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.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
je ne prend pas les drogues
I am now in the city of Chefchaouen in the Rif mountains of northern morocco. It's apparently the marijuana capital of the country and every asshole in the streets is trying to sell it to tourists. If you ignore them its actually a pretty nice place with huge green mountains, good weather, and the whole town is painted a very clear white and blue. Also it's got a lot less garbage than most other moroccan cities.
I got off the bus at a town called Dardalla which you will not find on any map, and soon realised i would have great diffictuly getting to the city, especially because it was a cold night. There was a gas station with a cafe across the street and I was planning on waiting there, except it had flooded or something and there was water and garbage all over the floor and the owner/staff people were sitting outside looking sad.
I then walked across the street and met some very friendly police officers who made me drink their redbull and wanted to hear my bad pronounciation of arabic words. they were pretty solid, especially when they stopped a cab heading out of town and made him turn around and drive me for a very reasonable price. moroccan police get shit accomplished.
finally found a hotel, and the next day i met a very nice australian guy. He was very different from any australians i had previously met, and i quickly found out it was because he doesn't drink. what a difference that makes. we hung out, and were walking around town, getting offered hash from everybody and they all said, "hello my friend, i have good shit, all natural, good price." every single one. same pitch every time. And it didn't matter how many times you told them you weren't interested or didn't do drugs, they'd still follow you down the street yelling at your back. One guy even offered me opium after I told him I didn't want any hash. What the hell?
After that we met up with three guys from new york and hung out in their hotel room complaining about drug dealers and carpet salesmen. When the australian guy and i got up to leave at 4am we found we were locked in the hotel and had to nap on the hard couches and it was cold as hell. woke up two hours later and the reception guys were finally there. they let us out and i slept pretty well in my hotel.
tomorrow i am going to climb the biggest mountain in this part of morocco. much love.
I got off the bus at a town called Dardalla which you will not find on any map, and soon realised i would have great diffictuly getting to the city, especially because it was a cold night. There was a gas station with a cafe across the street and I was planning on waiting there, except it had flooded or something and there was water and garbage all over the floor and the owner/staff people were sitting outside looking sad.
I then walked across the street and met some very friendly police officers who made me drink their redbull and wanted to hear my bad pronounciation of arabic words. they were pretty solid, especially when they stopped a cab heading out of town and made him turn around and drive me for a very reasonable price. moroccan police get shit accomplished.
finally found a hotel, and the next day i met a very nice australian guy. He was very different from any australians i had previously met, and i quickly found out it was because he doesn't drink. what a difference that makes. we hung out, and were walking around town, getting offered hash from everybody and they all said, "hello my friend, i have good shit, all natural, good price." every single one. same pitch every time. And it didn't matter how many times you told them you weren't interested or didn't do drugs, they'd still follow you down the street yelling at your back. One guy even offered me opium after I told him I didn't want any hash. What the hell?
After that we met up with three guys from new york and hung out in their hotel room complaining about drug dealers and carpet salesmen. When the australian guy and i got up to leave at 4am we found we were locked in the hotel and had to nap on the hard couches and it was cold as hell. woke up two hours later and the reception guys were finally there. they let us out and i slept pretty well in my hotel.
tomorrow i am going to climb the biggest mountain in this part of morocco. much love.
chicken bus to fez
While still in Azrou I met this moroccan guy who spoke pretty good english and invited me to come hangout in his house and drink mint tea. He was really into african music and it was all pretty alright, except he tried to sell me a burned cd for 5 euros. I didn't even charge that much for burned CDs when I was the only kid in school with a CD burner and I had to download all of the songs on 56k from napster so I just ignored him. I'm running out of stuff to read so I asked him if he had anything in english, and he started showing me his library. The first book was called "How to break your own heart" and was strongly recommended by Woman's World Magazine (unfortuantely the back cover was missing so i don't know what it is about, but the last sentence is the first kiss of the central couple =D), and the next was called "Bad Behaviour" about a successful girl living in her own apartment in downtown Dublin (i know, right?) who has everything except a man to make her less horribly lonely. Then she finds out her ex boyfriend is coming back to the emerald isle to marry her ex bestfriend and the blurb on the back implies so somehow wins him over or something. I was looking at the other books when the guy pointed at the first two and said, "those have very good stories." No doubt.
I left Azrou the next day and made it to Fez aboard the chicken bus for $2. I was happy they had cleared out all of the chickens before i got on, but the seats were still in pretty horrible condition and there were exposed wires hanging from the panel where the light and fan should have been.
