Mark Twain at the Pyramids...

While I often travel alone, I rarely feel alone. Always, some writer, some friend, has been there before—normally Mark Twain. The pyramids at Giza were no exception—Mark Twain was there and I saw them through his eyes.

The Pyramids at Giza

“We suffered torture no pen can describe from the hungry appeals for bucksheesh... Why try to call up the traditions of vanished Egyptian grandeur; why try to fancy Egypt following dead Rameses to his tomb in the Pyramid, or the long multitude of Israel departing over the desert yonder? Why try to think at all? The thing was impossible. One must bring his meditations cut and dried, or else cut and dry them afterward.”

Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad

Panorama from the desert

Much has changed since Twain’s visit, but much remains the same. Today, instead of hauling tourists to the top of the Pyramids, the local tourist industry besets the wary and the unwary traveler with innumerable offers of camel rides, horse rides, “free” turbans, opportunities to climb a pyramid, and, of course, souvenirs. I had one guy, trying to get me to ride his camel, follow me around for an hour. And that was just one of many…

I longed to pause, to let my mind drift away to ancient Egypt, to the conquering pharaohs, the elaborate rituals, the pompous priests… to Akhetaten, Thebes, Bubastis… to Ramses II, Thutmose III, Cleopatra… Yet, it was impossible—to pause was to indicate weakness, a desire to be hectored into a camel ride, a Pepsi, a picture. So I walked. I walked around the Cheops, down to the Sphinx, up to the middle Pyramid, out into the desert, back to the pyramids, and on and on, trying to take in the beauty, the history, immensity of the place.

At first glance, the pyramids seemed less grand than I had imagined, but the longer I stayed, the greater, the more impressive they became. The sphinx likewise—once again, I defer to Mark Twain:

The Sphinx

“After years of waiting, it was before me at last. The great face was so sad, so earnest, so longing, so patient. There was a dignity not of earth in its mien, and in its countenance a benignity such as never any thing human wore. It was stone, but it seemed sentient. If ever image of stone thought, it was thinking. It was looking toward the verge of the landscape, yet looking at nothing -- nothing but distance and vacancy. It was looking over and beyond every thing of the present, and far into the past. It was gazing out over the ocean of Time -- over lines of century-waves which, further and further receding, closed nearer and nearer together, and blended at last into one unbroken tide, away toward the horizon of remote antiquity. It was thinking of the wars of departed ages; of the empires it had seen created and destroyed; of the nations whose birth it had witnessed, whose progress it had watched, whose annihilation it had noted; of the joy and sorrow, the life and death, the grandeur and decay, of five thousand slow revolving years. It was the type of an attribute of man -- of a faculty of his heart and brain. It was MEMORY -- RETROSPECTION -- wrought into visible, tangible form. All who know what pathos there is in memories of days that are accomplished and faces that have vanished -- albeit only a trifling score of years gone by -- will have some appreciation of the pathos that dwells in these grave eyes that look so steadfastly back upon the things they knew before History was born -- before Tradition had being -- things that were, and forms that moved, in a vague era which even Poetry and Romance scarce know of -- and passed one by one away and left the stony dreamer solitary in the midst of a strange new age, and uncomprehended 
scenes.”

Snagged tourists

Since Mark Twain’s day, the city of Cairo (technically Giza) has spread up to the very foot of the Pyramids: McDonalds, KFCs, shopping malls, and busy highways compete against the serenity of the place, but despite it all, something of the long-forgotten past hangs over the area, whispering of days, passions, and peoples long gone and forgotten… that is if you're left in peace long enough to think…

Additional Pictures from the Pyramids at Giza

The streets of Cairo: "Close your eyes and open your heart"

Traffic in Cairo is worse than most places I’ve visited. I’d rank it, along with Milan and Amman as one of the worst cities for driving. Cars cutting each other off, horns blaring, traffic at a standstill… Not a lot of fun. Nor is it all that great for pedestrians.

Venturing out into the city, I soon realized that to get anywhere, it was necessary to just walk through the traffic. A local told me that to cross a street in Cairo: “You must close your eyes and open your heart.”

Too true. Close your eyes to the oncoming traffic and walk, but prepare your heart to die—at least that was the gist I took from his advice. Not bad advice either—whether crossing the street or living life.

Often as not, life’s dangers prove to be imaginary, or at least more imaginary than the cars of Cairo. Those horns though… I wanted to hang the man who invented the car horn… The heat must have been getting to me…

Impressions of the Egyptian Museum

Upon arrival in Cairo, I opted to start easy and visit the Egyptian Museum and see a bit a bit of Cairo. With map in hand, I found Tahrir Square and the Egyptian Museum without much issue. The Egyptian Museum, indeed the whole of Tahrir Square lack imposing façades—nothing to live up to their fame.

But I bought my ticket and tried to enter the museum. At the entrance, however, I was turned back. I had a camera in my bag. Before entering, I had to stow it with at a special office for cameras. Pictures are permitted at the Louvre, the British Museum, the Pergamum Museum, but not even a camera was allowed at the Egyptian Museum.

The museum itself hosts an impressive collection of Egyptian antiquities. Sadly, however, it lacks a narrative—very little context is provided in which to evaluate the pieces. (Perhaps to force visitors to hire guides, but, in general, it looks like nothing has been updated or touched for at least fifty years—as if it was a product of some previous age.)

