Musings on Morocco

To me, Morocco seems like an interesting hybrid of a place, so I thought I would share some of my thoughts and impressions from my brief stay there last month.  Though, it's a very conservative culture, it is after all a place where you can watch "Gossip Girl" if you get Dubai One on your cable TV system.

Before arriving in Morocco, I had heard from multiple people, including firsthand accounts from friends who had recently been there, that it was not a great place for a woman to travel alone.  I guess the main issue is the possibility of being harassed or worse, if a woman is seen traveling around without a male companion.  When I first arrived in Tangier, the American student I shared a cab with said that the coordinators of her program had explained it as follows: Moroccans don’t really have a bar or club scene where they can go out to meet women so they try their luck with anyone they see passing by on the street.  The student even said that it was sometimes nice to get catcalls on days when she hadn’t made any effort with her appearance.  She also said that if a guy actually touched a woman, even harmlessly, and the woman put up a fuss that the guy would then be publicly shamed for his actions by those around him.

As a general rule, I think what she said was true.  People, especially men, tried to talk to me and sell me things, but I didn’t feel their behavior was any more obnoxious than what I’ve experienced anywhere else that I’ve been.  I certainly never felt physically threatened.  If the guy in Casablanca had been following me late at night, I might have felt more nervous, but since it was during the day and there were thousands of people around I knew he couldn’t get away with anything.  I also could have easily walked into a shop or cafe if I absolutely had to.  If anything, the stares that I got as a single American woman in India were far more unnerving than anything I experienced in Morocco.

I was also a bit surprised by how westernized some parts of the country are.  I think I was expecting the Arabian Nights and what I got was a 21st century version of that.  There are obviously still the medinas and other old neighborhoods, but it almost seems like those have been preserved partially to keep the tourism industry alive.  Other parts of the cities are filled with new construction, European-style cafes and even large apartment and housing developments that seem to be popping up all over the place.  The infrastructure, including the train system, is in better shape than anything I saw in India or even Jordan.  Plus, wireless Internet access is fast and readily accessible.  Perhaps part of this westernization comes from being so close to Spain and the rest of Europe, but it honestly wasn’t at all what I expected.

That said, it is evident that poverty is still rife in Morocco.  This was especially clear when traveling by train through small villages where people wearing rags were living in shacks and garbage was piled up along the tracks.  I also for the first time had this strange sense of guilt as I walked back to my hostel one night and a vendor called out to me in an attempt to make a sale.  I realized that his livelihood depended on him trying to sell me the same exact thing that the shop next door was selling even though I probably didn’t even want what he was selling in the first place.  This has obviously been true pretty much everywhere I’ve been, but it was the first time it really hit me and made me have a bit more empathy and understanding for these overaggressive sales tactics.

Finally, though I know there are still serious issues with gender equality, I didn’t sense that women were treated as second class citizens as much as I expected to.  I actually saw more women out and about in town than I did when I was in Delhi.  Most women still wear the hijab, hopefully by choice, but many also do not.  When I first arrived I thought I might wear a scarf over my own head in order to better blend in, but I honestly did not really feel the need.  In Marrakech, I would say the proportion of local women wearing a head scarf to those not wearing one was about 70 to 30.  In Casablanca, which again seemed a bit more progressive, I would say the proportion was closer to 60 to 40 if not 55 to 45.  Again, if women are covering their heads by choice then I have no objection, but if they are doing so because society says they must, then clearly I welcome greater opportunity for freedom of expression for everyone.

Here's Looking at You, Kid

The movie, Casablanca, was filmed entirely in a Hollywood studio 70 years ago, so I don’t know how much resemblance the scenery ever had to the actual locale.  Still it’s at least cool to say I’ve actually been there (unlike the actors in the film.)  I also get why they call it "Casablanca" as a lot of the casas there were pretty blanca.  My main reasons for going there at all were to catch a flight since it was cheaper to fly from there than Marrakech and to get more pages added to my passport.

