I cooked all the meals for us while we were staying in the apartment, and they were all delicious. I wish I had taken pictures.
We arrived a night and a day before the festival, so we decided to walk down La Rambla (the biggest shopping/tourist street in the city), go to the beach, and take a look at the place where the festival was being held. It was a great walk, we stopped at Mcdonalds (that is now 4 continents of very similar food) and at the big market whose name I cannot spell, but it is something like Bouqueria or something, and ate delicious fresh fruit for very reasonable prices. Everyone had said the beach sucked because it wasn't natural, but I thought it wasn't too bad, especially because it wasn't crowded at all. We walked a long the entire Barcelona coastline, reached the venue after several hours of very pleasant walking, and returned to our apartment in the evening. The metro in barcelona is much cheaper than london and the coverage is just as good.
The next day we had meant to get to the venue early to get our wristbands, but we all slept in so by the time we got there it had already started and there was a huge line. Apparently getting up earlier wouldn't have made any difference as I met someone who went down 4 hours before the first band and still got a sunburn from waiting in line so long. Oh well. It was really well organised, the weather was beautiful, and on the first day I had no conflicts with bands I wanted to see playing at the same time.
The only thing that sucked was getting back, because the subway had stopped running, so we took on of the promised coaches. The line took an hour and there did not seem to be enough busses running. They also dropped us fairly far from our apartment so we had to cab the rest of the way. After that I vowed NEVER AGAIN. And I knew it would be OK because on saturdays the barcelona metro runs 5am to 5pm.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
13 hours of pain (in spain)
The bus to Barcelona was about the worst bus I have ever taken (so far, anyways). It was in much better condition than most busses I took in Morocco, but the seats were built for spaniards (i was one of the tallest men in the country) and the foot rests for the row behind are connected to your chair, so if anybody put their feet on them, you feel it. To make it even worse, Spanish people are inconsiderate and all seem to hate each other, so they didn't care how much they kicked your seat and were constantly getting in to loud arguments, even at 5am. God I wish I had taken a train.
I slept through as much of the ride as I could, but I am sad to say that I saw the sun rise over the mediterranean, which, while beautiful, I would rather have dreamed about while sleeping than actually seen after such an awful night. When I finally arrived in Barcelona I was incredibly tired, but relieved to finally be only a few hours from actually sleeping. I had already arranged to rent an apartment with three friends from Ireland, and, as I was arriving first, it was my job to get it sorted out and call Francisco, our landlord.
Francisco was very nice (but his english was terrible) and finding the place was no problem. The apartment was fantastic: centrally located, affordable, clean, and very bright and airy. I was supposed to pay for the place and be repaid by my friends, but I needed 600 nazi dollars (that joke doesn't do very well in Europe for some reason) for the rent and 200 for the deposit, which is much more than visa would allow me to withdraw. I made a deal with Francisco to give him half the money now and half the next day, but I was still trying to withdraw more than visa allows in a day (they didn't tell me this, I had to run around to every ATM in the neighbourhood and call visa twice before I could get anything). Francisco agreed to return in the evening for the money, so I was left by myself, quietly wondering if my friends would actually make it to Barcelona (damn ash cloud) and planning my escape from the apartment if they did not. Before sleeping I went out and bought sandwich supplies and ate two delicious ham and cheeses.
After my nap I went around the block to call my Irish friends, who were, amazingly, just getting out of the cab infront of the apartment. I went around to meet them and they were all also suitably impressed with our fantastic apartment. Our plan was to stay here for five days and go to Primavera Sound from the 27th to the 29th of May
We did some quick grocery shopping and I made a delicious dinner before bed. Barcelona is a great place, a little more expensive than Granada, but the weather is great and lots of people speak english.
I slept through as much of the ride as I could, but I am sad to say that I saw the sun rise over the mediterranean, which, while beautiful, I would rather have dreamed about while sleeping than actually seen after such an awful night. When I finally arrived in Barcelona I was incredibly tired, but relieved to finally be only a few hours from actually sleeping. I had already arranged to rent an apartment with three friends from Ireland, and, as I was arriving first, it was my job to get it sorted out and call Francisco, our landlord.
Francisco was very nice (but his english was terrible) and finding the place was no problem. The apartment was fantastic: centrally located, affordable, clean, and very bright and airy. I was supposed to pay for the place and be repaid by my friends, but I needed 600 nazi dollars (that joke doesn't do very well in Europe for some reason) for the rent and 200 for the deposit, which is much more than visa would allow me to withdraw. I made a deal with Francisco to give him half the money now and half the next day, but I was still trying to withdraw more than visa allows in a day (they didn't tell me this, I had to run around to every ATM in the neighbourhood and call visa twice before I could get anything). Francisco agreed to return in the evening for the money, so I was left by myself, quietly wondering if my friends would actually make it to Barcelona (damn ash cloud) and planning my escape from the apartment if they did not. Before sleeping I went out and bought sandwich supplies and ate two delicious ham and cheeses.