The most impressive exhibit at the museum was the tomb collection of Tutankhamun: the variety and richness of the articles caught my attention—from childhood toys to religious symbols,  and signs of authority, the tomb collection lived up to its hype.

The other artifacts were also good, particularly the model collection of scenes from Egyptian life, but nothing to make the museum stand out favorably when compared to either the British Museum or the Louvre. In fact other than the King Tut exhibit, I felt like I’d seen the same artifacts defused throughout Europe with one considerable difference—the European displays were more contextualized and contained more information.

After winding down my visit, I went to pick up my camera. On the way, I made a detour to try to get change for a tip. Movenpick has a couple concessionaires on the grounds selling regular cans of soda for 20 EL or nearly $3.00. I tried to split a 10 EL bill, but failing that, I ended up heavily over tipping the guys at the camera office. Such is life, I guess.

All in all, the Egyptian Museum ranks well down on my list of the world’s best museums (but is on the list) which is roughly as follows*:

1: Pergamum Museum, Berlin, Germany

2: Volk Museum, Oslo, Norway

3: Museum of Welsh Life, St. Fagans, Wales

4: Louvre Museum, Paris, France

5: The Terror Museum, Budapest, Hungary

6: British Museum, London, England

7: Turkish Archeological Museum, Istanbul, Turkey

8: Vatican Museum, Vatican City, the Vatican

9: Egyptian Museum, Cairo, Egypt

10: Viking Boat Museum, Oslo, Norway

11: Capitoline Museum, Rome, Italy

Note: other than the first three, my ranking fluctuates for the rest; additionally, I expect that if I was pressed, I’d be forced to add additional museums to this list.

*For the purpose of comparing museums, I’m omitting the Hague Sophia and other palaces/churches/castles where the historical structure is the main attraction to the museum. It could be argued that the Vatican Museum also falls into this category, but as I wasn’t a fan of the Sistine Chapel, I’m listing it as an ordinary museum.

EgyptAir MS 848: A flight like no other

Normally flights are uneventful, boring, even, especially if you get stuck on an aisle seat… Normally, that is… My flight to Cairo proved, at least for me, remarkably abnormal.

I arrived at the airport in Casablanca in plenty of time, so I chilled and waited for my flight, trying not to think of food, because the prices at the airport were through the roof, not just for Morocco, but for pretty much anywhere.

Finally boarding time arrived and I joined the queue to board the plane. So far nothing abnormal: but then, a fight broke out in front of me. Outside the UFC, I’d never seen an adult place such violent kicks—and this was on the boarding ramp. At length, the crew and several bystanders separated the gentlemen and I boarded the plane. I assume they cooled down and were permitted to fly, but I can’t vouch for it.

I worked my way back to my seat, only to find that an elderly guy in turban and gown had already firmly lodged himself there—so I took his middle seat.

We took off and life was normal—for a while: then a couple of the guys pulled out their musical instruments and started an impromptu concert. Other passengers joined in singing and clapping to the music. Then the dancing started, as young and old, male and female wedged themselves into the aisle to dance. (Actual number dancing was probably fewer than half a dozen, but the bystanders and photographers heavily inflated the number in the aisle.)

The whole thing was so unusual the stewards broke out extra refreshments.

Mount Sinai: Modern Pilgrims

Mt. Sinai: by connecting the scriptural narrative to a tangible spot, the story became for me less real but more beautiful.

Today I visited the traditional Mt. Sinai and the Monastery of St. Catherine. We left Dahab about 11:00 PM and arrived at St. Catherine about 2:00 AM to begin our trek to the summit.

It was an easy walk, except for the last bit, stairs nestled among the climbing boulders. The moon illuminated everything with a soft, white light. Many of the tourists carried flashlights and wildly flashed them around, appearing almost like old-time bands of pilgrims with their tapers.  The lights were completely unnecessary, however, and largely detracted from the soft grays and sharp silhouettes of the mountains.

The camels in particular proved picturesque, dark shadows against the evening sky, treading along the ridgelines above and threading their way toward the summit.

I caught myself several times imagining what it would have been like when Moses climbed it (if indeed this is same mountain)—the rugged path he must have followed (prior to the easy, well-worn one that I was climbing), the sights and sounds of the children of Israel spread out in the valleys below, the cloud hovering over the mountain... And then, there was the golden calf: Moses rushing down the mountain, wroth beyond measure and hurling the Ten Commandments to the ground. The stories flashed by, vivid, but disconnected from what I saw.

When I reached the top, the new day was beginning to defuse a red glow on the Eastern horizon. Slowly, the sky lightened; the peaks stood out black and sharp against the soft blue-grays of the valleys. And then, there was the sun, rising steadily and spreading light and warmth (it was cold on the peak) across the world and etching out the mountain tops in a golden light. That sight alone was worth the trip. Mountains spread out in all directions, brown, craggy rocks, given new life by the rays of the sun. On the peak, the light caught the church, highlighting the cross against the sky.

In that moment, all the sights and places I’ve visited in the past few weeks, the Pyramids, the massive Temple of Karnak, the Valley of the Kings, seemed strangely insignificant baubles.

