period of history, previous to and after it, it was really really unbelieveable to see a physical embodiement (well, emthingyment) of something I'd just read about. I also saw Buckingham Palace, Westminster, Parliament, Big Ben, London Bridge (that song was stuck in my head for hours)...

It was absolutely psychotic trying to get into Marrakesh, and after two hours of delay I finally got in at around midnight.

Well, I've got to run to the bank. Today I'm looking at palaces, the medina and the shouk.

Some parting thoughts. Thank G-d I am half Iranian and thank G-d I speak French. That is all for now.

Oh what a journey!

Well, I'm finally in Marrakesh here, and my Lord has it been a long journey to finally get here. I don't have much time right now to explain all that has happened, but suffice it to say that the landscape here, filmed as it is, would make for wondrous cinematography. Boy is it beautiful. A lot of it reminds me of stories I have only read of in books. Life here seems very nice, full of color and an open welcoming cultural hospitality that seems to jar (quite violently in some cases) with the huge increase in tourism and local thieves.

After one day here, I'm still pinching myself trying to believe that I am, in fact, actually here in Morocco. It is amazing. Details to come.

Now for the Bratislava post.

Oh yes, I finally arrived. Oh man, was it hectic (understatement of the...)

Let's start at the beginning, even though my Internet time is running by quickly here. This is my third computer and I've had to switch keyboards too. They don't like me much here, but it's not my fault I type too quickly and all the keys get stuck together...is it?

Saturday morning I woke up bright and early at 5:30 a.m. after having gone to sleep at 3 a.m. (hey, it was my last night in Brussels). At about 6:30 a.m. I made my trip over to Brussels airport (for more on that, read below). When I finally arrived in Bratislava (after delicious cheese sandwiches on the flights)...I realized I had about 1.5 hours to get from the airport to my hostel, on the outskirts of town, check into it, change into my clothes and get back into the center of town for the wedding ceremony (and we all know how quick those are...

As any good tourist/arriver person in a foreign country I searched out the information desk, the ATM and a kind lady who told me how to get into town, my hostel, changed my money into small bills and drew everything out nicely on a map. She wished me luck on my "adventure" and rushed me out of the station, warning me that it would take 45 minutes to get to my hostel alone, and that I'd possibly miss five minutes of the ceremony...if all went smoothly and things worked out fine at the hostel (right).

I left the map at the station (oops), and went outside to wait for the bus. T=3 p.m., ceremony at 4:15 p.m.

I frantically looked around for a bus or any possible ride. It was a day of good samaritans and guardian angels...as it has been said...I either have the best of luck or the worst luck. I am nothing if not extreme!

Anyway, I got on the bus finally and settled in for my journey. I had no clue where I was supposed to get off because of the lack of map situation, and I asked some people on the bus, but no one seemed to speak English or French (that came in handy later). Finally, I see a nice family of a mother, her daughter (and as I later discover), the daughter's neice. The three are having a reunion of sorts on the bus since the daughter and neice had just gotten back from a vacation in Bulgaria. Sadly, I disrupt this happy get together with my questions and pretty soon they're intently planning out my way. As luck would have it, the older daughter spoke English and the mother had (fortunately) worked seven years in that part of town, so she remembered how to get to my hostel. The daughter said she would come with me on my journey. Did I mention it was pouring rain? Yes, it was.

So while her mom and neice take all her stuff with them to go to the train station, where she will have to catch a train out at 5 p.m., me and the daughter get off the bus at the proper stop and she ushers me onto the right tram. I was very very lucky. T= 3: 25 p.m. The tram arrives at 3:35 p.m. and things are looking up. We dash into the hostel and get to the front desk. I must admit the place is not looking very impressive, and not a single person speaks English. The daughter, thankfully, translates the entire situation. The people there say I need to pay them for the room first but they do not have change nor do they take credit card. Lovely.

I leave my stuff with them at the desk (somewhat hesitantly) and run outside with the daughter to the bankomat and then to the gas station to get change--luckily both are within running distance--and we are both pretty wet by now. T=3:45 p.m. I finally get showed to my room...showed because the maze of rooms in this student dormitory is so confusing that the lady who works there gets lost. We finally get into my room and I start to frantically change, I bring a bag for my shoes and put on flips flops. In the bathroom I lose one of my contacts. So now, the girl is searching around on the ground for my contact while I'm hopping about trying to get ready and not get in her way, while searching for my contact with one hand over my bad eye.

Eventually I just pull out a new contact lens, grab my stuff and we dash out and around the building searching for the exit. We fumble with the handful of keys (3) that are for the numerous doors in the building, and finally get out. T=4 p.m.

The girl's mom called her while I was changing and they are waiting for her at the train station, not too happily. We catch the proper tram finally (I bless the airport lady's foresight in telling me to buy an extra ticket beforehand)...and we both get onto the proper tram. The girl has to get off earlier, but she asks an old lady about where I should get off the tram. The lady says she is going the same way and will point me in the right direction to get to the Primatial Palace (where the wedding is)...

