Finding things in Morocco is always a challenge. But there are always people around to help. While trying to find the Saadian Tombs in Marrakesh, we were helped by two people. Unfortunately, they always want something from you.

The Saadian Tombs are the resting place of the Sherif, the Descendants of the Prophet Mohamed. The tombs occupy a small courtyard just outside the heart of the Marrakesh Medina. The tombs were more or less lost for years until the French General Hubert Lyautey noticed them on an aerial photograph and decided to open a passageway.

Unlike the catacombs of Paris or Venice, these tombs were hidden just by walling them off from the city. Still exposed to the sky, the tombs were effectively hidden in the clusterfuck that is Moroccan city planning until the French started surveying and mapping in 1917.

Though it’s a short walk from the Medina, like usual, following the map in the Lonely Planet Morocco book was challenging. A nice young kid helped us in the right direction, by way of his uncle’s store (Berber lipstick, Berber toothpick, alum, etc…). Then we found a big sign stenciled high on a building pointing the way. In Morocco, nothing is obvious. You can’t just head out and expect that the way to a popular tourist spot will be even remotely obvious.

It was a Mines or Moria like passageway through a dense cluster of buildings. The lack of crowds made that a little creepy. Some kids “guided” us through it. Making a big deal of every turn saying how we would get lost on our own. Following the pattern, they pressed us for money just before reaching the other side. They don’t want to get caught bilking tourists, so they drop off as you get to official places.

As I remember, the admission was DH30, not DH10 as the book says. To enter the tombs, you go through a narrow adobe passageway that winds between the superstructures of the adjacent buildings. It was cool, but claustrophobic with the 50 people all pushing through together.

Once in the small courtyard, there are several structures where the Sherif are buried as well as many small graves throughout the courtyard with ornate monuments. The architecture is really cool. Though it is largely in disrepair.

We also saw this cat.

Definitely check this out if you visit Marrakesh. It’s worth an hour or two of your time, but don’t expect to stay very long.

To get to the Saadian Tombs Or Tombeaux Saadiens, head south by south east from Jemaa el-Fna on Rue Bab Agnaou towards Bab Agnau and the Kasbah Sidi Mansour. The tombs are located next to the Kasbah Mosque. Do if you get lost, the last thing you want to do is head towards a mosque. There is a mosque on every corner.

More Photos of Marrakesh here and here.

-M

Initially there is confusion as to what is covered in the price. Food is covered, but not water. A place to sleep the night after the camel trek, a hot shower, lunch after, the ride out to the Kasbah. It’s unclear. Nordeen keeps turning the napkin around and around on the table. The napkin on which he has drawn the Kasbah, the Erg Chebbi dunes, the black desert, the Algerian border. It’s a treasure map, and the four of us, the tourists, keep looking at it. Mystified.

We sit around the table, Danielle and I, Thiago and Nelma, negotiating with Nordeen and Mustafa for our camel trek. We are sipping tea and waiting for the “transport,” and languages cross the table like transoceanic travelers. Nordeen and Mustafa speak Spanish, English, Arabic and Berber. Nelma and Thiago speak Spanish, Portugese and English. We, as any good Americans, speak English and understand the gist of the Spanish for the most part and laugh when the French say oui.

The Moroccans lapse between them as they talk to us, the Brazillians, and each other. Each team uses language to communicate or obfuscate. Berber when Nordeen and Mustafa want to confer, Portugese for Thiago and Nelma. When Danielle and I want to talk and not be understood we speak quickly with slang and colloquial phrasings.

“These dudes seem legit they’re just bungling the deal.”

“WTF, I don’t know. They’re shifty. We should bail.”

It is amazing how easy it is to shift back and forth, talking like you would speak to a kindergartener to be understood, and like someone from a David Mammet movie when you don’t. The coolest thing I learned in Morocco is that language isn’t the most important part of communication

We’re just waiting for the transport.