And then it was time to go down. I’ll probably never revisit Mt. Sinai, but somehow I think the memory of it will remain etched in my mind. At least for today.

The Paradoxes of Egypt

Pyramids at Giza

When I’m travelling, I often find it hard to carve out the time to jot out my experiences.  Or, if there is the time, there isn’t always the electricity. And life flows by, quickly.


At some point, over the next couple weeks, I hope to fill in many of the blanks, etching, electronically, something of my memories—but not tonight.

Luxor Temple

Tonight I’d like to summarize Egypt, summarize it by a trio of paradoxes:

Egypt is peaceful, but unsettled. The events and promises of the last couple years have led to widespread disillusionment, economic and political. The present is calm, but the future uncertain. (Duh. Do you think I can get a job as a fortune-cookie writer?)

Egypt is very cheap, but considerably overpriced. Prices are low, but expect to pay two to three times what the locals do and maybe get cheated on the side.


Coptic Cairo

Egypt is a dream come true, but often, sadly, something of a living nightmare. Chilling at the Pyramids, romping though ancient temples, chasing bats in old graves… there is something of the classroom, something of the movies, something completely intangible about it… but the pickpocketing, the constant hectoring, the exorbitant prices sometimes make me forget that I’m on vacation…

A jot, a vision, a glimpse, a parting—farewell, Morocco

Morocco was far more Western than I expected, but, yet, it was a world of its own—at least compared to anywhere else I’ve travelled.

Atlas Mountains

There were the mountain women doing their laundry in the streams and spreading it to dry on bushes and rocks; there were the urban families (man, woman, and children) all crammed on one small motorbike; there were the city laundromats where wringers and steam presses escaped the hoary traditions of history to live in the present; there were the smiles (beautiful smiles—even on less than beautiful people—though there was plenty of beauty in Morocco); there were bikes loaded with five or six goat heads; there were piles, circular cones, of spices… the boats, the camels, the Charlie Chaplin movies… the crowds of people, bikes, motorbikes, and everything else trying to jostle their way through the narrow, old streets.

Wheat fields--often harvest manually

And the food: the tangines, the orange juice, the pureed-fruit drinks, the dates, the egg sandwiches, the chicken shawarmas (the one I ate in Tangier was the best I’ve ever eaten), the cakes, the… and on and on.

Atlas Mountains

There was something officious, something friendly to the country. There were things to buy, things to remember, things to forget.

Of the latter, the trash, the filth, the unhygienic practices—piles of trash here and there, food fallen on the street picked up and re-sold, food served on grubby dishes and with dirty flatware… Everywhere noble aspirations were apparent, but the lack of skill, oversight, or the maintenance made them empty mockeries of what could have been…

Small town in mountains

Underwriting it all, however, was a bustling vibrancy, the exuberance of life, an undercurrent of movement, glossing over and dignifying many faults.

(Note: I liked Morocco, but, for good or for ill, I cannot gloss over the overtly public urination scenes in parks, along roads, in cities, and pretty much everywhere... so be warned if you plan to travel to Morocco. 
 
Pictures from the Straits of Gibralter and the Moroccan countryside

Meknes: Off the beaten track

Rooftop café off Place Hedim

Meknes is an old, royal city immediately east of Fes. As a Moroccan city, it seems pretty much on par with the more touristy (Marrakesh and Fes), except without the tourists. 

Medina street

The lack of tourists is a mixed bag of benefits and disadvantages. Touristy cities tend to be tourist friendly—more fixed prices, more lodging options, more English, more maps, more signs, etc. They also have more individuals who seem to derive their livelihood through persecuting travelers, besides a somewhat inauthentic atmosphere.

Stables

 Meknes lacked all these things. It didn’t lack flies. It didn’t lack garbage. But its relative peace made many amends.

Beside the Roman city of Volubilis only a few miles away, Meknes boasts the Augean Stables (at least they’re big enough to be), royal tombs, palaces, an authentic souk, a pleasant modern city, and a medina.

The tombs were impressive, but my favorite attraction, other than Volubilis, was the stables.

Sunset over Meknes

To say that I’ve never seen such stables, is, well, not to say much; yet I say it anyway. Not even the underground stables carved out of solid rock that I saw in Cappadocia can compare. I’ve attached a few pictures, because, while I’d like to include a sketch, I haven’ maintained my middle-school art skills. In a way, there wasn’t much to see, except the curiosity of it all—a nice change from normal humdrum of historical sites.

 Additional photos

Volubilis—limits of the empire

Volubilis

Sometime I expect I will grow weary of visiting Roman ruins, decide I’ve seen enough of them to last me for life, or at least for a half dozen years or so. It’s happened with the old European masters—after you’ve seen a hundred or so of their old paintings, you’ve seen them all, it seems.

Neighboring Moulay Idriss

 But that day hasn’t come yet. While in Meknes, I visited the Roman city of Volubilis. At least what’s left of it—which isn’t much. Despite its meager remains, it was one of my favorite places in Morocco. In the distance, olive-clad hills ringed it about, but spreading out from the actual city, lay fields and orchards of wheat and olives. It was a pastoral scene: quiet after the hustle and bustle of the crowded cities. The ruins lay on a slight hill, overlooking a river— nothing but  a few odd pillars, a gate or two, and a multitude of stones projecting through the wild carrot and thistles.

