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.

Narrative of Britain

Norman Keep in Cardiff Castle

I find a good book drastically enhances travel: While in Wales, I perused Winston Churchill’s Birth of Britain, a study well suited to the Welsh Marches and their important role in creating and defining British politics and society.

Sometimes it is hard to connect with the long-forgotten dead: their passions, their joys, their hatreds. It is all so foreign, so distant, so gone… gone beyond memory or reclaim.

Parents of Henry VII (Cardiff Castle)

Churchill, however, in his history, took the individual narratives of the places I visited and wove them into the fabric of British history, fixing people and places into the British narrative, and almost, as it were, making them come alive again.

Aside: One thing in particular stood out. Churchill quotes an English historian who, noting that far more criminals were hanged every year in England than in France, argued that it demonstrated the guts and courage of the English, because they were brave enough to steal unlike the French. 

British Bath

The Brits seem inordinately fond of by-hand car washes. It seems like everywhere I go (in Bath), I run into one.  And I have yet to see an automatic car wash. (Perhaps there is a business opportunity here…)

Cemetery in Bath, England.

That aside, Bath seems like a decent little city. I found the architecture rather bland, but on whole, it is pleasing. It rather reminds me of Vienna—rows and rows of massive townhouses interrupted here and there by sharp neo-Gothic steeples protruding through the mass of buildings.

And like Vienna, Bath projects an air of higher culture—the type that kills true cultural development—the myopic attention to the norms and conventions of another age, an age long gone.

But then maybe that was just tourist Bath—the Bath that makes its money through the past. And Bath’s past is worth a bit.

Bath, England.

Founded by the Romans two-thousand years ago, Bath quickly grew into an international resort town (they even had them back in those days) due to its natural hot spring waters (approximately one million liters of hot water daily). People flocked there from all over the empire, seeking healing in the temple-bath of Solis Minerva. After the disintegration of Roman Briton, the area declined, but rose to new heights as a British health and vacation resort during the 18^th and 19^th centuries. It was during this time that Bath received its distinctive Georgian look—massive connecting townhouses built in the Georgian, neo-classical style, including, most famously, the Royal Crescent and the Circus.

I came; I saw; I was not amazed. But then I wasn’t seeking a Jane Austin moment… or even a window into her world.

The bath complex was well-preserved and educational, but I would live even if I knew I was never to see it again. My pet peeve against it is that it utilized horrible actors/actresses for its multimedia presentations… Not really a big deal. The bigger issue was that, to my taste, Bath was overly touristy and expensive… and the cityscape just wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. Shucks, I didn’t even bother to take a picture of the Royal Crescent. (My reaction: They make so much fuss about this place? I must be missing something.)

Not surprisingly, due to my impressions on my first day in Bath, I dropped my original sightseeing plans for the second day (Stonehenge, Old Sarum, and Salisbury) and headed for the hills, meandering through meadows and woodlands on lightly marked foot paths. Sheesh. Now that was more like it. But minus the castles, the old stone bridges, the sheep, etc., I could have done that at home… 

See link for pictures:
Pictures from Bath