I sit on a bench and bumble about trying to get my shoes on--I'm not that good with heels. The old lady hands me kleenex to wipe off my bag and a bag for my flip flops. All the old ladies on the tram seem quite taken in by my predicament--it might have also been the red dress I was wearing (borrowed from the bride back in Brussels). At the proper stop we get off the tram and the old lady shields me from the rain under her umbrella. We start hobbling over to the palace which is right in front of us, and I start walking a little quicker trying to tell her that I can make it (despite the treacherous cobblestones!). She seems to misunderstand and starts running next to me. We go on like that for about a minute before I stop cold and turn to her, put my hands on her shoulder to stop her and thank her profusely--djakuyem--or some variation of that in my malformed, twisted Slovak single-word vocabulary way...

I run on to the wedding, past a tourist group and up the stairs to the chapel after asking around...I leave my umbrella outside (I'd opened one up after leaving the old lady), and, as flashbacks of "Four Weddings and a Funeral," which I watched again last week continued to haunt me...I slipped into the hall of mirrors right as the music stops and the bride and groom are standing next to each other at the front.

Whew. All I can say is thankfully I didn't have to deal with Heathrow. A couple people, including the groom's sister and witness did...and let's just say her 48 hour journey was filled with near-peril.

The wedding was absolutely positively spectacular. I was very thankful to have made it. After a very regal ceremony, we all made our way over to the reception and I finally had a chance to relax. A short synopsis at least for now--the food was excellent (I've never eaten more in my life!)...and the music/dancing was tons of fun. I crawled into bed at about 4 a.m...ahh yes.

More on the wedding, the boat trip along the Danube and Devin Castle...plus Tiger Balm and a motorcycle ride home...hopefully later. Intrigued? You should be.

Now I must check on my flights into and out of Heathrow. Today and tomorrow, Bratislava-->Prague-->Heathrow & Heathrow-->Marrakesh, respectively. Yesterday all flights into and out of Heathrow were cancelled, crossing my fingers today. Wish me luck...

At Brussels airport...8/12/06, 8:10 a.m.

Evidence of the London plot fiasco is all the airport here in Brussels--even for flights into Easter Europe!

Walking over to the security area there was a handful of guards in front of the area. Big whtie signs with capital ltetters read "USA fligths"--"Non-USA flights" and passengers were sectioned off to the left (USA) or the right (Non-USA)--depending on their destination.

I had a small swave of...maybe nostalgia, homesickness mixed in with some wistful patriotism there as I contemplated the USA security line. The security of the non-USA line was as it was, with almost every passenger getting felt up by a security guard of their respective gender.

I have to say, my lady was very thorough--nary a crevice left untouched. It was a great way to start the trip--violated in the early morning (before 8:30 a.m.!), in Brussels airport...

Always running...

Work has ended. Packing continues. I will be heading off to finish everything up before I leave tomorrow at 6:30 a.m. for the airport to go to Bratislava.

Hopefully the London business is back to normal by the time my flight comes around Monday.

Meanwhile, I will have to finish up some work while traveling on Sunday. Such is life.

Catch y'all later.

Getting close.

And we're down to my last two days at work...

A couple stories to wrap up, a section to finish (covering for someone out on vacation), and then I'm done.

So here's a tentative look at my travel plans.

My initial itinerary:
Aug. 11-15 London
Aug. 15-29 Morocco
Aug. 29-Sept. 18/20ish Egypt
Sept. 20-Oct. 16 Israel
Oct. 16-Oct. 20 (Petra, Amman)
Oct. 20 Los Angeles

My new itinerary:
Aug. 12-14 Bratislava, Slovakia
Aug. 14-15 London
Aug. 15-29 Morocco
Aug. 29-Sept. 18/20ish Egypt
Sept. 20-Oct. 16 Israel
Oct. 16-Oct. 20 (Petra, Amman)
Oct. 20 Los Angeles

These plans are basically when I seemingly must leave one country to another because of flight/train/bus plans...but otherwise, and even so, everything is quite flexible.

As for my change in travel plans?

In short: These really great people I am staying with here in Brussels for my last couple weeks are getting married. Tickets to get to Bratislava were all about $300-$400...and so I was hopelessly bereft of the possibility of seeing them tie the proverbial knot..until...

Eric, the soon-to-be groom, got the wild and crazy idea to apply his 25,000 Delta sky miles to me. So now they're essentially flying me over at the last minute--I pay airport fees.

Looks like I'm attending a wedding in Bratislava. Can't wait to see two awesome people get what they deserve (happiness, though that sounds slightly more ominous than it is meant to be).

Yes, I have good friends.

Now to find a place to stay and clothes to wear. Ehm...More details to come!