After my nap I went around the block to call my Irish friends, who were, amazingly, just getting out of the cab infront of the apartment. I went around to meet them and they were all also suitably impressed with our fantastic apartment. Our plan was to stay here for five days and go to Primavera Sound from the 27th to the 29th of May
We did some quick grocery shopping and I made a delicious dinner before bed. Barcelona is a great place, a little more expensive than Granada, but the weather is great and lots of people speak english.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
alhambra
The frat guys i met on the train were, apart from being huge dorks, pretty solid dudes. I went with them to the hostel they were staying at, which was actually the one i had been planning on staying at, and we were all able to get beds. fortunately i wasn't staying in the room with them, because. as nice as they were, i'm not sure i could have put up with any more mentioning of their MIT frat parties or the significance of the beaver on their graduation rings.
The hostel was just called Funky's or That's Funky, depending on which sign you believe, and I really liked it. I used to think that hostels were only frequented by people in tie-dye hemp pants and yellow tuxedo jackets, but it turns out i was only kind of right. Many of the people there were very nice, the staff was friendly and helpful, and they served pretty decent paella for 5 moon dollars.
My first night i just went out with the frat dudes and a couple of other people to see the town. I wanted to go to this dance club in a cave (!!!) that we had been told about, but no one was enthusiastic about coming with me. Instead we just ate tapas and got incredibly full until 3am.
I had meant to go to Alhambra, which is an enormous palace started by the moorish sultan of spain but quickly occupied and improved by the christian spaniards. It was the last muslim outpost in spain and the place where christopher columbus got his approval to sail to asia, the next day but instead i slept late.
I pretty much just sat around the entire next day and ate really cheap sandwiches until i went to bed, because i was determined to make it to Alhambra before i left in the evening of the next day.
That morning at 6am just as I was waking up, the guy sleeping below me (bunkbeds are only fun when you're 10) also got up because he had decided to go as well, so it worked out pretty well. We walked up to the top of the hill the palace thing is built on and were almost first in line, until i realised that i didn't have any money and the sign said cash only, so i had to run back down the hill, find a bank machine, and then march back up the steep hill in the 30 minutes before the place opened. It sucked but i did it. of course, as soon as i went to pay i saw that they also accept credit and debit, even though the sign says they don't, so what the hell, spain?
The palace and kasbah were fantastic. It was like all the stuff in morocco, except a lot bigger and better maintained. It was also nice to actually be able to look at all the tiles and carvings without having some dude run up to you and ask if you're lost or would like to buy hash and/or rugs.
after that, i walked to the train station to see if i could get the overnight service to barcelona, but they were sold out, so i had to walk another half hour to the bus station (i had already come so far, it would have been surrender to take a bus) where i bought a ticket for a 13 hour bus ride of pain. I wasn't looking forward to it at all.
I went back to my hostel, ate another sandwich, had a siesta, and met a few other people before i decided it was time to get a donair and head to the bus station. I was running late when i found a donair place, so when i saw that it was more expensive than any of the other ones i'd been to i couldn't take the time to find another one. it was also probably the hippest donair place i'd ever been in, and the young staff all seemed stoned. They made me my sandwich and i got a cab to the bus station because i was scared of getting trapped in granada and losing the 70 euros the bus cost me. When I finally got on the bus, i opened my donair and it was the best donair i had ever eaten. they put in everything for the price of the normal one. god bless spain.
The hostel was just called Funky's or That's Funky, depending on which sign you believe, and I really liked it. I used to think that hostels were only frequented by people in tie-dye hemp pants and yellow tuxedo jackets, but it turns out i was only kind of right. Many of the people there were very nice, the staff was friendly and helpful, and they served pretty decent paella for 5 moon dollars.
My first night i just went out with the frat dudes and a couple of other people to see the town. I wanted to go to this dance club in a cave (!!!) that we had been told about, but no one was enthusiastic about coming with me. Instead we just ate tapas and got incredibly full until 3am.
I had meant to go to Alhambra, which is an enormous palace started by the moorish sultan of spain but quickly occupied and improved by the christian spaniards. It was the last muslim outpost in spain and the place where christopher columbus got his approval to sail to asia, the next day but instead i slept late.
I pretty much just sat around the entire next day and ate really cheap sandwiches until i went to bed, because i was determined to make it to Alhambra before i left in the evening of the next day.
That morning at 6am just as I was waking up, the guy sleeping below me (bunkbeds are only fun when you're 10) also got up because he had decided to go as well, so it worked out pretty well. We walked up to the top of the hill the palace thing is built on and were almost first in line, until i realised that i didn't have any money and the sign said cash only, so i had to run back down the hill, find a bank machine, and then march back up the steep hill in the 30 minutes before the place opened. It sucked but i did it. of course, as soon as i went to pay i saw that they also accept credit and debit, even though the sign says they don't, so what the hell, spain?
The palace and kasbah were fantastic. It was like all the stuff in morocco, except a lot bigger and better maintained. It was also nice to actually be able to look at all the tiles and carvings without having some dude run up to you and ask if you're lost or would like to buy hash and/or rugs.
after that, i walked to the train station to see if i could get the overnight service to barcelona, but they were sold out, so i had to walk another half hour to the bus station (i had already come so far, it would have been surrender to take a bus) where i bought a ticket for a 13 hour bus ride of pain. I wasn't looking forward to it at all.