A local donkey

There wasn’t much to see; yet there was much to think upon. Rome. Two-thousand years ago, the peace of Rome encompassed the entire Mediterranean and well beyond. I tried comparing it with the so-call Pax Americana—but I’m no philosopher, so… we’ll leave that be. Maybe.

It’s impossible, however, not to observe the decline of American power—America is still the biggest kid on the block, but less and less so as the years go by. Worse is the growing cultural and political weariness—the bogging down on the minutiae of civil administration, the political navel gazing of a civilization that has lost its way, the intense fracturing of civil society into ethnic groups.*

Triumphal Arch

*Just this spring, I had a student defiantly tell me that, despite growing up in the same town, we hailed from distinct cultures. I wanted to pity her naiveté—sure there were slight differences in the way our parents raised us, no doubt, yet that doesn’t imply a different culture or heritage. But what if she’s right? Perception is often more real than reality, so if that’s a common American conception (and it was backed up by the rest of the students in the class), then perhaps, against all reason, it is true: a self-imposed internal splitting.



Ruins at Volubilis

Weird. That happened to Rome also—immigrants, introduced into the heart of the empire failed to assimilate, creating a state poised for disintegration. Poised, I’d say, because, arguably, these new immigrants extended the life, vitality, and greatness of the empire for generations. The empire, however, built by Rome, while remaining intact, passed from the hands of the weak, indulgent Romans into the vigorous management of non-assimilated new comers.

I wonder if America’s immigrants are enough to sustain the international system built by the U.S. If not, well, I imagine life in America will still be pleasant even without the prerogatives of the global superpower.

Disclaimer: Please do not take my ramblings in anyway seriously. Sometimes I right as random thoughts come, not as I actually believe (there is a big difference). The future is such a befuddling, fascinating topic to think about, especially after you’ve been reading history. 

Photo Album

The downside to cheap lodging

Lodging on the cheap when you travel can sometimes be a bit dodgy—the people, the cleanliness, the bathrooms, etc.

Take the place I stayed last night: only a cold shower (okay, not all that unusual, but this one was little more than a steady drip, at least when any other faucet was open), only one toilet (and a Turkish one at that—but hey, I’m not exactly in North America or Western Europe), a room that stank (didn’t matter that the window was open—in fact, I’m inclined to think it was the bed that put forth the noxious odors), no power outlets… I feared for bed bugs, filth, and everything else unsanitary. Sometimes, when I travel, I wonder when I can possibly feel clean again. Not counting this place, I’m fairly certain I’ve run into some type of bed bugs twice already on this trip (and I haven't even gotten to NYC yet...). And this place looked worse than either one of those places…

But then I was sick, so maybe my outlook was a bit off. (I blame the sickness of the general state of poor sanitation in this country—my body isn’t used to this many germs.)

How the author ignored the sage advice of King Solomon and suffered for it

The authors of Proverbs give much sane advice about staying out of trouble. I greatly respect it, but I can’t say I always follow it.

Yesterday I made the mistake of walking past a restaurant while I was hungry (Solomon warned about watching past temptation)…

Bad sign #1: As I was coming up, a waiter rushed up to me and  thrusti one of the restaurant’s menus into my hands.

Mistake #1: I took it and started looking over it.

Bad sign #2: The waiter wouldn’t let me look at the menu in peace, but had to show me the food and talk to me, despite my half-hearted, non-commitment attitude, etc.

Mistake #2: I was still there.

Bad sign #3: He decided I wanted a salad (I hadn’t said that), so he had one prepared for me while he steered me to a table.

Mistake #3: I didn’t turn and run.

To confirm what I was getting, since I hadn’t ordered it, I asked him if it was a petit salad. He replied in the affirmative. It looked really good, I was hungry, and the menu said it was only five dirhams, so:

Mistake #4: I sat down to eat it.

He asked if I’d like soup. I told him I wanted to eat my salad first. He persisted. I put him off.

Bad sign #4: He got me soup anyway.

The salad was delicious. It was actually an assortment of potato salads, carrot salad, and rice. Very good. I asked the guy if the soup was soup, just to make sure where I stood in relation to the menu. He confirmed that it was soup, and:

Bad sign number #5: He moved the bowl of soup directly in front of me and picked up my bread, almost as if to feed me himself to prevent my asking any more stupid questions.

Mistake #5: I ate the soup. (On the menu, soup only cost 2.5 dirhams.)

At this point, I was ready to pay, but slightly apprehensive because of the plethora of warning signs I’d seen. (I also felt like people were looking at me like I was a sheep about to be fleeced.) I didn’t have the appropriate change, so I pulled out ten dirhams and handed them to the guy, expecting 2.5 dirhams back.

Then the fun began. He wanted to charge me sixteen, more than twice the menu price. I refused, grabbed the menu and showed him the prices. At that point, he tried to explain that my salad wasn’t a petit salad and grabbed a slightly smaller dish to show me. I reminded him that he had said it was a petit salad. The soup, he claimed, wasn’t regular soup, it was Hariri soup. I asked him to show me the distinction on the menu, because I saw only one listed. He insisted. I refused. The price he wanted to charge me for the soup was higher than I’d ever seen it in Morocco.