Fez was pretty alright, just like most other large moroccan cities, except in a much nicer location. It's got green hills with fields that you can see from the old city and they look a lot like the okanagan. Could have been worse.
My hotel was kind of crappy because I was staying on the roof in a little cell with a heavy metal door that couldn't keep the cold out. it was especially bad because it was pouring rain and hailing later in the day. I didn't mind any of this because the lady who runs the place was such a sweet old grandmother and when i was coming back to sleep she called me into the office to show me a cat that was sitting on her stool and she thought it was hilarious and that the cat would soon be asking for passports and trying to check people in. I kind of miss her.
Fez has the largest intact medeival medina in the world and there are no cars allowed, which makes it much nicer than Marrakesh, but I got lost a couple of times. This wouldn't have been so bad except you couldn't ask anybody for directions as they all wanted to take you to their "cousin's" shop or show you the tanneries for a price and then a commission of anything you were pressured to buy. I let some guy take me to the top of his store to see the tanneries, and they were pretty sweet, but he predictably tried to sell me some leather stuff in his store downstairs. I looked it all over and i didn't want any of it so i turned to him and said, "i don't think that..." and then i just left. he was kind of stunned and by the time he figured out what had happened and was demanding a tip I had already disappeared around the corner. a great victory for the civilised man.
That night I met up with a pretty decent Canadian and a French guy and we hung out the next day and explored more of the city. unfortunately friday is a holy day here and almost everything was closed, but that made it a lot less hassle to get across town.
I had already checked out of my hotel because I had had enough of Fez and wanted to get to Chefchaueon in the north, but it turned out the only bus there left at 730 that morning. Fortunately a nice con man was able to direct me to a chicken bus that went to a nearby town that wasn't on any maps. I was a little suspicious that the place didn't actually exist and also a little worried about showing up in town at 2am, but it was better than sleeping on the streets of Fez.
I left Azrou the next day and made it to Fez aboard the chicken bus for $2. I was happy they had cleared out all of the chickens before i got on, but the seats were still in pretty horrible condition and there were exposed wires hanging from the panel where the light and fan should have been.
Fez was pretty alright, just like most other large moroccan cities, except in a much nicer location. It's got green hills with fields that you can see from the old city and they look a lot like the okanagan. Could have been worse.
My hotel was kind of crappy because I was staying on the roof in a little cell with a heavy metal door that couldn't keep the cold out. it was especially bad because it was pouring rain and hailing later in the day. I didn't mind any of this because the lady who runs the place was such a sweet old grandmother and when i was coming back to sleep she called me into the office to show me a cat that was sitting on her stool and she thought it was hilarious and that the cat would soon be asking for passports and trying to check people in. I kind of miss her.
Fez has the largest intact medeival medina in the world and there are no cars allowed, which makes it much nicer than Marrakesh, but I got lost a couple of times. This wouldn't have been so bad except you couldn't ask anybody for directions as they all wanted to take you to their "cousin's" shop or show you the tanneries for a price and then a commission of anything you were pressured to buy. I let some guy take me to the top of his store to see the tanneries, and they were pretty sweet, but he predictably tried to sell me some leather stuff in his store downstairs. I looked it all over and i didn't want any of it so i turned to him and said, "i don't think that..." and then i just left. he was kind of stunned and by the time he figured out what had happened and was demanding a tip I had already disappeared around the corner. a great victory for the civilised man.
That night I met up with a pretty decent Canadian and a French guy and we hung out the next day and explored more of the city. unfortunately friday is a holy day here and almost everything was closed, but that made it a lot less hassle to get across town.
I had already checked out of my hotel because I had had enough of Fez and wanted to get to Chefchaueon in the north, but it turned out the only bus there left at 730 that morning. Fortunately a nice con man was able to direct me to a chicken bus that went to a nearby town that wasn't on any maps. I was a little suspicious that the place didn't actually exist and also a little worried about showing up in town at 2am, but it was better than sleeping on the streets of Fez.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
today i didn't even have to use my AK, i gotta say, it was a good day
After the worst bus ride I have had in recent memory I arrived in Azrou. It's a small berber town of about 50 000 and I think Moroccans in big cities would call these people hicks. Moroccans in big cities are also uniformly crappy people. Azrou is probably the best looking place I've visited in Morocco, it's cradled in the foothills of the middle atlas and looks down onto a huge plain of farms, with more mountains on the other side. The mountainside is covered with large trees, and if you squint it kind of looks like parts of British Columbia. You have to squint because even though the trees are great, there are still the usual piles of garbage everywhere.
I left Marrakesh thinking all moroccans were total jerkoffs, but now, as I stated earlier, I only believe that all Moroccans who live in big cities are total jerkoffs. Everyone I've met here has been really nice and I am glad I decided to visit this town.