I went back to my hostel, ate another sandwich, had a siesta, and met a few other people before i decided it was time to get a donair and head to the bus station. I was running late when i found a donair place, so when i saw that it was more expensive than any of the other ones i'd been to i couldn't take the time to find another one. it was also probably the hippest donair place i'd ever been in, and the young staff all seemed stoned. They made me my sandwich and i got a cab to the bus station because i was scared of getting trapped in granada and losing the 70 euros the bus cost me. When I finally got on the bus, i opened my donair and it was the best donair i had ever eaten. they put in everything for the price of the normal one. god bless spain.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Out of Africa
By the 20th, I knew it was time to leave morocco for a long time. I had some good times, but I missed showers with reliable heat and water pressure, no toilet paper shortages, and being able to ask strangers for direction without fear of having to pay to be led into their "cousin's" carpet store.
My plan was to go to the Spanish-controlled city of Ceuta and catch a ferry to Algeciras, and a train from there to Granada.
I woke up as early as I've done recently and caught a taxi to the bus station. Even though i used all the arabic words I know and never spoke a word of english (i had heard this would impress locals) the guy charged me twice what the ride was worth. I then caught the chicken bus to Tetuaon, and I was getting worried because I had the equivalent of 5 euros to do this while thing and the cap was one and the first bus two. I then caught another bus for a euro and spent the last on a cab to take me as close to the border as he felt like driving.
At the border, an old moroccan man who only spoke arabic and spanish helped me figure shit out. It was kind of scary, because as we were walking towards the first moroccan control post, the corrugated steel roof fell in. Like, the a large part of the roof was so rusted it just fell 5 meters and smashed onto the road. The moroccan officials then had it lifted back up and put into place again, but with a small safety cone under it. Excellent work.
Nothing fell apart on the spanish side, but the security equipment was all unplugged. The old guy put his bag in a metal detector and the spanish border guard got mad (because he was trying to read a paper) and pointed to the unplugged cord coming from the machine.
Ceuta was not too bad a place, i don't think i would go back on purpose, but it was good to be back in the first world (even if it is europe).
The old guy helped me get to the port and buy my ticket for the ferry, which was pretty nice of him, especially because all i had to give him was a slice of an orange.
The ferry sucked, it was the fanciest one but i almost got seasick because of how bumpy the waves were. Occasionally I heared a really loud puking sound coming from some guy behind me. Poor bastard.
When I arrived in Algeciras I had no idea what the hell to do because I didn't plan this part of my trip quite as well as I should have. I was very pleased that there were no conmen and hustlers at the port trying to rob me or take me to some awful guesthouse they get a commission at, but it was still kind of weird being left alone in a strange city where even fewer people speak english than morocco. I eventually decided to just head into town and hope for the best. I was delighted when I saw the bus and train stations were not far from the port and right beside eachother (thanks, algeciras!) but both places told me, in quite bad english, that i had missed all the transportation to anywhere I would even consider going that day and should return in the morning.
I went outside and for a few minutes was seriously considering hitchhiking to Granada, but i decided that it's a 4 hour ride and europeans are weird to begin with, so i had better just stay the night in town. I found a pretty great hotel with my first private bathroom since I began this trip and luxuriated. I wandered around town a bit, looking for something to do, but at night it seemed like the whole place was run by kids. Everyone over 20 seemed to be staying inside, probably out of fear of those damn teenagers.
The next morning I went to a supermarket to get breakfast and was so incredibly happy to see clean white floors, airconditioning, and plentiful food (probably inspected by some kind of official too!). I wanted to get a baguette and something to dip it in, but apparently spanish people aren't in to dipping or something, because all I could find was this weird tub of stuff with a picture of pigs on it. The only word I could read was ROJA, which i know to be the colour of great flavour, and I explained away the pigs by just reminding myself that europeans are weird.
I sat in a park near the train station and tried to eat my stuff, but the ROJA was not living up to the flavour sensation I had imagined. Infact, it was kind of gross. I looked a little closer at the bottle and that research, combined with the taste and texture, convinced me that it was pig lard. It even says it's for bread right on the label. What the fuck, europe?
After that i caught the train to Granada and made friends with 3 frat boys from MIT.
My plan was to go to the Spanish-controlled city of Ceuta and catch a ferry to Algeciras, and a train from there to Granada.
I woke up as early as I've done recently and caught a taxi to the bus station. Even though i used all the arabic words I know and never spoke a word of english (i had heard this would impress locals) the guy charged me twice what the ride was worth. I then caught the chicken bus to Tetuaon, and I was getting worried because I had the equivalent of 5 euros to do this while thing and the cap was one and the first bus two. I then caught another bus for a euro and spent the last on a cab to take me as close to the border as he felt like driving.