At this impasse, a guy sitting alongside the restaurant intervened, giving the waiter the money he was asking for, apparently amused by the whole business (as he should have been: we were only bickering over a dollar).

The waiter than applied to my sense of honor, letting someone else pay for the bill, but, suspecting that this guy might also be in on the game and convinced I was right, per the menu, I declined and left, frustrated and leaving without my change—all $0.30 of it.

I hope I did right. I always used to think it was better to be shamefully used than to risk misusing someone else, but my senses, and my mind told me I was right. And so I acted the way I did, but looking back, I wished I would have heeded the multiple warning signs and refused the food.

Now I’m extremely hesitant to eat at any restaurant here in Meknes—a shame, because it’s my last real chance to eat Moroccan food. So back to the street venders...

Essaouira: camels and boats—maybe not heaven, but not a bad place

Essaouira is a small seaside city on the edges of the Atlantic, highly influence by fishing, tourism, and a fluxing artist community. They say that the Carthaginians under Hanno visited the area. And if that wasn’t reason enough to visit…

Wide, sandy beaches stretch along the cost, smoothed by gentle surf off the Atlantic. Unfortunately, even in June, the water remains somewhat chilly. These beaches offer unusual dangers and attractions: besides windsailing, it’s possible to ride a horse, ATV, or camel along the beach, a picturesque way to break up the monotony of a day at the beach; unfortunately, horses and camels litter the beach in a manner that can be unpleasant for the unshod pedestrian.

One of the particular charms of the city, however, is the port. Located in the midst of old fortifications, a small port, used mainly for fishing, holds hundreds of small fishing trawlers and boats. Locals bustle about, repairing nets, stocking ships, and cutting and preparing fish. A burgeoning seafood market spreads along the harbor. Fish gleam in the light, even at night their scales showing brilliant silver in the artificial port lights. Overhead seagulls soar and swoop, fighting over cast off fish bits. And the stench… well, it isn’t exactly aromatic.

Essaouira also has artistic pretensions—with an annual music festival at the end of June and, apparently, something of an artistic community. Neither of which I can evaluate, but the quality of the woodwork—highly elaborate and decorative—was the best I’ve seen outside of southern Germany.

But all things considered, there were boats and camels in the same city. Hard to top that combination.  

Additional Photos

Sevilla

Plaza de Espana

Spain is comprised of many very distinct regions, possessing varying degrees of cultural and political autonomy. Some areas, like Barcelona, seem more European than Spanish; in fact, if you spoke to a Barcelonian, he’d probably inform you that he was Catalonian, not Spanish. That would also hold true for the Basques. 

Alcazar

Sevilla, however, is as Spanish as it comes—or at least pretty close: the Moorish influence, flamenco dancing, Catholic processions, bull fights, etc. Here you will find the dark-haired, dark-skinned Spaniards. Here Magellan set sail on his epic voyage to circumnavigate the globe. Here the wealth of the new world passed into Europe. And here, in the Cathedral (one of the largest, if not the largest in Europe), lies the body of Christopher Columbus, and, unfortunately, he is dead.*

El Cid

Sevilla is a city of gardens, churches, and culture; a city of bells and traditions; a city of beauty.


 

Additional Pictures from Sevilla

*Read Mark Twain. That's all I have to say.

Madrid and my first bullfight (where I decided that I do not want to be a matador when I grow up)

Due to time and budgetary constraints, I made a mistake and skipped the Escorial—it’s a bit of a trip from Madrid—in order to see something of the city.

Additional Photos from the Bullfight

For those mostly interested in history and architecture, Madrid is hardly a top European destination. Madrid is a city of the present, not the past. The Madrid Cathedral is a massive, modern church that roughly combines traditional European and questionable modern elements. The royal palace is a European palace, but hardly exceptional or worth the entrance fee—but perhaps I’m hard to impress.

That aside, however, I must admit that Madrid Park impressed me: the shady paths, fantastic tree formations, and stately fountains and monuments were a pleasant change of pace from the bustling streets. The Madridianites seemed to agree.  I came across one group (one-hundred plus) retirees out performing some type of callisthenic exercises and later in the evening, the park was thronged with runners.

The best and worst part of Madrid, however, was the bull fights. There is something graceful, but barbaric about the ‘sport’—a mixture between a butcher shop and a ballet.

The performance began with a parade of matadors, toreros, picadors, and banderillos marching into the arena. Due to the gentlemen in front of me wanting to stand, I saw little of it. Ah well.

A few seats down, an old man kept up a constant jabber at such a volume that, well, when the old lady in front of him turned around and let loose at him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that his noise level was unacceptable, I could have kissed her. At least, for the moment, she was the best friend I had in Spain.

But then began the festivities:

A bull was released into the arena. First one toreros and then another would walk a few feet out into the arena, flutter his cape to attract the bull, and the then run precipitously back to the safety of a wooden barrier as soon as the bull headed his way. After a few repetitions of these rapid retreats, the matador took the ring, distinguishing himself by not running away from the bull—at least most of the time.