Today I had a pretty excellent day, but it kind of began yesterday when this carpet salesman invited me into his shop for mint tea and, instead of selling me a carpet, drew me a map of the best walking routes in the area and told me to come back the next day and he'd explain to a taxi driver where to take me.
The next day I went to this big weekly berber market and it was kind of weird, I was expecting tourist junk, but it was only boring practical things like pots, clothes, and sheep. so many sheep. After that I had a crappy breakfast, but at least the coffee in Morocco is always fantastic. Then I met the carpet guy and he got all my shit sorted with the cab guy.
The walk was great, it was mostly up hill and there were great views of the valley. It was kind of strange to be in the middle of North Africa and be in a large forest, but I got used to it pretty quick because the forest was full of barbary apes (which aren't actually apes). When I was about a third of the way through the loop I found myself in a tourist trap campground place, but I was the only tourist. There were a few Moroccan dudes offering horse rides on the healthiest horses I have seen in the country. One of the guys was super friendly, especially after I told him all the arabic words I know and he offered to take me on the horse for $6CDN. I was a little suspicious about this as a result of my past camel-related experiences, but I have been told that a camel is just a horse designed by a committee, so I was willing to trust this guy to not fuck me over.
My faith in the superiority of horsemen was rewarded greatly because my guide turned out to be a great ride. He took me out for more than the promised half hour, and we hung out on the plataeu of the mountain for a while. It was an awesome alpine meadow and so quiet. The way back was kind of upsetting because we went through the campground and all the french tourists just throw their garbage into the forest and forget about it. the pigs.
I drank mint tea with the horse guy and his friends until a big bus of tourists arrived, then I kept on walking. I was going steadily for about 20 minutes when i saw a group of morrocan guys having a barbeque picnic on the grass and listening to arabic rap music. they invited me over and we had an awesome time. They didn't all speak very good english, but mostly they could understand my french so that wasn't a problem. They were probably the nicest dudes I've met so far and they made me eat lots of their delicious grilled chicken. They then gave me a tour of the region, stopping in all the best small towns and not letting me pay for anything. They took me back to Azrou around 7, we ate a delicious meal, and they made me promise to email them, which I will. excellent people.
Now I'm kind of worried about Fez. Probably I'll only spend a day or two at the most there. goddamn city moroccans.
I left Marrakesh thinking all moroccans were total jerkoffs, but now, as I stated earlier, I only believe that all Moroccans who live in big cities are total jerkoffs. Everyone I've met here has been really nice and I am glad I decided to visit this town.
Today I had a pretty excellent day, but it kind of began yesterday when this carpet salesman invited me into his shop for mint tea and, instead of selling me a carpet, drew me a map of the best walking routes in the area and told me to come back the next day and he'd explain to a taxi driver where to take me.
The next day I went to this big weekly berber market and it was kind of weird, I was expecting tourist junk, but it was only boring practical things like pots, clothes, and sheep. so many sheep. After that I had a crappy breakfast, but at least the coffee in Morocco is always fantastic. Then I met the carpet guy and he got all my shit sorted with the cab guy.
The walk was great, it was mostly up hill and there were great views of the valley. It was kind of strange to be in the middle of North Africa and be in a large forest, but I got used to it pretty quick because the forest was full of barbary apes (which aren't actually apes). When I was about a third of the way through the loop I found myself in a tourist trap campground place, but I was the only tourist. There were a few Moroccan dudes offering horse rides on the healthiest horses I have seen in the country. One of the guys was super friendly, especially after I told him all the arabic words I know and he offered to take me on the horse for $6CDN. I was a little suspicious about this as a result of my past camel-related experiences, but I have been told that a camel is just a horse designed by a committee, so I was willing to trust this guy to not fuck me over.
My faith in the superiority of horsemen was rewarded greatly because my guide turned out to be a great ride. He took me out for more than the promised half hour, and we hung out on the plataeu of the mountain for a while. It was an awesome alpine meadow and so quiet. The way back was kind of upsetting because we went through the campground and all the french tourists just throw their garbage into the forest and forget about it. the pigs.
I drank mint tea with the horse guy and his friends until a big bus of tourists arrived, then I kept on walking. I was going steadily for about 20 minutes when i saw a group of morrocan guys having a barbeque picnic on the grass and listening to arabic rap music. they invited me over and we had an awesome time. They didn't all speak very good english, but mostly they could understand my french so that wasn't a problem. They were probably the nicest dudes I've met so far and they made me eat lots of their delicious grilled chicken. They then gave me a tour of the region, stopping in all the best small towns and not letting me pay for anything. They took me back to Azrou around 7, we ate a delicious meal, and they made me promise to email them, which I will. excellent people.