I arrived on the train at about 4:00pm and took a cab to my shitty, cheap hotel since I couldn’t find any hostels besides one that appeared to be all booked.  I still had a few hours left of daylight so I figured I would wander around a bit before finding something to eat.  I had a vague notion of trying to find some place close to the water, though I wasn’t sure exactly what that was supposed to look like.  I saw from my phone that the Medina (which is much smaller than the Medina in Marrakech) seemed to border the coastline so I headed first in that direction.  On the way, I walked past the Palais de Justice not far my hotel that anchored a large plaza, which at that time was filled with tons of people enjoying their free Sunday evening.

When I got to the Medina, the streets were even narrower and more crowded than in Marrakech with a million vendors trying to sell their cheap wares.  I just couldn’t deal with all that commotion at the time so I walked right out the opposite gate along the same wall.  I continued to walk toward the water, but then reached a big commercial port area where I wasn’t able to really get any closer to the harbor.  By this point, I was getting pretty hungry so I doubled back toward the direction of my hotel and stopped along the way at a nice pub.  I was a bit surprised because I didn’t know they really had bars in Morocco, except at the big westernized hotels.  I guess Casablanca, which seems a bit more “cosmopolitan” (in North African terms) than Marrakech, has a bit of a more relaxed attitude toward alcohol consumption.  The place definitely seemed to be trying to go for a chic vibe as the walls were decorated with large photo murals of New York City (or if not NYC, specifically, then at least “Generic Big City.”)  In any case, I enjoyed the fact that I was able to order a beer with dinner.  It was also an added bonus that the restaurant had wifi because my cheap-o hotel certainly didn’t!  I made a note of where the place was in case I wanted to come back the next day to use more of their “free” Internet.

In the morning, I set off on what was essentially to become “Quest for the Consulate” Day.  I had made a note of where the American Consulate was located and so I headed out down Boulevard de Paris convinced by my memory that this was the right road.  I knew the address was Number 8 so I watched as the numbers went down, figuring I was still headed the right direction.  However, soon the numbers started going back up and I reached a fork in the road where I had no idea which way to turn.  I walked back down from where I had come and when I got the spot where the building was supposed to be, all that was there was a seemingly abandoned warehouse.  I figured this couldn’t possibly be the consulate and even if it was I would have assumed I would see an American flag or two flying.  Luckily I had my computer with me, so I pulled it out on a bench alongside the busy road and discovered that in fact the consulate was located on Boulevard Moulay Youssef not Boulevard de Paris.

Fortunately the street I needed ran parallel to the one I was on so I only had to walk down one side street to reach it.  A quick survey seemed to indicate that the numbers would go up if I went to the left so I made the decision to go to the right.  For a while I seemed to be heading the right way and I passed a few nice cafes where I thought it might be nice to stop for lunch once I had finished my errand.  Then all of a sudden the numbers, which had been in the double digits, jumped up to triple digits.  I was highly confused, but could see the end of the street in sight so I figured I would at least try to walk all the way down to make sure I didn’t miss it, before turning back around.

When I got to the end of the road, I saw that I had reached a rocky beach where a large mosque with a tall minaret jutted out over the sea.  I didn’t want to waste time going over to the mosque so I ordered a fresh-squeezed orange juice from a local stand since all the walking had made me thirsty and then went to the edge of the jetty to take a few pictures.  While I was standing there, a Moroccan guy on a motorbike got my attention and seemed to want me to take a photo of him... or at least that was how I interpreted it.  I felt like it was completely rude to refuse, but in retrospect I probably should have.  I think he was just looking for an excuse to talk to me.  I took the photo and then said I had rush off to go bring my passport to the consulate.  I started to walk away, but he kept insisting he would drive me.  I continued walking and every time I would think that I had lost the guy, he would pull up to me again.  I even crossed over to the other side of the street, figuring he would then be against traffic, but he just got off his bike and started walking it behind me.  I finally had to resort to just completely ignoring him.  His last ditch effort before he finally gave up and rode away was “I love America.  President Obama is good” (or something along those lines), as if praising my country would ultimately win me over.

Once I finally lost my stalker, I made it back to where I turned onto Moulay Youssef and continued straight instead of going left.  To my relief, I noticed that the numbers were going down and I was approaching a nice neighborhood where it would make sense for there to be a foreign consulate.  I think that when I had initially entered Moulay Youssef, the street I was checking the numbers on was actually a parallel street bordering a square along Moulay Youssef--thus the confusion with the direction.  After heading the right way for a few blocks, I saw that the road ahead of me was blocked and heavily fortified with barricades indicating that I had made it to the right place.  The presence of an American flag confirmed this for me.