After a few desultory passes of the bull at the matador, neatly sidestepped by the said matador, the trumpets sounded and the picadors entered the arena on heavily padded horses. The idea was to incite the bull to charge the picador and use the bull’s own strength to drive the picador’s lance deep into the bull. This accomplished, the bull would be lured away again, so the feat could be replicated. Sometimes the bull, getting carried away, stuck to his attack. Once he even toppled the horse (it took approximately ten minutes to get the horse on his feet again).

After the second lancing, the trumpets blew again, and the picadors retired from the ring, and the matador resumed his games with the bull, taunting the bull to charge his cape. Sometimes the bull seemed reluctant, but the matador’s annoying antics proved superior to the bull’s utmost self-control. Once, the bull even flipped over his own horns, turning a complete summersault to the amusement of the audience.  After twenty passes or so, the matador would step aside and let the next round of mutilators, the banderilleros, take the ring. After performing a series of stretches to impress the bull, or the audience (I’m not really sure which), they charged the bull and jammed sharp banderillas, barbed sticks, into the tormented beast.

With the bull worn out and now bleeding profusely, the matador resumed the ring, cut a few more capers to the delight of the audience—which puzzled me, because the bull by this time is far gone—called for his killing sword and eventually plunged it into the bull. When the bull didn’t die instantaneously, which rarely happens, it seems, the matador’s understudies come running out to pester the bull until he topples over due to blood loss.

The matador then bows and plumes himself upon a job well done, the crowd goes berserk, and the bull is dragged from the ring. Finis.

Well, not really, because in the intermission before the next fight, you buy your beer, eat your sandwiches*, etc., until the next bull is released into the arena. Then it begins all over again.

*The really loud guy brought two bags of sandwiches and delighted in offering them to the crowd and then tossing them to whoever volunteered to take one. He was a character. He seemed a local fixture, living and breathing to attend these pretty butcherings.

Ait Behaddou & Atlas Studios.

Ait Behaddou

Truth be told, there isn’t much to see or do at Ait Benhaddou, but I went anyway. The old city sits on a hill high above the neighboring river valley. Palm trees, following the arc of the river, grow along the foot of the hill, providing an unusual dose of green in this arid, brown land. Ait Benhaddou is nestled in these surroundings—tall, mud-brick walls rising sharply up the hill, culminating with a picturesque granary at the summit. 

I was a great place to wander around, even if for only a couple hours.

As a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the location of several films (most notably Gladiator), the place attracts a fair number of tourists, but not so many as to make it unpleasant.
Neighboring Ouarzazate hosts Atlas Studios (Ben Hur, etc.) and CLA Studios (Kingdom of Heaven, Game of Thrones). It was also a filming location for Lawrence of Arabia.


Ait Behaddou

I visited Atlas Studios, allured by the idea of seeing where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed: Sadly, there was nothing left of the old set, but walking through the crumbing ruins of old film sets, I was able to observe something of the small, plaster recreations used to create the massive and beautiful palaces and cities that litter our movies. Strange, so little can be manipulated by a camera to create massive cities and palaces…

Ben Hur's Hur's from the movie Ben Hur

PS—the song lyrics have only a tenuous connection to anything, but I like the song and this place is dry and parched. I’m pretty sure I drank at least four liters yesterday, but still felt thirsty most of the day.

Additional Photos

The Thieving Restaurants of Ouarzazate

Ouarzazate is small city in the southeast of Morocco, known as a gateway to the desert and as the filming location of numerous movies. It’s also known as a quieter, calmer city.

Unfortunately, however, one thing that most tourist guides fail to mention is the billing practices at the local restaurants.

During my time here, I ate at two restaurants and each time I was charged considerably more than the menu price. The first time, it surprised me, and I paid and tried to forget. (Hasn’t worked.)

The second time, I questioned the waiter; he returned most of the overcharged money, but with a somewhat surly attitude. 

Sheesh, they were already making a good profit off of me…

On the bright side, however, the olives were excellent.

Marrakesh: Where East meets West

“Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat” – Rudyard Kipling, The Ballad of East and West

Bahia Palace

East and West combine in Marrakesh, but the West seems to have the upper hand. Marrakesh is a place where Europeans (and Westerners in general) can feel like they are escaping the West without giving up any of the comforts or conveniences of Western life.  

It’s an awesome place. Day and night, the main square, D’Jeema el Fna, pulsates with life: drums beat, dancers dance, tourists goggle, venders haggle, and a confused multitude of cultures collide. Sometimes it’s good; sometimes, not.

At rival music stands, Western pop music battles it out with more traditional Moroccan music. Local musicians, of more or less talent, throng the square, contributing gainfully to the noise and confusion of the place.



Saadian Tomb

You can get your picture taken with either monkeys or snakes; watch traditional dancers; buy colorful slippers, bright candle lamps, diverse leather products; feast on tagines, snails, fresh orange juice, egg sandwiches; or you can just sit back and watch the world go by.

El Badi Palace

As in most places in Morocco, hashish seems to abound. Men or boys will approach and sound out your interest in the drug. Sometimes they will follow you around, desperately trying to make a sale.
 
Touts, though not as bad as in Fes, will try to interest you in things you’ve made abundantly clear that you have no interest in.

Bahia Palace

But for all that, it’s still Western: the big hotels, set menus, prices, etc., make it a comfortable for Westerners to vacation.