Mustafa had said before we got off the bus, that they have “transport” for 7, including Nordeen’s Sweedish girlfriend. “A Toyota,” he said. I had only seen Toyota flatbed trucks and landcruisers. So I figured we were cool. They had a landcruiser; might be tight for 7 and luggage, but should be fine.

The negotiations were stalling. We got the price to something I thought was reasonable, but Danielle wasn’t happy with it. She was still a little skittish about them and freaked out since we were in a town that wasn’t on our map with no bus, train or steady flow of taxis.

“OK,” I said, “all we really need is the transport then, when is that getting here?” I figured we could stop off in Risani, where we were going to get cash from the ATM, and we could ditch them there if necessary.

“The car is here,” says Nordeen subtly motioning to the street in front of the café where there was a dry and dying bush, a dog lying in the dirt, the lonely highway and an endless desert backed by late afternoon light. In front of all that, like an enchanted jewel we’d just become aware of, was a shiny, new, bright looking Citroen C3 that had, in fact, been sitting there the whole time.

I looked back again. Morocco is generally a tight and crowded country filled with a rich texture of sights, I rose slightly in the rickety chair. Thiago, Nelma and Danielle looked at me and back at the Citroen. “What,” I said, “behind the Citroen?”

Nordeen and Mustafa looked at each other, not understanding the sarcasm. “Yeah,” said Nordeen, “That is the car.” Mustafa nodded with a confident swagger of an African Camel Man who is used to clown-car style transportation.

“Seriously?” I said? “THAT is transport for 7? You said you had a Toyota!” I was exclaiming, but more laughing than mad. These guys played it pretty tight up to that point with the Black Desert this and Algerian Border that and Traditional Cous Cous Hand Made by Real Berber Nomads, but this was a rookie move.

Mustafa turned to look at the car. “That is not Toyota?”

“No,” said Nordeen. “Citroen.”

Mustafa looked back at me about to apologize…

“Dudes,” I said, giving my best buddy-from-America wry smile and half wink, “how many seats does it have?”

Though the napkin is still there, showing the way to the desert in mystical cartoon, and dust is blowing off the wide open landscape of Eastern Morocco, we suddenly feel very far from the dunes; far from the camels, the Kasbahs and the Berber oases that sit like a prize at their foot.

They faltered, and finally broke. Their plan hit a wall. While Nordeen and Mustafa sorted their shit out in Berber, I sat back, letting my Morroccan Whiskey go cold in the cup, and in as speedy English as the Brazilians could handle the four of us began talking through plan B’s.

In reality, it’s not that hard. Chances are, one will find you. We found one as far from the desert as Essaouira when we were wandering through the souks. Moroccans are excellent salesmen and will chat you up and find out where you’ve been and where you’re going, and they all have a cousin who runs camel treks in the Sahara.

The number one rule for making purchases in Morocco is that there is no set price for anything except bus rides.

In the Erg Chebbi area near Merzuga, there is no real centralized town. South of Rissani the paved road ends and breaks up into countless roadlets that locals and tourguides use to get out to any number of distributed outposts called Kasbahs. Each Kasbah is different, some are big fancy castles, some are mud houses. The one we went to was a small house with a small guest house inside a courtyard enclosed in 1 acre adobe wall.

You can stay for any number of nights there at the Kasbah and explore the large seasonal lake, Dayet Srji, by foot. You can also rent a 4×4 and drive around wherever you want. When the camel treks leave, they go out into the dunes to a number of camps composed of several Berber tents with bedrolls on the sand. They are quite comfortable and really cool to hang out in.

Negotiating

When the locals want you to trust them they say, “Look in Lonely Planet. I am in there!” Then 15 minutes later when you tell them what Lonely Planet says is a reasonable price for a camel trek they’ll ask you what edition you have, and claim that their information is out of date. Regardless, the book is a distraction. The camel trek is worth what you are willing to pay and what they are willing to accept.