I walked up to the Moroccan guard standing at an opening in the fence, showed him my US passport and figured that I would be ushered right in.  Then he asked if I had an appointment.  Of course I did not.  The guy took pity on me and let me go in to talk to the person at the entrance.  That guy also asked if I had an appointment (I did not), but when I told him I just wanted to add extra pages to my passport, he said that they were closed for lunch and I could come back at 1:00pm. I went out the exit and walked over to a nearby cafe where I ate lunch and used the Internet. 

Shortly after 1:00pm, I went back to the consulate entrance and joined a short line to speak to the “gatekeeper” at the window of a small kiosk.  When I got to the front he asked if I had an appointment (nope), but when I pleaded my case saying that I was flying out in the morning (true) and didn’t know if I had enough pages left for my next destination (not entirely true), he took pity on me and let me go through.  His exact words were, “I may get in trouble for this, but you can go in.”   Woo hoo!  Success!  This was the closest I had come to setting foot on US soil in nearly eight months.  I had to pass through a metal detector and put my bag through an x-ray machine, but finally got up to the consulate services window where I paid a bunch of money and then handed them over my passport for them to add the pages while I hung around for about an hour.

While I was waited, I spoke briefly with another American woman who was at the consulate to get a replacement passport after hers had been stolen.  She was wearing the hijab headscarf and a long skirt down to her feet, but she appeared to be white rather than Middle Eastern.  She told me she was   originally from Texas, had been in Morocco three times and now was getting married there (I assume to a Moroccan man.)  I felt it was a bit rude and presumptuous to ask her, but I assume she had converted to Islam in order to get married.  It still seemed very interesting to me that she made the choice to wear the headscarf since I saw many Moroccan women, especially in Casablanca, who went with their heads uncovered.  I suppose it was her decision, but perhaps she is marrying into a very traditional family.  Though I don’t know how traditional they can be if they would allow their son to marry an American!

A little more than an hour later, my passport was ready with 25 brand new pages for me to fill with new places to visit.  It was basically like getting a whole new passport, which may be why it costs so much.  I still had some things I wanted to do on my computer so I went back to the cafe where I had eaten lunch and camped out there for a few hours until dinnertime when I ordered yet more food.  The waitress must have thought that I was crazy.  It eventually started getting dark so I packed up my things and made the short walk back to my hotel before it got too late.

The next morning, I wanted to take a quick walk around before heading to the airport.  I walked back to the Medina, but since it was so early in the morning the shopkeepers were just starting to open up for the day.  It was nice that it was quiet, but since nearly everything was still shut it was also a bit boring.  When I got back to the hotel, I grabbed my bags, hopped in a cab and took off for the train station.  I was a bit worried that I was cutting it close on time, but luckily I made it to my train, which ended up being late in any case.  Thankfully, even though the train left late it arrived at the airport nearly on time so I had plenty of leeway to catch my flight.

The Rest of Marrakech

One of the great things about Morocco as far as North African countries go, is that the second language there is French.  This may not seem that exciting since I don’t actually speak French, but I do know a little bit and French is sure a heck of a lot easier to understand than Arabic.  It’s actually written in the Roman alphabet!  Plus, there are also quite a lot of people in Morocco who speak English as well, at least in the tourism industry.

On my second full day in Marrakech, I finally got the chance to see the insides of some places, including two of the old palaces and the Museum of Marrakech.  The first palace I went into was the El-Badi Palace, which I had not been able to find the entrance to the day before.  This was an older building constructed at the end of the 16th century so much of it was in ruins.  It was built by the sultan to celebrate the victory over the Portuguese Army in the Battle of the Three Kings.  They seemed to be doing quite a bit of work to try to fix it up so that made it a bit more difficult to get around.