Bahia Palace

Admittedly, I liked it. At least most of it. One dancing old man with a cowbell-type instrument got right up in my face, clanging away at his bell; then he wanted money. I thought I was the one who should have been asking for money…

It was cheap, at least in European terms. It was picturesque. It was different—the architecture, the food, the people. It was alive.  And it was fun.

I’m sure there is more to be said—about the jostling crowds, the donkeys, the noise, the smells (good and bad), the people—but at present, I don’t have the heart to say it. I’d rather just go back.


Fes—City of Touts

Fes, Morocco.

My time in Fes was both fascinating and wearisome. I arrived from Tangier on a CTM bus. The CTM station is well outside the Medina, but I knew that going in and opted to travel via CTM anyway (looking back, I consider that a mistake). I hailed a taxi and headed to my hotel. The driver quoted a price of 15 DH, but when we arrived, the meter had a higher sum, so I paid 20 DH. (Returning to the same point when I left Fez, cost me, according to the meter, 12 DH, so there was somewhat of a discrepancy there.)

Street in the medina.

Arriving, I was met with the usual array of hustlers, or touts, who wanted me to eat at their restaurant or stay at their hotel—though nothing compared with what you can experience in Jordan. I found my place (Hotel Cascades), a run down, old place, but cheap (60 DH, about $7.20, per night for a private room with shower and wifi included).

The first night the showers had hot water, but the second night they didn’t. The toilets were unprepossessing—one lacked a seat—and you were expected to provide your own paper. Probably standard for the type of lodging I was in though; however, I could never get past the idea that there might be bed bugs, somewhat detracting from my relaxation and enjoyment. Ah well, it just made it seem like I was in NYC.

Old city walls.

Once settled into my room, I essayed out into the old city to explore. Before going far, some boy (a teenager) latched himself to me, trying to get me to visit this place or that place. I turned him down repeatedly. Eventually he disappeared. It was a relief, but short lived, because, he reappeared in a few minutes and told me that I needed to visit these places because tomorrow they’d all be closed due to a holiday proclaimed by the king. I parleyed that I wasn’t interested in seeing anything that night, and eventually he took the hint and disappeared again.

Continuing to wander, I meandered into the district of another tout. This one posed as a friendly Moroccan who just wanted to be friendly. Once again, he walked with me until I left his area, trying to convince me to visit his “uncle’s” coffee shop, etc.  Having forgotten the guy’s name, I asked him to remind me of it. There upon he told me a completely new name, so I figured it was a no-brainer to turn down his pressing requests to stop by his place for a cup of tea…



Gate into the medina.

The next morning was better—at first—but then I ran into a guy who pretended to be in Fez for medical care, but who somehow seemed to know people about the town… He tagged after me until I decided that if I was going to be shadowed, I’d use my shadow to teach me Arabic. He disappeared quickly after that. 

Everywhere I went, I ran into people wanting to sell me hashish. Apparently there is quite a market in hashish in Morocco and they assume tourists are there for the hashish.

Continuing to wander around, I visited the old city walls. On top of a hill, it was my favorite spot in the city, because you could look down on the city and the surrounding countryside. The city wasn’t much to look at, but the surrounding hills were speckled with olive trees and presented a wholesome, fresh landscape after the narrow and dirty streets of the medina. Coming back down, I opted to go wandering through the park by the king’s palace. It was nice, but not terribly impressive. While there, I ran into (or should I say he latched himself onto me) a guy who claimed to be a university student. He seemed to delight in throwing platitudes and American slang in my direction, so I tried to be friendly on the odd chance that he really was the man he said he was and not just another tout. I made it clear that I couldn’t buy anything just in case, and then we wandered into what he called the Jewish city, back and forth, in a very uncertain direction—at least for me, he said we were going to a weaving factory owned by his “grandfather”.  His other “grandfather” ran, he said, a safari business for Sahara tours. He wanted to take me to the synagogue, but I was uninterested.

The Blue Gate.

Arriving at his destination (the weaving factory), the place was locked up, but he managed to hunt up a key. I declined interest in entering, preferring to wander the streets, but he insisted, berating me for not trusting his friendly intentions and fearing for my life, so I went in. We passed through several rooms and corridors and eventually came to an enclosed open-air garden. Making a grand flourish, the guy invited me to take a picture. I was nonplussed. There was nothing worth taking a picture of, at least not without a bit of effort, so I declined. Slightly disappointed, he led me to the next room where cloth was stacked around the edges and at the far end stood a small table littered with pictures. In we went. He insisted that I look at the ancient pictures from previous camel safaris into the desert. Feeling isolated and cut off, I feigned interest, to keep alive his hope of extorting money out of me. He offered me a two day trip for the bargain price, “since I looked like a poor man”, of 2000 DH ($250ish). I equivocated and started moving to the door. Placing himself between me and the door, he insisted on showing me some of the cloth. I admired it, but declined, and worked my way free, moving to the exit.

Achieving the street, I tried to politely decline the safari. The poor guy wasn’t pleased. I hadn’t bought anything, as I had warned him, but forgetting that he had two “grandfathers” with well-established businesses, he became poor and wanted money for food. Upon my lack of interest in feeing him, he suddenly had a wife and daughter and asked if I was a Jew. It was all fairly interesting, but eventually he left me alone.