At the border, an old moroccan man who only spoke arabic and spanish helped me figure shit out. It was kind of scary, because as we were walking towards the first moroccan control post, the corrugated steel roof fell in. Like, the a large part of the roof was so rusted it just fell 5 meters and smashed onto the road. The moroccan officials then had it lifted back up and put into place again, but with a small safety cone under it. Excellent work.
Nothing fell apart on the spanish side, but the security equipment was all unplugged. The old guy put his bag in a metal detector and the spanish border guard got mad (because he was trying to read a paper) and pointed to the unplugged cord coming from the machine.
Ceuta was not too bad a place, i don't think i would go back on purpose, but it was good to be back in the first world (even if it is europe).
The old guy helped me get to the port and buy my ticket for the ferry, which was pretty nice of him, especially because all i had to give him was a slice of an orange.
The ferry sucked, it was the fanciest one but i almost got seasick because of how bumpy the waves were. Occasionally I heared a really loud puking sound coming from some guy behind me. Poor bastard.
When I arrived in Algeciras I had no idea what the hell to do because I didn't plan this part of my trip quite as well as I should have. I was very pleased that there were no conmen and hustlers at the port trying to rob me or take me to some awful guesthouse they get a commission at, but it was still kind of weird being left alone in a strange city where even fewer people speak english than morocco. I eventually decided to just head into town and hope for the best. I was delighted when I saw the bus and train stations were not far from the port and right beside eachother (thanks, algeciras!) but both places told me, in quite bad english, that i had missed all the transportation to anywhere I would even consider going that day and should return in the morning.
I went outside and for a few minutes was seriously considering hitchhiking to Granada, but i decided that it's a 4 hour ride and europeans are weird to begin with, so i had better just stay the night in town. I found a pretty great hotel with my first private bathroom since I began this trip and luxuriated. I wandered around town a bit, looking for something to do, but at night it seemed like the whole place was run by kids. Everyone over 20 seemed to be staying inside, probably out of fear of those damn teenagers.
The next morning I went to a supermarket to get breakfast and was so incredibly happy to see clean white floors, airconditioning, and plentiful food (probably inspected by some kind of official too!). I wanted to get a baguette and something to dip it in, but apparently spanish people aren't in to dipping or something, because all I could find was this weird tub of stuff with a picture of pigs on it. The only word I could read was ROJA, which i know to be the colour of great flavour, and I explained away the pigs by just reminding myself that europeans are weird.
I sat in a park near the train station and tried to eat my stuff, but the ROJA was not living up to the flavour sensation I had imagined. Infact, it was kind of gross. I looked a little closer at the bottle and that research, combined with the taste and texture, convinced me that it was pig lard. It even says it's for bread right on the label. What the fuck, europe?
After that i caught the train to Granada and made friends with 3 frat boys from MIT.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
sala'am hammam
This morning I went to the hammam for my first time ever. Lonely Planet, who has done a terrible job of guiding me on this trip, tells me that they are a fantastic cultural experience and I will not regret it or be weirded out or anything, but I was totally weirded out by the whole thing.
Hammams are like a communal bathhouse and are gender segregated so us dudes can be dudes, amirite, fellas? and are popular because many Moroccan houses don't have running water, or at least, not hot water.
I had meant to go to one of the older ones in Fez or Marrakesh, but obviously I was too busy having kick-ass adventures and sleeping late to make it to one. Fortunately, there are two in this town (three if you count the one at the fancy hotel but that one costs $40 so I do not count it)and one is right beside my hotel.
I finally woke up early enough to go (men get the morning, women get the evening, I don't know why this is but I'm sure there is a very sexist reason for it)and gathered up an extra pair of underwear, my flippy-floppies, and a towel. I was a little concerned about what would actually happen inside as I had no idea if I would have to be butt naked or bring my own soap or what. Lonely Planet spends more time talking about pubic hair trimming than what you're supposed to wear inside the hammam (seriously), so I was very glad I had that with me.
When I went inside there was this incredibly ancient frail man who spoke with a combination of mumbled spanish/arabic and very forceful but vague hand gestures. He was the worst at charades, and all he was trying to do was tell me to follow him. I was only wearing my underwear and flip flops and he led me through 4 smelly tile chambers until we arrived in the main bath room. He then produced a disgusting piece of soap with lots of little black hairs embedded in it and told me to sit down. There was one other dude in the room who was younger but just as skinny, like, almost arms-for-legs skinny. The old dude then proceeded to scrub me (i was a little worried about what was going on because he wasn't happy that I had only paid $3CDN) but he wasn't messing around and scrubbed the heck out of my neck, back, and hair and then told me to do my chest and legs, but was never happy with my work because (i think) I wasn't doing it vigourously enough. After a little of this he made me understand that he was finished.
I think he wanted a tip, but I had no money and he didn't speak english or french so who the hell knows?
Anyways, it was weird as hell and, while I am kind of glad I did it because now I know, I don't think I will ever do it again. I'm leaving morocco tomorrow so i really had to get it done. Also this means the next time I rap at 'ya it will be from Spain. Adios!
Hammams are like a communal bathhouse and are gender segregated so us dudes can be dudes, amirite, fellas? and are popular because many Moroccan houses don't have running water, or at least, not hot water.