The tricky part is that there isn’t a souk for camel treks. You have to either go out there and talk to them or hook up with one on the way. If you go out there, the transport for you to shop around could cost hundreds of Dirhams and take hours. In the cities, you really don’t have an idea yet of where you’re going and what’s involved in getting there and they make it seem more involved than it really is.

The first price they quote will be from 40 to 60% higher than what they’re willing to accept. But realize what you are getting into. Here’s a breakdown of the things involved in a camel trek:

Lodging in Kasbah: These range from rundown shacks with tepid weak showers to full on luxury. That would cost 120 to 300 DH in a city, except that the tents in the desert have no water, and no maids.

Food: Tagine for dinner. Bread and jam for breakfast. Would cost you 120 and 50 DH, respectively, in a city.

Camel trek: Keep in mind that CAMELS DON’T DRINK FOR SEVERAL WEEKS AT A TIME. So when they tell you they have to buy camel feed (THEY EAT NATIVE GRASSES) laugh at them, cause they’re laughing at you.

Guides: We had a single guide for our 2 night trip with 4 guests. I would be SHOCKED if he made more than 50 DH per day. He was a local of the area who lived in the Kasbah, or with family in local non-permanent lodging. He said he had never been out of the country (though he spoke 5 languages) and only went as far as Fes once and never wanted to go again. He had heard of Jmaa el-Fna and wanted to hear our stories.

Transport: Probably the biggest cost for them. You can get there in a car, but the roads are rough and larger groups with baggage would make car passage tough in wet times.

Erg Chebi outfitters

We ended up going with Kasbah Bivouac Lahamada. Our guide was Hadesh, a local who was a really great guide. He was funny and nice and cool. They have a Kasbah with camping and a number of rooms. They said they had hot showers, but we didn’t find them. We did find a spigot with tepid rusty water. The food was decent and the price was reasonable. I won’t tell you what we paid. Aside from being a douchey thing to do, I wouldn’t want to spoil the negotiations for you…
GSM: 03.61.40.98.16
Hamada_tour@yahoo.fr
www.kasbahbivouaclahamada.com

After our trip we had a few hours to kill in Rissani before the bus left. We ate lunch at the Café Panorama and visited for a while with the sons of the owner. Hassan Hafidi works in the café and also runs transport for the treks. He is an honest, smart and nice kid, and I can definitely recommend him and his brothers. If you get as far as Rissani and still don’t have something set up, try the Panorama.
GSM: 06.66.35.18.36
Panoramahotel2000@hotmail.com

-M

Read more about our trip to Morocco

Our trip to Morocco required the use of many more different transportation modes than we usually enjoy. Here are the totals:

• Plane: 4
• Bus: 8
• Train: 5
• Petit Taxt: 10
• Camel: 4
• Grand Taxi: 3
• Land Rover: 1
• Galloper: 1
• Metro: 13

When Mohamed VI became king of morocco he was keen on improving things for his people. In order to improve the economic outlook, he took an active role in providing safe reliable transportation systems in Morocco for locals and tourists. The Moroccan government has made tourism in Morocco a high priority and as a result the country is very safe and easy to get around in.

Here is a run down of the modes of transportation in Morocco, all notably friendly and easy to secure for non Arabic speaking foreigners. NOTE: that doesn’t mean you won’t get ripped off, they’re just really nice and non-threatening about it.

Trains of Morocco

AKA: ONCF

The only train line is operated by ONCF, a state owned rail service that runs freight and passenger lines that hit all the imperial cities of Morocco.

The trains are pretty nice for the most part, though they aren’t labeled and figuring out which one you need to be on is difficult. Fortunately, we found the locals very happy to help.

One gentleman helped us find the right train, then we sat with him and chatted on the way to the airport where he was an air traffic controller. He was having problems with his computer. So I helped him set up Firefox so his outlook web access would work right.

Automobiles of Morocco

AKA: Voiture, Grand Taxi, Petit Taxi

In Morocco there are a couple kinds of passenger cars and taxis. Most common is the sub-compact car. From a number of manufactures, most commonly, Citroen, Peugeot and VW, they are small with 4 doors and a hatch-back. These are the petit taxis and the most common passenger car in most areas.