Now I'm kind of worried about Fez. Probably I'll only spend a day or two at the most there. goddamn city moroccans.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
trans-saharran express
- after my last post i finally rode a camel. i can't believe that it took me so long to do it. the guy wanted about $40cdn initially, but i bargained hard and got him down to $12. I was then prepared to gallop mightily across the beach and over the dunes on the back of my savage beast, but apparently they don't trust reckless tourists with their precious camels (but how precious could they be: I met a guy who told me that a moroccan man had offered him 10 camels for his girlfriend, which is a pretty poor exchange on camels) so someone went out with me. It was pretty awesome and i would do it again, but just as it was getting really exciting, the guy said we had to turn around. when i complained he said, "what you expect for 100 dirham?" i guess that is reasonable, but those lazy camels just sleep on the beach all day and eat, except for the half hour they actually have customers, which is a lot of wasted camel power.
after that i met some americans who were in the process of getting drunk and they made me come with them to eat an enormous feast on the roof of a restaurant in the medina. it was pretty good and a very warm and clear night, but it was outrageously expensive. good thing they wouldn't let me pay.
the next day i bought a bus ticket to Marrakech. the first class bus company i had travelled with before was too expensive and didn't leave until 8pm, so i just walked to the bus station and got on the next bus, which was half the price. of course, the seats were small, ripped, the air conditioning was broken and the windows didn't work, and i was really worried about my luggage the whole time because they didn't think it was necessary to tag my luggage or even give me a card. after all, who would take luggage that didn't belong to them?
on the bus i made friends with a group of spanish people and, after i found my bags (entirely unstolen), we went to the hotel they had stayed in last time they were in Marrakech. it's a great place, built around a central courtyard with a terrace on the roof and every surface is covered in tiles. also very close to the centre of the medina.
the city's most famous feature is this enormous public square full of people selling shit called djema el fna. it reminds me of the pne because it is big, smelly, and mostly overpriced. the only real difference is that cars, motorcycles, donkeys, and horses are all going as fast as they can through the square and there are no lines painted on the ground. the street theatre is part of a thousand year old tradition of ripping off tourists and is a UNESCO world heritage thing, but i thought it was pretty shitty. It was mostly just a bunch of dudes in robes hitting drums and dancing badly, with very little snake charming or suspended rope from a basket climbing (you know what i mean) going on. And the worst part is that if you stand even remotely near the crappy show, some dude with a box will come over and demand you pay. i have no idea how i kept getting singled out from the hundreds of other people in the square but it was pretty tiresome and i eventually just pretended to be Danish. the only language moroccans don't know.
we met this old weaver guy who the spanish people had made friends with before, and he invited us into the back alley and up into his workshop. it was really weird, but i would compare it to a castle for a really poor person. He served us mint tea and talked like we were old friends before he tried to sell us the same junk they sell in every other store except at a slightly higher price because he claimed his cousin made it. i almost bought a pair of sandals from him for 36 dollars, but on the way to an ATM i asked a guy in a shop how much his were and it was less than half that. The old dude was really mad that i wouldn't buy his overpriced crap and he called me a child and told me not to come back, but i think that is only stage two of the bargaining process. now it is my move. on the way out of the market some guy offered to sell me a fake Cartier watch and the same slippers for what the old guy wanted for just the slippers. what a country.
my spanish friends left this morning and it was very sad. who knew i would ever be sorry to say goodbye to europeans?
Thursday, May 6, 2010
under african skies
Thanks to my religious friends I easily caught the bus, and, after a terrifying few kilometres during which I was convinced that I had been tricked and was on the wrong bus, I arrived in Essaouira with this very nice Russian couple I had made friends with on the bus.
Apparently this place has been settled since the 7th century BC when Phonecian people built a lighthouse and a town just off the coast, and later it became a Roman settlement because there is some sort of purple dye you can get if you squeeze the right fish or something. It used to be full of hippies and Jimi Hendrix (my guide book tells me that people here claim the ruins on the islands inspired him to write Castles Made of Sand, but it also says that he released that song a year before he came here, so if I meet any locals who try to tell me that story I will humilate them by exposing them as liars), but now it is mostly package tourists wearing the same shirts and pretending to be interested while a guide lectures them in some sort of European nazi talk.