I had meant to go to one of the older ones in Fez or Marrakesh, but obviously I was too busy having kick-ass adventures and sleeping late to make it to one. Fortunately, there are two in this town (three if you count the one at the fancy hotel but that one costs $40 so I do not count it)and one is right beside my hotel.
I finally woke up early enough to go (men get the morning, women get the evening, I don't know why this is but I'm sure there is a very sexist reason for it)and gathered up an extra pair of underwear, my flippy-floppies, and a towel. I was a little concerned about what would actually happen inside as I had no idea if I would have to be butt naked or bring my own soap or what. Lonely Planet spends more time talking about pubic hair trimming than what you're supposed to wear inside the hammam (seriously), so I was very glad I had that with me.
When I went inside there was this incredibly ancient frail man who spoke with a combination of mumbled spanish/arabic and very forceful but vague hand gestures. He was the worst at charades, and all he was trying to do was tell me to follow him. I was only wearing my underwear and flip flops and he led me through 4 smelly tile chambers until we arrived in the main bath room. He then produced a disgusting piece of soap with lots of little black hairs embedded in it and told me to sit down. There was one other dude in the room who was younger but just as skinny, like, almost arms-for-legs skinny. The old dude then proceeded to scrub me (i was a little worried about what was going on because he wasn't happy that I had only paid $3CDN) but he wasn't messing around and scrubbed the heck out of my neck, back, and hair and then told me to do my chest and legs, but was never happy with my work because (i think) I wasn't doing it vigourously enough. After a little of this he made me understand that he was finished.
I think he wanted a tip, but I had no money and he didn't speak english or french so who the hell knows?
Anyways, it was weird as hell and, while I am kind of glad I did it because now I know, I don't think I will ever do it again. I'm leaving morocco tomorrow so i really had to get it done. Also this means the next time I rap at 'ya it will be from Spain. Adios!
The Plains of Africa
after i recovered from the food poisoning I went to go pick up the pictures I had dropped off the day before. The guy had told me to come back the next day so I did, i thought i was too late, but the place wasn't even open. Some guy told me they'd be open at 3pm, I looked at my watch and told him it was 3pm, but his watch said 2.
This was upsetting to me for a number of reasons, but it highlights a very serious problem in Morocco: nobody knows what time it is. To be more like the western world and gain an hour of daylight productivity and conserve electricity, they are on daylight savings time. This system usually works fine in Canada, except for all the discussions about whether or not we are being cheated out of an hour of sleep, and if so at which end of daylight savings, but in Morocco, it is a nightmare. This is because nobody outside of Rabat and central Casablanca understands how it works and even most bank clocks are set wrong. When my flight was coming in to Al-Masir airport in Agadir the pilot said something very strange about being unsure of what time it was because the airport was reporting a different time than the airline due to confusion over daylight savings (horrifyingly, the non-assigned seating discount airline with no meals was correct and the international airport/transit hub for southern morocco was mistaken). Why do they do daylight savings? Nothing seems to get done here anyways and this just makes it worse.
Anyways, I decided that the photo developing guy's watch must also not be set for daylight savings so I went for a walk for an hour. Chefchaouen is a beautiful city in a spectacular mountain range with fantastic views down into the valley and of the peaks across, so, after a delicious coffee at a cliff side cafe, I decided to get up as high as I could on the road for the best possible view. It was just a beautiful walk. I was standing on a kind of view point on the edge of a windy hillside road, admiring the city and the mountains, when these kids came up to me. The kids here are usually pretty friendly but shy of foreign people so we both said "hola" and I thought that was that, but then he stood right up infront of me and said, "STYLO! STYLO! ONE DIRHAM!" and I was like, what the hell, get away from me you filthy urchin, because the kid was on his way home from school and dressed nicely, which means his family was probably doing better than I currently am. His friends then came up to me and started grabbing at my hands and trying to force them into my pockets so I would give them all the money they were obviously full of (kids here think tourists are like pinatas full of money) but they were dissapointed when the bulge in my pocket was a $2 disposable camera (because it meant i was too poor for digital) and they started demanding my watch. You're not supposed to give these kids anything because it encourages begging, harassing tourists, and staying out of school, but I wanted to get ride of them so bad I almost gave them my last dirham - the only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that this would only give them a taste for meat.
The first kid then pulled a dead fucking bird out of his pocket (just like in Dumb and Dumber) and started trying to show it to me. I was kind of scared he was going to throw it at me or something but i was able to make him put it back in his pocket by saying bird in french and have him correct me because it was apparently a male bird. He then started grabbing at my pockets and at my hands with his filthy dead-bird-hands until they finally decided I was more trouble than it was worth. They left me standing infront of an amazing view with my freshly-diseased hands clasped firmly behind my back. I then went and washed them for 5 minutes at a carwash.
When I returned to the photo place it was open but the guy said one hour. I had a nap and came back, and the guy was ignoring me so these locals kids could print gay-ass pictures of them hanging out in fields or posing with their hair all sissied-up. He finally got me my pictures, and I was pretty happy with them, except for the big finger prints he put on two of them from touching them before they dried, but whatever, it was a pretty good price.