The other common car in Morocco is the Mercedes 240 sedan, or Grand Taxi. These are a bit more expensive than the petit taxi, but as usual, you can bargain. These are comfortable and a testament to German engineering. Not a one has a working instrument cluster however. Believe it or not, there’s a facebook group for them.

In the desert there are also Toyota Landcruisers, Land Rover Defender 110s, and other similar light 4×4 trucks like the “Galloper.”

Busses

AKA: CTM, Supr@tours, Car
Companies: Supr@tours, CTM, SATAS,

CTM and Supr@tours are legit and should be pretty safe and comfortable, though the seats on one side can be tighter than seats on the other. Most of the buses have an aft door and the seats on the right side seem to be more cramped because of it.

CTM is a government run bus line and they have baggage check, uniformed drivers, and a good relationship with the Gendarme so you never get stopped.

The buses of Morocco are either FAR better than what you are used to in the US, or FAR worse. We rode some REALLY nice Volvo fully automatic buses that were air conditioned, comfortable and clean.

We also rode a few Man coaches that were super sketch. Some of the cheaper bus lines use older buses from the nicer companies and the seats are sketchy, poorly bolted down and are jointly used for passengers and smuggling cheep consumer goods in from Spain.

Moroccans don’t travel much, I’m guessing, because as soon as the bus starts to rock on windy roads the lunch comes up. The nicer buses will provide plastic bags for vomiting and then kindly toss them out the window onto the road for you. The cheaper ones will conveniently allow you to yak on the floor and then clean it up with newspaper.

Buses usually stop at the driver’s cousin-in-law’s roadside restaurant for lunch halfway through the trip. This is hit or miss at best.

Camels and Donkeys

In the Desert the locals use camels for transport. They generally don’t ride them, rather they walk and lead the loaded animals. African camels are actually dromedary, or a one-humped Arabian camel.

Donkeys work along side modern vehicles in every Moroccan city. They use them to carry tools, supplies, cement and water. In Meknes we saw a donkey hauling a load of LCD widescreen TVs!

In the Medinas donkeys are used to haul carts and large saddle packs through the narrow crowded streets that are too small and winding to allow vehicles.

Scooters @ Mopeds

Scooters are everywhere and are loud, noisy and fast. In the tight Medina streets they wiz through the throngs and never hit anyone or run over a toe. They are available for rent in dense tourist areas such as Djemaa el Fna in Marrakesh.

Typically the outdoor seating at a café is flanked by a row of mopeds and scooters and you’ll usually see a Moroccan man or woman come out, hike up his or her jalabie, hop on, start pedaling, rock off the center stand and zoom away.

Bicycles in Morocco

There isn’t anywhere we went in Morocco where we didn’t see bikes. We even saw shops filled with bikes, bike parts, tubes and men repairing bikes. They are generally 1 speed, or converted to 1 speed, or have no derailleur and so are only able to use one speed. Bikes in Morocco are used for transportation, recreation, and cargo.

We saw a total of 10 full on spandex roadies, a handful of Euro bike tourists and 4 genuine Moroccan urban bike hipsters. I shit you not.

See this Flickr set for more photos of Moroccan Transportation.

-M

Nordeen is telling us what we’ll see in the desert which he draws on a napkin at a Tinnerhal café: the dunes, the Berber nomads, the Black Desert, the Algerian border which looks like a demilitarized zone, a defensible space, a silent dry and desolate line of danger and intrigue.

We’re waiting for the car. There are 6 of us. Danielle and me, after 7 hours of a 9 hours bus ride that included 2 mountain passes, and several vomiting Moroccans. There is also Thiago and Nelma, the Brazillians who i had already begun referring to in my mind as those who “got us into this mess.” Nordeen and Mustafa, the other two at the table, approached them first about taking a short cut to Merzuga, the place we were eventually heading to make a camel (dromedary) trek into the Sahara dunes of Erg Chebi.