The city is pretty crazy: the central part where I'm staying is surrounded by an enormous wall and is apparently an excellent example of 18th century european military architecture in north africa. The medina inside is made up of all these long, narrow, and winding passage ways, some of which dead-end into groups of bored and angry looking young moroccan dudes. The main streets are cleaned daily and the city is very tidy and kind of relaxed, especially because they don't allow cars in here. Outside of the walls there is a grimy and poor section of town which is what some asshole hippies would probably refer to as "the real morocco" which is a bunch of bullshit. There is also a very big beach and, about half an hour's walk south, a fantastically ruined fortress, either portuguese from the 16th century or Moroccan from the end of the 18th, but it doesn't really matter because it isn't guarded and you can climb all over it and play soliders or whatever. The only thing that has stopped Essaouira from becoming a tourist trap is the intense wind. It's incredible how powerful and consistant it is, but you need to wear a sweater or, at least, a heavy shirt if you're going to be out in it for long. Also the city is full of cats, like, if you put a basket or your hat down somewhere and walk away, it will probably have a cat in it when you come back. The fishermen feed them in the evening so they're all in pretty good shape and they probably keep the rats down.
I explored the town with my Russian friends and we walked all the way to the end of the beach. It was pretty great and this place is nice, even if there aren't any actual sights. At the end of the night we were sitting in a room high up in a building, watching the angry waves crash against the city before retreating back to the atlantic, and the whole thing was lit up by the brightest stars i've ever seen. pretty amazing.
Apparently this place has been settled since the 7th century BC when Phonecian people built a lighthouse and a town just off the coast, and later it became a Roman settlement because there is some sort of purple dye you can get if you squeeze the right fish or something. It used to be full of hippies and Jimi Hendrix (my guide book tells me that people here claim the ruins on the islands inspired him to write Castles Made of Sand, but it also says that he released that song a year before he came here, so if I meet any locals who try to tell me that story I will humilate them by exposing them as liars), but now it is mostly package tourists wearing the same shirts and pretending to be interested while a guide lectures them in some sort of European nazi talk.
The city is pretty crazy: the central part where I'm staying is surrounded by an enormous wall and is apparently an excellent example of 18th century european military architecture in north africa. The medina inside is made up of all these long, narrow, and winding passage ways, some of which dead-end into groups of bored and angry looking young moroccan dudes. The main streets are cleaned daily and the city is very tidy and kind of relaxed, especially because they don't allow cars in here. Outside of the walls there is a grimy and poor section of town which is what some asshole hippies would probably refer to as "the real morocco" which is a bunch of bullshit. There is also a very big beach and, about half an hour's walk south, a fantastically ruined fortress, either portuguese from the 16th century or Moroccan from the end of the 18th, but it doesn't really matter because it isn't guarded and you can climb all over it and play soliders or whatever. The only thing that has stopped Essaouira from becoming a tourist trap is the intense wind. It's incredible how powerful and consistant it is, but you need to wear a sweater or, at least, a heavy shirt if you're going to be out in it for long. Also the city is full of cats, like, if you put a basket or your hat down somewhere and walk away, it will probably have a cat in it when you come back. The fishermen feed them in the evening so they're all in pretty good shape and they probably keep the rats down.
I explored the town with my Russian friends and we walked all the way to the end of the beach. It was pretty great and this place is nice, even if there aren't any actual sights. At the end of the night we were sitting in a room high up in a building, watching the angry waves crash against the city before retreating back to the atlantic, and the whole thing was lit up by the brightest stars i've ever seen. pretty amazing.
Mcdonald's for everyone
I had a pretty great day after i wrote my last post, I made it to the beach and hung out on the expensive side because it was slightly cleaner. The day was beautiful and so I asked some old French people to watch my junk while i went swimming.
I only saw two pieces of plastic floating in the water (i thought the first one was a box jellyfish), which is probably pretty good by Moroccan standards. I spent the next hour chasing large schools of fish around the water, watching seagulls dive in to catch them, and always making sure that there was someone further out in the water and directly across from me so that, if a shark attacked, they would be eaten first and screams would give me enough warning to escape back to shore with a heroic tale of survival to tell. no sharks came.
I ate my dinner at mcdonalds, which means that I have now eaten at Mcdonald's on three continents (it would have been 4 but none of my friends in London wouldn't go with me, so that will have to wait until spain). From Phucket to Agadir to Vancouver, the food is always adequate.