The second palace I went to was the Bahia Palace, which was quite a bit newer having been built in at the end of the 19th century like most of the Arab palaces in Morocco.  The ornate courtyards were filled with trees, flowers and fountains and there were quite a few students there sketching different architectural elements of the building.  Most of the signs were only written in Arabic and French so that was fun for me to try to figure out what the heck they said.

After lunch, I walked over to the Museum of Marrakech, which is also located in an old 19th century palace that has been renovated.  Since I had a bit of trouble finding the place as I wound my way through the narrow streets of the old Medina, I let some young kids show me the way.  When we arrived I gave them a very small tip and they seemed rather disappointed, but since I only had large bills otherwise, I just ducked into the museum courtyard before they could put up too much of a fuss.  One whole section of the museum featured mostly contemporary Moroccan art and the rest focused on traditional handicrafts and artifacts, such as jewelry, pottery, fabrics and weapons. 

I had purchased a three attraction pass at the museum so after browsing through the exhibits and having a cup of tea, I walked right next door to the Qoubba Almoravide.  The Quobba is a kiosk featuring a cupola decorated with interlaced stucco work built in the 12th century.  The site was pretty small so it didn’t take me that long to walk through it before I headed over to the Madersa Ben Yousseff just down the street.  I had just about half an hour before it closed so I went first into open courtyard with its long reflecting pool and then climbed the stairs and walked down the long corriders lined with small rooms used by students for studying.  The Madersa is the largest Koranic school in the Maghreb, but I don’t believe it is still in use.  It was dinnertime by the time I left so I stopped at a small local place to eat before heading back to my hostel for the night.

On Friday, I had a mission to replenish my supply of US dollars because I knew I would need them down the road when applying for visas in various countries.  My plan was to cash a few traveler’s checks that were issued in US currency, which I didn’t think would be too big of a challenge.  I started out by going to all the banks near Jemaa El-Fna Square, but none of them would take the checks.  They all told me that I instead had to go to the hotel at the end of the street.  I had no idea which hotel they were referring to so after trying a few different spots as well as a few more banks, I finally found the right place.  I explained to the guy that I needed dollars, but he said that he would first have to change the currency into Moroccan dirham and then change them back into dollars.  I told him that was fine since I didn’t have any other choice, but I ended up losing 30 bucks in the process.  Talk about frustrating!

By the time I had dealt with my money exchange, I was ready for lunch so I went to a place near the square and then walked over to the Dar Si-Said Museum.  I only had about 45 minutes to walk around before it closed, but luckily it wasn’t too large so I was able to get through the whole thing.  It is housed in a building constructed in the same architectural style as the Bahia Palace with a nice garden courtyard in the middle.  Like the Museum of Marrakech it displays traditional Moroccan carpets, pottery, weapons and jewelry, though from an earlier period of time.

Once I left the museum, I planned to head to the Garden of L’Agdal, which borders the Dar el-Makhzen Royal Palace, since my map indicated that it was open on Friday afternoons.  When I got close to the palace (where I made sure not to take any photos) I saw some cars and motorbikes going through an opening in the gate.  However, that only ended up leading to a road that went through the garden, which was walled off on every side.  I kept walking in the hopes that I would eventually get to a spot where I could go in, but I got to the end of the wall without ever finding an entrance.  I knew it would be getting dark soon so I realized I had to give up my quest.  As I was trying to determine the best way to get back to the Medina, a middle-aged Moroccan man approached and tried to give me directions.  He told me he would show me the way as soon as he had unlocked his bicycle.  I told him it was fine, that I would just walk, and then continued on my way until he caught up to me a minute or two later.  He started walking his bike and I had no choice but to respond perfunctorily to his questioning.  I was afraid he would expect me to give him money even though I clearly did not ask for a guide (letting someone walk beside you as you head in the direction you’re already going can be the equivalent of hiring a guide in Morocco.)  He did ask me if I wanted to come to his house for dinner, but I told him I had an appointment to meet a friend, which wasn’t entirely untrue.  Eventually he sped off on his bike in a different direction saying he also had an appointment to make (so then why did he ask me to dinner??)