While we wait at the café for Nordeen’s Sweedish girlfriend we are discussing our desert trip on camels we later find out are really dromedary. One day or two? One night or two? The first price he quotes us is high. Too high. And the shiftiness and impatience of him and Mustafa, who is wearing a blue Tuareg wrapped around his head with a tail dangling down his chest puts us off and makes us doubt what they are telling us about the Kasbah, and camels and guides. Nordeen is in modern hipster clothing with necklaces, styled hair and an Adidas shirt. He’d look like a normal kid in any big city except for the yellow leather Moroccan slippers that he and 9 out of ten other men in the country are wearing. They have pointy toes and a hard leather sole and do not match the rest of his outfit.

I remember when Thiago and Nelma got on the bus in Ouarzazatte, which is pronounced wharzaazaat like a strange beast from a Dr. Seuss book. They looked a little flustered and big eyed like I imagined we looked when we got on in Marrakesh. We exchanged brief looks of the fraternity of strangers in a strange land and they took the only empty seats further back in the buss.

Excuse me, they keep saying, excuse me. “We are good people,” they say. “The bus driver; he credit us; he said to you.”

It’s true, at his insistence I asked the bus driver if Nordeen and his friend could be trusted. The bus driver spoke no English or French, though his rotund face, attentiveness and his tight government sanctioned uniform gave him an air of authority, and benevolent uncle-nss that made me want to trust him despite the obscurity of that recommendation. There was no way to translate except for the universal thumbs up, which I asked for with an inquisitive look holding up my thumb. If Nordeen was a movie, he’d have passed the test.

That’s when we got off the bus and sorted through the luggage hold for our bags and pulled them out onto the dusty ground in an alley behind a café. In Morocco any place that sells beverages and has at least one plastic chair is a café, this was more of a quickiemart, but it did have tables.

Nordeen and Mustafa look happy, like they have won, as we unzip the straps for our convertible travel bags and heft them onto our backs. They lead the four of us Nelma and Thiago (who turn out to be very good people) Danielle and me to the corner café as the bus honks once, blows the airbrakes and roars away into the sand.

-M

3rd row from the back of the bus. A Supr@tours from Essaouira to Marrakesh. Rambunctious German kids who didn’t pee before they got on the bus squirm and whine in an annoying mix of German and French. We roll out of town. Moroccan cities are bigger than they seem from the interesting sections. They sprawl a ways with dilapidated old, and shoddily constructed new buildings. Decay is something that begins when things are young.

Getting a live chicken makes a lot of sense. It’s a sack lunch you don’t have to carry.

Even in Morocco, they're both on the phone.

We get to Marrakesh, hop a Petite taxi to the Medina. This is by far the most hectic Taxi Ride of the trip. He’s zooming, and turning and talking and dialing the phone. Pedestrians, and bikes and scooters are everywhere. There are horse carts and donkeys and push carts and gendarme standing in the road. By the time he drops us off at Rue de Bab Agnaou I have gotten the feeling that the bus station was very close to the medina and we just went on a Morrocan buggy ride. We walk into the tight Medina street looking for Hotel Chellah. Got hassled a little, but it wasn’t that bad.

Djemaa el-fna, Marrakesh, Morocco

Can’t figure out if Marrakesh means Ripoff, or “here’s a snake try not to piss yourself!” Our first excursion from the hotel we walked out across the expanse of Djemaa el-fna to take it all in. It was late in the day, and we were tired and cranky from the buss ride.

We walk out to get some orange juice and I’m looking and pointing at three men in robes with some pretty janky looking snakes and wicker baskets. Then I look up and there’s a dude in a pale jelabi coming at me with a snake. They let you hold the snake, or the monkey or whatever, in exchange for a tip. I put my hand out and said NO. He kept coming. Danielle distracted me cause she wanted to hold it, and the bastard took the opportunity to slip the snake over my head. He was lowering it down onto my neck, I uttered some unholy words, pushed him in the chest and swatted the snake, which felt loose, weak and waxy, out of my personal space. He didn’t get a tip.