While it was kind of reasurring to see the large Mcdonalds on the beach (sharing a patio with pizza hut and at the end of the row of fancy restaurants), it was also kind of unsettling, but not because I am bothered by the spread of American culture across the world, as that means that I can usually find someone who speaks some English, and there will always be a large air conditioned restuarant for me to hide out in. No, it is upsetting for the opposite reason: Mcdonald's has gone too native. Instead of operating as an embassy for embattled north americans, it was full of Moroccans on holiday and European families. It was even staffed by people who could barely speak english and couldn't understand me when i tried to order a 10 piece chicken nuggs. It was like entering your home and learning that it was now inhabited by a new family who couldn't understand you and didn't want to talk about your family. Being the only english speaking person in a Mcdonald's was weird. Of course, when an overweight sunburnt family from england sat down next to me and began yelling at their children I immediately missed the silence. I just can't win here.
After that, I bought an early morning bus ticket to Essaouira and went to sleep at 8 because the sun drained all the life from me. I didn't bother to set my alarm because the mosque next door always provided me with a free wake up service at 5:20am.
I only saw two pieces of plastic floating in the water (i thought the first one was a box jellyfish), which is probably pretty good by Moroccan standards. I spent the next hour chasing large schools of fish around the water, watching seagulls dive in to catch them, and always making sure that there was someone further out in the water and directly across from me so that, if a shark attacked, they would be eaten first and screams would give me enough warning to escape back to shore with a heroic tale of survival to tell. no sharks came.
I ate my dinner at mcdonalds, which means that I have now eaten at Mcdonald's on three continents (it would have been 4 but none of my friends in London wouldn't go with me, so that will have to wait until spain). From Phucket to Agadir to Vancouver, the food is always adequate.
While it was kind of reasurring to see the large Mcdonalds on the beach (sharing a patio with pizza hut and at the end of the row of fancy restaurants), it was also kind of unsettling, but not because I am bothered by the spread of American culture across the world, as that means that I can usually find someone who speaks some English, and there will always be a large air conditioned restuarant for me to hide out in. No, it is upsetting for the opposite reason: Mcdonald's has gone too native. Instead of operating as an embassy for embattled north americans, it was full of Moroccans on holiday and European families. It was even staffed by people who could barely speak english and couldn't understand me when i tried to order a 10 piece chicken nuggs. It was like entering your home and learning that it was now inhabited by a new family who couldn't understand you and didn't want to talk about your family. Being the only english speaking person in a Mcdonald's was weird. Of course, when an overweight sunburnt family from england sat down next to me and began yelling at their children I immediately missed the silence. I just can't win here.
After that, I bought an early morning bus ticket to Essaouira and went to sleep at 8 because the sun drained all the life from me. I didn't bother to set my alarm because the mosque next door always provided me with a free wake up service at 5:20am.
Monday, May 3, 2010
morocco could be worse
today i was woken up by the stupid mosque with its incredibly powerful speaker system and long, whiney voice. it sucked, but what're you going to do?
i went to the famous beach which is apparently the only reason people come to this town, and wqas kind of dissapointed: it was really dirty and the water was cold. but it was nice to soak my feet and there are no jerks trying to sell things there, which was a pleasant change.
i found a clean spot and put my towel down, getting ready to relax, when these young moroccan guys asked me to play soccer with them. i did and it was awesome. we communicated in a mixture of badly spoken languages and signs, and they were all very nice. we kicked the ball around for a couple of hours and they told me they wanted to go to canada and kept asking questions about the girls there. Hammad gestured that he was a breast man and began thrusting wildly in the direction of two 30+ year old french women wearing bikinis on the beach.
women who come to morocco from europe and north america should probably not wear beach clothes here. the men are all sexually repressed disgusting pigs who think that foreign women are just begging for their tender and sweaty touch. it's pretty horrible, but i guess this is their country and they can be as revolting and stupid as they like.
anyways, after that i bought 3 disposable camers for 6CDN each, a very good deal provided they actually work, so there will be pictures as soon as i can get the, developped on CD
i then went back to my hotel and made friends with the reception guy. he's pretty awesome and never pantomimed sex once so it was a good conversation. i just wish my french were better.
i went to the famous beach which is apparently the only reason people come to this town, and wqas kind of dissapointed: it was really dirty and the water was cold. but it was nice to soak my feet and there are no jerks trying to sell things there, which was a pleasant change.
i found a clean spot and put my towel down, getting ready to relax, when these young moroccan guys asked me to play soccer with them. i did and it was awesome. we communicated in a mixture of badly spoken languages and signs, and they were all very nice. we kicked the ball around for a couple of hours and they told me they wanted to go to canada and kept asking questions about the girls there. Hammad gestured that he was a breast man and began thrusting wildly in the direction of two 30+ year old french women wearing bikinis on the beach.