Also, one thing I have noticed is that, as much as Moroccan dudes love to harass tourist women and stare at them and generally make them feel like the filthy whores all non-muslims really are, a few moroccan girls have been giving me The Eye (not the evil one, I bought a blanket with a design specifically to prevent that). Likely it is because they do not think that I look like someone who hits women (the fools)and could get them out of this country, but it also suggests that moroccan men are not so irresistable as they themselves believe.
This was upsetting to me for a number of reasons, but it highlights a very serious problem in Morocco: nobody knows what time it is. To be more like the western world and gain an hour of daylight productivity and conserve electricity, they are on daylight savings time. This system usually works fine in Canada, except for all the discussions about whether or not we are being cheated out of an hour of sleep, and if so at which end of daylight savings, but in Morocco, it is a nightmare. This is because nobody outside of Rabat and central Casablanca understands how it works and even most bank clocks are set wrong. When my flight was coming in to Al-Masir airport in Agadir the pilot said something very strange about being unsure of what time it was because the airport was reporting a different time than the airline due to confusion over daylight savings (horrifyingly, the non-assigned seating discount airline with no meals was correct and the international airport/transit hub for southern morocco was mistaken). Why do they do daylight savings? Nothing seems to get done here anyways and this just makes it worse.
Anyways, I decided that the photo developing guy's watch must also not be set for daylight savings so I went for a walk for an hour. Chefchaouen is a beautiful city in a spectacular mountain range with fantastic views down into the valley and of the peaks across, so, after a delicious coffee at a cliff side cafe, I decided to get up as high as I could on the road for the best possible view. It was just a beautiful walk. I was standing on a kind of view point on the edge of a windy hillside road, admiring the city and the mountains, when these kids came up to me. The kids here are usually pretty friendly but shy of foreign people so we both said "hola" and I thought that was that, but then he stood right up infront of me and said, "STYLO! STYLO! ONE DIRHAM!" and I was like, what the hell, get away from me you filthy urchin, because the kid was on his way home from school and dressed nicely, which means his family was probably doing better than I currently am. His friends then came up to me and started grabbing at my hands and trying to force them into my pockets so I would give them all the money they were obviously full of (kids here think tourists are like pinatas full of money) but they were dissapointed when the bulge in my pocket was a $2 disposable camera (because it meant i was too poor for digital) and they started demanding my watch. You're not supposed to give these kids anything because it encourages begging, harassing tourists, and staying out of school, but I wanted to get ride of them so bad I almost gave them my last dirham - the only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that this would only give them a taste for meat.
The first kid then pulled a dead fucking bird out of his pocket (just like in Dumb and Dumber) and started trying to show it to me. I was kind of scared he was going to throw it at me or something but i was able to make him put it back in his pocket by saying bird in french and have him correct me because it was apparently a male bird. He then started grabbing at my pockets and at my hands with his filthy dead-bird-hands until they finally decided I was more trouble than it was worth. They left me standing infront of an amazing view with my freshly-diseased hands clasped firmly behind my back. I then went and washed them for 5 minutes at a carwash.
When I returned to the photo place it was open but the guy said one hour. I had a nap and came back, and the guy was ignoring me so these locals kids could print gay-ass pictures of them hanging out in fields or posing with their hair all sissied-up. He finally got me my pictures, and I was pretty happy with them, except for the big finger prints he put on two of them from touching them before they dried, but whatever, it was a pretty good price.
Also, one thing I have noticed is that, as much as Moroccan dudes love to harass tourist women and stare at them and generally make them feel like the filthy whores all non-muslims really are, a few moroccan girls have been giving me The Eye (not the evil one, I bought a blanket with a design specifically to prevent that). Likely it is because they do not think that I look like someone who hits women (the fools)and could get them out of this country, but it also suggests that moroccan men are not so irresistable as they themselves believe.
my moroccan friend
During the day of my last post I had a very strange encounter with a young moroccan in a sandwich shop. He started talking to me in semi-understandable english and invited me to hang out at his house later. I thought it was a scam or something and told him maybe, but when I returned to my hotel room the next morning there was a mysterious piece of paper with a phone number and a name waiting for me. I had no idea what was going on, I kind of suspected it was some kind of spy thing and I was about to be asked to go on a mission to defeat terrorism or something, but I called it and, after a lot of confused arabic on their end and me repeating the name written on the paper, I finally got to talk to my sandwich friend.
I had nothing to do (and was kind of curious) so i met up with him and two of his friends infront of the big mosque in the centre of town. One of his friends, Achmed, was kind of weird and wearing a suit that was too big for him, and the other guy, whose name I cannot now remember, introduced himself to me as having been a cook in a moroccan restaurant in fez. These guys were all from Fez and occasionally had some sort of beef with the locals because in Morocco the north hates the south. I asked if there were arabic rappers representing both areas but the guys didn't understand me.