I walked back the rest of the way on my own, past the Koutoubia and into Jemaa El-Fna Square.  Shortly after I arrived, Teresa from Austria also returned after spending two days in the coastal town of Essourias with some German travelers who had also stayed in our hostel.  We ended up eating dinner together on the rooftop balcony of one of the restaurants lining the square.  We hit a bit of a language barrier when Teresa and I both thought they were trying to tell us they wouldn’t have any food until the following day. Instead they were just saying their menu wasn’t going to be printed until the following day so they couldn’t show us the list of dishes.  After clearing up the confusion we were successful in ordering and eating couscous with chicken, in spite of the missing menu.  On the way back to the hostel we stopped in the square for tea and henna tattoos, which we probably seriously overpaid for (the tattoos, not the tea) but I’m sure the woman who did them could use the extra money so I suppose it’s okay.

Teresa flew back to Spain on Saturday morning so I was on my own again for my last full day in Marrakech.  She had said really good things about Essourias, as had the other two girls from Austria, so I decided I would try to go there for the day since I had seen most of what I wanted in Marrakech.  I made the somewhat foolish decision that I would walk to the bus station, which was right next to the train station.  It was a good walk, but it took me much, much longer than expected.  More than an hour later I finally arrived only to discover that the next bus after the 11:30am bus I had already missed, wasn’t until 3:00pm.  That meant I would be getting to Essourias at 6:00pm just as it was starting to get dark.  I realized there was no point in trying to make the three-hour trip just to turn right around so I had to remain in Marrakech for the day.

I was in a newer, more modern part of town near the Royal Theater so I found a sidewalk cafe across the street from the theater and sat down there for a leisurely lunch.  Since I no longer really had any place to be, I figured I might as well relax and enjoy my day.  After I ate, I walked to the Menara Park, which had been recommended to me by the manager of my hostel.  There’s a large, though rather dirty, reservoir right in the middle where some young Moroccan kids were actually swimming.  I circumnavigated the pool and then found some shade under an olive tree where I lay down and fell asleep for a while.

After resting a bit, I headed back toward the Medina, hoping to make it to the Saadiens Tombs as my last stop of the day.  I knew the general area where the tombs were located near the La Kasbah Mosque.  However, I neglected to notice that they were right next to the mosque and instead thought they were located somewhere deep in the winding maze of the Medina.  In spite of asking multiple people, I got hopelessly lost and couldn’t find the tombs amongst any of the little streets where I thought they were located.  I came back out of the maze and walked to the mosque where I saw a door that was set back a bit with a sign on the front for the tombs.  Of course, by the time I had actually found the right place, the tombs had closed just minutes before.  Since they opened again at 9:00am, I thought I may have time to return the next day before heading to Casablanca, but of course that never ended up happening.

I went back to my hostel and told Ali who was working there that I wanted to go to a hammam bathhouse.  He asked if I wanted a tourist hammam or a local hammam, which he said would be much less expensive.  I opted for the local hammam and he suggested one right outside the riad.  Though I’m really glad that I decided to brave the local place, it was very clearly for Moroccans and not at all for tourists.  There wasn’t really even a steam room, just old cavern-like spaces with tiled floors where the locals filled buckets with hot water from the tap.  I was able to put on a bathing suit bottom, but didn’t wear anything on top.  I found it so interesting that women who are so concerned with staying completely covered up out in public, feel perfectly comfortable just bearing it all amongst each other in a “semi-private” place.  A larger, middle-aged Moroccan woman placed a mat for me to plop down right on the floor and then scrubbed me all over with an abrasive loofah, shampooed my hair and finally rinsed me off with water from the bucket.  There would be entire stretches of time where she would get completely distracted and start chatting away with the other women in the room in Arabic.  It felt a bit odd to have this stranger pulling me in closer to her straddled legs so she could more easily scrub away at me, but I know she didn’t mean anything by it.   It was definitely an experience that I won’t soon forget.

On my way out of the baths and back to the hostel, I stopped at the local food stand where I ordered another delicious liver-and-brains ground beef sandwich to have for a late dinner.  The next morning, I was so busy trying to send e-mails and arrange a hotel in Casablanca that I didn’t make it to the tombs before I had to catch an 11:00am train.  I did have it together enough that I was able to take a public bus to the station instead of having to flag down a cab.  On that note, I bid farewell to Marrakech and set off toward Casablanca.