women who come to morocco from europe and north america should probably not wear beach clothes here. the men are all sexually repressed disgusting pigs who think that foreign women are just begging for their tender and sweaty touch. it's pretty horrible, but i guess this is their country and they can be as revolting and stupid as they like.
anyways, after that i bought 3 disposable camers for 6CDN each, a very good deal provided they actually work, so there will be pictures as soon as i can get the, developped on CD
i then went back to my hotel and made friends with the reception guy. he's pretty awesome and never pantomimed sex once so it was a good conversation. i just wish my french were better.
fuad the madman
i felt sad leaving london because it was fun, my friends were great, and also because i hadn't slept the entire night and i am always sad when i miss my sleep, but my first day in morocco made me feel even sadder.
i stupidly decided that it would be a good idea to take public transport from the airport to the nearest large town and then cab from there, and it would have been too, except my camera and 12CDN were stolen from my pocket, which is why there have been no pictures of england. i really miss those pictures.
later that day i went to use the internet and, on my walk back to my hotel, was approached by a moroccan man named Fuad (or something like that). he was very nice but kind of weird and smelly, which didn't bother me because morocco itself is kind of weird and smelly. his english was ok and he bought me mint tea and we sat in a cafe and drank it and he talked about morocco. to repay him i gave him 4CDN for cigarettes. he then volunteered to show me around town. i didn't think this was weird because everything i'd read about morocco talked about the great hospitality and friendliness of the people. he took me to a couple of stores but i didn't buy anything because what the hell am i going to do with a kilo of spices or a pair of pointy sandals? third world people have no idea what kind of shit north americans like.
Fuad and i were getting a long well, but then he started asking me to buy him booze. i told him i didn't have any money and then he reached into his waistband at the back and we had a very strange conversation "i am poor man. you will give me money"
"i'm really sorry but i can't afford it, my budget is very strict"
"i have knife. give me money"
at this point i was like what the fuck? i doubted that he actually had a knife but i tried to guilt him into going away because i had been told muslims love guests or something, but that didn't work. i was way bigger and stronger than him and could have given him a pretty good beating, knife or not, but he had said hello to quite a few people on the way down and i had no friends in the entire city. so, i told him ok and tossed him my large water bottle with the cap off, he jumped back and i took off down the street. he didn't follow, i suspect he was satisfied with the water. bastard. i was thirsty all day.
he only wanted 50dirham. or 6cdn, but fuck that, nobody robs craig when he is paying attention.
i spent the rest of the night reading in my room and trying to nap. it was difficult because my hotel is right next to a mosque (thanks for leaving that out, lonely planet) and the call to prayer is incredibly loud and annoying. when i am on a better computer i will try to find a youtube video of how awful it is. they do it at 530am too. sorry about spelling, this computer has a french/arabic keyboard so nothing is where it should be
i stupidly decided that it would be a good idea to take public transport from the airport to the nearest large town and then cab from there, and it would have been too, except my camera and 12CDN were stolen from my pocket, which is why there have been no pictures of england. i really miss those pictures.
later that day i went to use the internet and, on my walk back to my hotel, was approached by a moroccan man named Fuad (or something like that). he was very nice but kind of weird and smelly, which didn't bother me because morocco itself is kind of weird and smelly. his english was ok and he bought me mint tea and we sat in a cafe and drank it and he talked about morocco. to repay him i gave him 4CDN for cigarettes. he then volunteered to show me around town. i didn't think this was weird because everything i'd read about morocco talked about the great hospitality and friendliness of the people. he took me to a couple of stores but i didn't buy anything because what the hell am i going to do with a kilo of spices or a pair of pointy sandals? third world people have no idea what kind of shit north americans like.
Fuad and i were getting a long well, but then he started asking me to buy him booze. i told him i didn't have any money and then he reached into his waistband at the back and we had a very strange conversation "i am poor man. you will give me money"
"i'm really sorry but i can't afford it, my budget is very strict"
"i have knife. give me money"
at this point i was like what the fuck? i doubted that he actually had a knife but i tried to guilt him into going away because i had been told muslims love guests or something, but that didn't work. i was way bigger and stronger than him and could have given him a pretty good beating, knife or not, but he had said hello to quite a few people on the way down and i had no friends in the entire city. so, i told him ok and tossed him my large water bottle with the cap off, he jumped back and i took off down the street. he didn't follow, i suspect he was satisfied with the water. bastard. i was thirsty all day.
he only wanted 50dirham. or 6cdn, but fuck that, nobody robs craig when he is paying attention.