The next day we wanderd out for a late breakfast @ Cafe Argana in Djemaa el-fna. It was kind of expensive and small, but good enough. It’s hard to find a decent breakfast in Morocco. At least by American standards.

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3253/3594747616_fee5e8839c.jpg

Patagonia Thatcher Shoe

Size: 12
Type: light trail hiker / approach
Bad: light unpadded tongue
Good: lightweight, cool sturdy, cool looking

I picked these up a week or so before the trip at the Sierra Trading Post Reno outlet. They were on sale, and I was in a state of mind that lead me to believe that buying more things would alleviate the stress of the unknown trip ahead of us. I was right.

These shoes are light, sturdy and comfortable. They have a stiff Vibram sole with a dense foam dual density insole and a steel shank. That gives them good traction and keeps small pebbles from poking up to your foot. When walking on rough surfaces all day like hiking and traipsing across Moroccan cities all day, this reduces the fatigue you feel in your feet at the end of the day. Plus they aren’t white tennis shoes so I didn’t look like a gawky American. (in fact US was the last place people usually guessed we were from.)

These shoes are also really light. That is both a good and a bad thing. The upper is thin, and the outside is a burly crdura or something. It breathes well and stands up to abrasion. But it doesn’t offer much protection or padding, so don’t stick your foot in any rapidly closing doors. But they collapse down well for easy packing and they won’t take up much space on the outside of your harness or backpack.

The tongue is also light and thin and that is really the only weak point for this otherwise awesome approach shoe. It is made of the same layers of fabric as the upper and has a ribbing around the perimeter. The problem is that there is no padding or interfacing to add stiffness so that it holds its shape. After a few days the edge of the tongue folded over on mine. You don’t notice it at first, but that little bit of extra pressure builds up over a long day and leaves your whole foot sore.

I was able to take a bit of care when putting them on to keep the tongue from folding and that pretty much solved the problem, but it took some time to figure out and that lead to a couple of really uncomfortable days. The light tongue also prevents you from getting the shoe really good and snug, so you just have to get used to a slightly loose fitting shoe. Not a big deal really.

These shoes did really well in urban and hard surface walking around town and also were great on the long hike we did from Chefchaoeun in the Riff  Mountains near Jebel el-Kelaa. They aren’t super soft like a running shoe, but the stiffness of the sole makes them stable and agile.

I recommend these for light hiking and mountaineering approaches. I wore them a few times in the snow before we left on the trip and they had great traction for such a light trail shoe due to the stiff rubber sole and the deep tread. I wouldn’t use them for backpacking because the upper is not really secure enough, even if you are used to backpacking in a trail shoe. Otherwise, these are great and on super sale all over the web. They’re a few bucks cheeper now @ Sierra Trading Post, so grab some.

-M

Fishing Port

Saw the boats at the fishing port of Essaouira. Took some photos. Blue boats. A moroccan girl in scarves with her mother who’s face was fully covered gawking at Danielle’s streak of red hair shining in the sun.

Many boats unloading, many preparing to depart, many under repair. We saw a small scale sardine market where fishermen unload sardines and sell them by the bag full to what looks like mostly locals buying the fish for home cooked meals or for the restaurants.

I take my camera and go into the crowded, fast paced sardine sale. The sardine sellers are arranging their catch on overturned crates, barrels, and sometimes a newspaper spread right out on the tarmac. They create neat piles, sorting them by some criteria that isn’t obvious. Sometimes in rows, sometimes in piles and in the case of the man who only has a small piece of newspaper, a tenuous dome that threatens to slide into the dirt.

I snap a few photos without looking into the viewfinder. I push my way up close and look over the shoulders of the short, cloaked people. The smell of fish is everywhere and the ground shimmers with the flaked-off scales of the fish. Seagulls squawk overhead and hover, but the crowd of people at the market keep them at bay. Later we had sardine kefta sandwiches in pockets of the ubiquitous Moroccan round bread.