We went back to their house which wasn't too far away, and my main friend Jalalie put on a terrible american movie to make me feel comfortable in his home. I don't know the name or any of the actors, but it was about this rich couple who went on a fishing cruise in the carribean but the husband was rude to the mexican cabin boy (or first mate, it wasn't clear), so the mexican guy might have burned down the boat on purpose (or he might not have, that was also not clear) to get revenge. Then the mexican guy and the rich wife ended up washed up on the beach together and they thought everyone else was dead but then the husband turns up and things get weird because the mexican guy is totally jealous (there was a scene where the americans were doin' it and the mexican guy was listening through the thin boat wall with a pained expression on his face) and so nothing goes right and the woman leaves her husband for the mexican, but then her husband finds a boat and seems to repair it so the woman and the mexican steal the boat but it starts leaking and somehow the woman KNOWS that her husband rigged it to sink or something. The husband then kills the mexican, but a year later help comes and only rescues the woman because the husband is off fishing for both of them and the woman steals his lighter. There was also a bizarre voodoo sublot/series of unrelated cutscenes that might have helped the rich guy kill the mexican (I was explaining the movie to my friends but even I had trouble with this part). It was weird because every time there was nudity (frequently) I'd start laughing my face off because it was so incredibly corny but the people I was with would get super embarassed and fast forward. Who were they trying to fool?
After that they started showing me their empty liquor bottles and pictures of the three of them getting drunk in that house like that would impress the hell out of me because they are totally wild party badasses, but it just made me think I was hanging out with the biggest dorks in Morocco.
Jalalie would also tell me all these bullshit stories about talking his way out of trouble with the police and having family all over europe, and then he started talking about his Japanese girlfriend. I didn't believe any of it, but he told me about the problems they were having and showed me text messages they'd sent (both in terrible english, I have no idea why they didn't pick an easier language), and then videos and pictures of them hanging out. After this I really started to feel sad for the little guy and I offered to help him write a love letter to his girlfriend. I think it was a pretty good letter, and I was very happy to do it because he seemed like a very nice dork and i didn't buy carbon offsets for any of my flights so this was the least I could do.
He (or the cook friend) then made a chicken tajine (which is like a stew and usually pretty good) and we mowed down. It was pretty great. After that we played this weird card game that was like crazy 8s, except the suits were Swords, Vegetables, Pies, and Weird Shield Things, while listening to moroccan and algerian music.
The next day I bumped into him at the same sandwich shop and he invited me to hang again. I had some shopping to do and a local is always good for telling me when i'm being cheated (which is always) so i invited him to come along. I was having pretty decent success and even bought a blanket, although i suspect Jalalie or his family profited from my purchase in some way, but I can't prove it. After that we went and hung out at his house with the same friends.
We were watching this bizarre bollywood movie that was a rip off the matrix, james bond, and crouching tiger/hidden dragon but was kind of a comedy about a rich uncle who couldn't decide which nephew to give his money to when he died. Moroccan people love indian movies. I noticed that the empty liquor bottles were still displayed artfully on top of his DVD player so everyone could see they were dealing with a wild child party boy or something and not a strait laced muslim school boy.
We hung out for a long time, but it got really weird because Jalalie's friends started whispering shit to him and then they started asking me strange questions about my job and how much money I make. They were surprised at how little I earn (I know, Moroccans think I'm poor -or maybe they don't and it was just an act, you can never be sure) and started being really shady about how much I'd like to earn and stuff without telling me what kind of work I'd be doing. Jalalie even tried to get me to shake his hand to making 20 000Dirhams ($2400ish) a month while avoiding my questions about what the job was. They had wanted me to drink with them and were really dissapointed that I wouldn't and now I knew why - they wanted to trick me somehow!!!
Eventually they came out and told me that I could make 20 000 dirhams a month plus free room and board if I would work for them as a carpet salesman. Moroccans have the most annoying sense of humour so I thought for sure he was messing with me and I started laughing, but they all got kind of offended and demanded to know why I thought selling carpets was not an honourable profession. I couldn't tell them that I didn't believe in the product and couldn't imagine staying in morocco for a long time and working in a dusty ass carpet shop trying to trick english speaking retards into dropping $150 on a small rug, and then no doubt being guilted into buying lots of the product so i could "resell it in canada" (which has been a big theme with carpet salesmen here) and probably being asked to help smuggle drugs or people into europe. They pestered me for like half an hour and only stopped when I told them I wanted to follow my dreams in canada or something. This worked because Moroccan education in english generally involves learning lots of rhymes (wine makes you fine but whisky makes you frisky) and retarded idioms, like "follow your dream."
After that it was kind of awkward and I wanted to leave, but I had already paid money for half the tajine so it was either maintain my sanity or lose my money. I've lost enough money in this country. I ate and it was good, but the next day I had terrible food poisoning. Do I think they did it on purpose because I turned down their scam? Not with any certainty, but we haven't talked since.
I had nothing to do (and was kind of curious) so i met up with him and two of his friends infront of the big mosque in the centre of town. One of his friends, Achmed, was kind of weird and wearing a suit that was too big for him, and the other guy, whose name I cannot now remember, introduced himself to me as having been a cook in a moroccan restaurant in fez. These guys were all from Fez and occasionally had some sort of beef with the locals because in Morocco the north hates the south. I asked if there were arabic rappers representing both areas but the guys didn't understand me.