i spent the rest of the night reading in my room and trying to nap. it was difficult because my hotel is right next to a mosque (thanks for leaving that out, lonely planet) and the call to prayer is incredibly loud and annoying. when i am on a better computer i will try to find a youtube video of how awful it is. they do it at 530am too. sorry about spelling, this computer has a french/arabic keyboard so nothing is where it should be
london is awesome
after my last post i ended up having a fantastic day in london. zoe`s room mate chris was a great guy and we met up with 2 other people and he showed me around london. the weather kind of sucked, but i saw the tate, st pauls, westminster abbey and big ben, the large ferris wheel, and the london museum. we also saw one of the weirdest things i have ever seen: birds playing guitars at the barbican. i could not possibly describe how bizzare it was in words alone.
we stayed out late that night and i had a terrible kebab. the food in london is uniformly awful.
i slept late the next morning, but my kind host woke me up and i had a traiditional english breakfast. it was gross. who needs fries for breakfast, and why would anyone want to eat blood pudding? there was a large family next to us and they were all drinking at 1pm. i never saw so ,uch public drunkenness in my life. As to the awful food, i found out that english people eat something called "chips and bap" or something like that, and it'sz just a french fry sandwich on white bread. a fried chicken sandwich where the bun was fried chicken (also known as the double down) would be better for you. probably.
after that, we went and saw sherlock holmes's house and it was great. at this point; zoe had had enough walking but i still wanted to see some stuff, so after a brief visit to uniqlo i went to the british museum. at least, i tried to. it was really hard to find and no one knew where it was. i kept getting vague directions but felt for sure i was slowly getting closer, which was important because it was raining very hard and my pants, socks, and shoes were soaked through.
i went up to these two guys to ask directions and, by the time i noticed they were chavs drinking cider, it was too late. i asked the closest one where the british museum was, and he looked at me, soaked to the bone and still dripping rain but with a polite smile, and he said; "fuck you." his friend tried to give me slightly better directions, but neither one of them actually knew where the museum was. what a shock.
i finally found it and was leaving wet footprints behind me and it was awesome. too bad it closed so eaarly and i had spent so much time looking for it.
after that i met up with zoe, we shopped, and she made me a delicious dinner with chicken and roast vegetables. i turned the leftovers into a delicious sandwich because i am such a responsible guy. that night at 2am i left the safety of Zoe's house and caught a bus to a coach station near buckingham palace. everything was poorly marked and this american girl and i missed the only bus to gatwick until 730am (it was 315 and my flight to agadir left at 630). i thought we were fucked because a cab ride would have been 90 pounds. but apparently there is an express train to gatwick that nobody bothered to tell us about, so we caught that and ,ade it to the airport without incident.
sorry there are no pictures, i will explain why in the next post
we stayed out late that night and i had a terrible kebab. the food in london is uniformly awful.
i slept late the next morning, but my kind host woke me up and i had a traiditional english breakfast. it was gross. who needs fries for breakfast, and why would anyone want to eat blood pudding? there was a large family next to us and they were all drinking at 1pm. i never saw so ,uch public drunkenness in my life. As to the awful food, i found out that english people eat something called "chips and bap" or something like that, and it'sz just a french fry sandwich on white bread. a fried chicken sandwich where the bun was fried chicken (also known as the double down) would be better for you. probably.
after that, we went and saw sherlock holmes's house and it was great. at this point; zoe had had enough walking but i still wanted to see some stuff, so after a brief visit to uniqlo i went to the british museum. at least, i tried to. it was really hard to find and no one knew where it was. i kept getting vague directions but felt for sure i was slowly getting closer, which was important because it was raining very hard and my pants, socks, and shoes were soaked through.
i went up to these two guys to ask directions and, by the time i noticed they were chavs drinking cider, it was too late. i asked the closest one where the british museum was, and he looked at me, soaked to the bone and still dripping rain but with a polite smile, and he said; "fuck you." his friend tried to give me slightly better directions, but neither one of them actually knew where the museum was. what a shock.
i finally found it and was leaving wet footprints behind me and it was awesome. too bad it closed so eaarly and i had spent so much time looking for it.
after that i met up with zoe, we shopped, and she made me a delicious dinner with chicken and roast vegetables. i turned the leftovers into a delicious sandwich because i am such a responsible guy. that night at 2am i left the safety of Zoe's house and caught a bus to a coach station near buckingham palace. everything was poorly marked and this american girl and i missed the only bus to gatwick until 730am (it was 315 and my flight to agadir left at 630). i thought we were fucked because a cab ride would have been 90 pounds. but apparently there is an express train to gatwick that nobody bothered to tell us about, so we caught that and ,ade it to the airport without incident.
sorry there are no pictures, i will explain why in the next post
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