I liked Fes and, in general, I liked the people—largely friendly and helpful, offering me rides and advice when they thought I was getting out my depth—but the touts soured my experience. But then, maybe they are the experience. 

Additional photos from Fes

Kite Surfing

Never tried this before, but I'm pretty sure I need to try it before I grow too old. On my way through Tarifa, Spain, I saw hundred of people out kite surfing. It looks like a blast. The skies were full of kites and I kept thinking they'd tangle their kites together, but it didn't happen. No crashes like these either...

 

I guess Tarifa is one of the best places in Europe for kite surfing due to the winds coming in off the Atlantic. 

Rhossili Bay

I had the opportunity to visit Rhossili Bay while I was in Wales. It’s a beautiful place: tall green hills stretch along the coast, dropping sharply to a wide sandy beach that sweeps along the coast and fades into the surf. At the northern end of the bay, a massive rock outcropping protrudes above the water, a verdant island in the chopping surf. 

On the southern end abrupt cliffs abruptly rise above the pounding waves. Out past these cliffs is Worms Head: a string of rocks reaching far out into the sea. At low tide, you can hike out to the end.

Flowering gorse splotched the entire scene with brilliant patches of yellow against a backdrop of grass, sand, sky, and water.
The day I was there was overcast, but warm, at least for Britain. The wind whipped about in a manner fit for the rugged scene: I read it was a great place for kites, and I believe it.

Everywhere you went there was evidence of the wild ponies and sheep that inhabit the region (the pony population is evidently a bit of a problem). And the sheep: well, they grazed and frolicked, jumping and kicking their heels on the cliff edges in a way that… well, I wouldn’t last very long if I tried those gambles… But they keep the grass clipped at a perfect height: in fact I’m thinking I’ll get a couple instead of a lawnmower.

Britisher Talk

There is something so bizarre, yet classy about the way the Britishers talk. It’s almost as if they consider everything they think as oracle to enlighten the earth, so they just spew it forth, calling it out as they see it.

On a bus ride back from Rhossili Bay to Swansea, a couple British students (university, I’d say) were discussing New York. Loudly, I might add, so there was no way not to overhear them.

The one chap was going to New York to visit his sister. The other chap had spent two weeks in New York. Naturally, they were discussion New York.

The chap who had visited the city still sounded somewhat awed by it: “I wanted to get out of the city, visit Cape Cod, but I couldn’t, it [the city of New York] was too big.” “The only way to get out was to fly” “It never stops, the lines run all night long, nothing closes.”

But then again:

“The whole city smells, but it’s America, the fringe of civilization.”

They also talked about how their some something unique to Britain about evening sunlight… I didn’t really get it.

Or take another bus ride: This time, the protagonists were two pensioner ladies in their sixties.

“My bloody brother, and his bloody wife, and their bloody kids.”

The poor lady was pouring out the baleful tale of her sorrows, the drama of her life, to her companion. It seemed to me that she had more drama, more excitement, in her life as a British pensioner than I can whip up no matter where I travel or what I do. She had stories, tales, pivotal moments, but I had none, nothing, zilch. 

Or consider Cardiff:

Cardiff appears to be a bit of a party town: I saw more ‘hen-party’ groups there in one evening than I have seen anywhere else the entire rest of my life. These women, dressed to kill (so it appeared), in the most outlandish and ugly costumes imaginable (the get-ups would have been at home at a fashion revue, they were so bad), ran around town pretending to have wild and ridiculous parties. I must admit, I found it amusing when one after another hauled down her colors, pulled off her high heels, and walked barefoot along the streets.

Or the guys who paused in the middle of a street to wrestle…

Or the guy getting carried off (literally) to the police wagon…

The Brits have some talent when it comes to creating a good hubbub.

One evening I was meandering along one of the bustling pedestrian thorough fares and came up to a man and his wife (assumption) who were also strolling along. Out of nowhere, the guy loudly exclaims to his wife and everyone in the vicinity: “What a handsome man.” The subject of the remark didn’t show any sign of hearing him, so he raised his voice more and, addressing the poor guy, declared: “You’re a handsome man.” I think the subject was a bit bewildered. He mumbled something and disappeared. Less than a minute later, the same guy sings out: “I like your frock.” Sadly I didn’t see the reaction he caused, because our paths parted. No doubt, however, if I’d have followed him, he’d have ripped out some other, equaling unexpected and amusing compliments to other random passers-by.

But then again, maybe those same things are said everywhere else, but I just can't understand them...

Downside of hostels

Hostels can be great places and sometimes a great deal--I once had an entire flat to myself in downtown Belgrade for 10 Euros--but when people are talking and drinking in your room past 2:00 AM, it's a bit questionable...

And then you wake up the next morning and the whole room reeks...

Wales

Wales is a terrific place. While I was glad to leave Bath, there were a lot of places I still wanted to visit in Wales when I had to leave.

Below is a link to a few of the random pictures I took there. Nothing grand or amazing, but a right pleasant place.

Picture from Wales

Random fact: Some guy just asked if he could open the window, because "it is starting to smell like weed in here." Maybe my choice of lodging is a bit poor. I think I might go for a stroll. Spain is something else.