We went back to their house which wasn't too far away, and my main friend Jalalie put on a terrible american movie to make me feel comfortable in his home. I don't know the name or any of the actors, but it was about this rich couple who went on a fishing cruise in the carribean but the husband was rude to the mexican cabin boy (or first mate, it wasn't clear), so the mexican guy might have burned down the boat on purpose (or he might not have, that was also not clear) to get revenge. Then the mexican guy and the rich wife ended up washed up on the beach together and they thought everyone else was dead but then the husband turns up and things get weird because the mexican guy is totally jealous (there was a scene where the americans were doin' it and the mexican guy was listening through the thin boat wall with a pained expression on his face) and so nothing goes right and the woman leaves her husband for the mexican, but then her husband finds a boat and seems to repair it so the woman and the mexican steal the boat but it starts leaking and somehow the woman KNOWS that her husband rigged it to sink or something. The husband then kills the mexican, but a year later help comes and only rescues the woman because the husband is off fishing for both of them and the woman steals his lighter. There was also a bizarre voodoo sublot/series of unrelated cutscenes that might have helped the rich guy kill the mexican (I was explaining the movie to my friends but even I had trouble with this part). It was weird because every time there was nudity (frequently) I'd start laughing my face off because it was so incredibly corny but the people I was with would get super embarassed and fast forward. Who were they trying to fool?
After that they started showing me their empty liquor bottles and pictures of the three of them getting drunk in that house like that would impress the hell out of me because they are totally wild party badasses, but it just made me think I was hanging out with the biggest dorks in Morocco.
Jalalie would also tell me all these bullshit stories about talking his way out of trouble with the police and having family all over europe, and then he started talking about his Japanese girlfriend. I didn't believe any of it, but he told me about the problems they were having and showed me text messages they'd sent (both in terrible english, I have no idea why they didn't pick an easier language), and then videos and pictures of them hanging out. After this I really started to feel sad for the little guy and I offered to help him write a love letter to his girlfriend. I think it was a pretty good letter, and I was very happy to do it because he seemed like a very nice dork and i didn't buy carbon offsets for any of my flights so this was the least I could do.
He (or the cook friend) then made a chicken tajine (which is like a stew and usually pretty good) and we mowed down. It was pretty great. After that we played this weird card game that was like crazy 8s, except the suits were Swords, Vegetables, Pies, and Weird Shield Things, while listening to moroccan and algerian music.
The next day I bumped into him at the same sandwich shop and he invited me to hang again. I had some shopping to do and a local is always good for telling me when i'm being cheated (which is always) so i invited him to come along. I was having pretty decent success and even bought a blanket, although i suspect Jalalie or his family profited from my purchase in some way, but I can't prove it. After that we went and hung out at his house with the same friends.
We were watching this bizarre bollywood movie that was a rip off the matrix, james bond, and crouching tiger/hidden dragon but was kind of a comedy about a rich uncle who couldn't decide which nephew to give his money to when he died. Moroccan people love indian movies. I noticed that the empty liquor bottles were still displayed artfully on top of his DVD player so everyone could see they were dealing with a wild child party boy or something and not a strait laced muslim school boy.
We hung out for a long time, but it got really weird because Jalalie's friends started whispering shit to him and then they started asking me strange questions about my job and how much money I make. They were surprised at how little I earn (I know, Moroccans think I'm poor -or maybe they don't and it was just an act, you can never be sure) and started being really shady about how much I'd like to earn and stuff without telling me what kind of work I'd be doing. Jalalie even tried to get me to shake his hand to making 20 000Dirhams ($2400ish) a month while avoiding my questions about what the job was. They had wanted me to drink with them and were really dissapointed that I wouldn't and now I knew why - they wanted to trick me somehow!!!
Eventually they came out and told me that I could make 20 000 dirhams a month plus free room and board if I would work for them as a carpet salesman. Moroccans have the most annoying sense of humour so I thought for sure he was messing with me and I started laughing, but they all got kind of offended and demanded to know why I thought selling carpets was not an honourable profession. I couldn't tell them that I didn't believe in the product and couldn't imagine staying in morocco for a long time and working in a dusty ass carpet shop trying to trick english speaking retards into dropping $150 on a small rug, and then no doubt being guilted into buying lots of the product so i could "resell it in canada" (which has been a big theme with carpet salesmen here) and probably being asked to help smuggle drugs or people into europe. They pestered me for like half an hour and only stopped when I told them I wanted to follow my dreams in canada or something. This worked because Moroccan education in english generally involves learning lots of rhymes (wine makes you fine but whisky makes you frisky) and retarded idioms, like "follow your dream."
After that it was kind of awkward and I wanted to leave, but I had already paid money for half the tajine so it was either maintain my sanity or lose my money. I've lost enough money in this country. I ate and it was good, but the next day I had terrible food poisoning. Do I think they did it on purpose because I turned down their scam? Not with any certainty, but we haven't talked since.
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