As we walk through the narrow streets of the medina we pass small groups of young men standing on the street corners. As we pass them we hear the words Cannabis, or hashish. Right up in out ears like they were throwing their voices through the din of the seething street traffic.

We stop at a small cafe to eat dinner. They always want you to stay, never to get your food to go. This cafe looked like it didn’t have any seating at all, so I figured we could get a shwarma and keep on walking. They quickly herd us back behind the kitchen and up a tight narrow flight of stairs to the second floor dining room with some short windows that overlooked the street outside. The room was about 6.5 feet high and felt really close and tight and was very uncomfortable until I sat down. Took a few pictures out the window of the street below.

Ave Zerktouni, Essaouira, Morocco

A boy brought a girl through the room up the stairs to the residence that was above the dining room. A few minutes later he came back down for two bottles of warm coca cola.

Learned about spice and incense in the Spice Souk and paid too much for some perfumed wax. Oh well.

Riad Azzouz is very Sedona AZ. Beautifully decorated with a hand tiled and plastered bath. When we got back late that night, the boy at the desk did not speak any English, but we managed to communicate enough to get a map, Plan, and directions to the Supr@Tours depot.

Generally, Moroccans only want to speak to you in English, if that’s your native language. They know the answers to all the usual questions—how much is this?, what is this?, where does this come from—but if you deviate too much from the script, they get lost. Mostly what they know they have learned through repetition, but most of them don’t know much English really.

Lying in bed in the riad with the window open, we can hear the dinging of Yahoo chat messages going up and coming down and the kid at the front desk and his friend whispering and laughing and typing in the dark building.

Breakfast on the terrace of Riad Azzouz. Cafe o lait, L’orange, bread and butter and jam, an omelette. Morning fishing boats bringing in their catch against a stiff onshore wind. Low, thin clouts and a delicate misty rain. Perfect temperature, birds fly by and seem to call the devout, and anyone else within earshot, to prayer.

Riding the bus in Morocco is kind of a weird experience. If you’ve ever experienced buses and trains in the USA, then you’ll understand…

On the road

On the bus to Essaouira. On the whole at least as civilized as Amtrak. More so than greyhound. Bag Check = 5dh. We find that seats are assigned and people take great care to find their right seat. Danielle and I are not seated together, which isn’t clear right away since the numbers above the seats and the numbers on the arm rests are not the same. People seem to understand which is right. Most of the people on the CTM bus from Casablanca to Essaouira are Moroccans. We change seats. The gentleman wearing a MABRA hat seated next to Danielle agrees to change (in French shan jay). Big Window, comfortable seat, modern Volvo coach, many people in jelabi.

Crossing

leaving Casablanca

People, mopeds, cars creep into the street and eventually take over and cross. We stop @ another small bus station and take on 2 passengers and now are treated to some flamboyant Arabic music.

People washing clothes in a broken irrigation pipe in the middle of a freeway interchange on the outskirts of Casablanca.

While the driver gets shockingly close to pedestrians, mopeds, donkeys, cars, busses and other vehicles, he never does anything patently unsafe.

Traffic is frenetic, hectic and impatient on the streets of Casablanca as we head out of town. Honking seems to mean either a) Hold your line cause I’m hauling it right up your ass or b) I’m impatient and I thought you should know. They don’t seem to be warnings or alerts as they are (at least legally) in the US and they aren’t expletive replacements as they really are here.

Moroccan traffic

Traffic moves according to some sub-obvious order, though it is obviously not chaos. A serious patrolman with shiny white gauntlets observes a major intersection from 10m back in the median as mopeds skirt the bus.

Drivers eye the nearly hidden traffic lights. Pedestrians align themselves in the road with the narrow corridor of safety between the columns of oncoming petit taxis, cars, mopeds, busses and grand taxis. Lanes converge as drivers honk and swerve and nod and waive and steal space where there seemed to be none. Bumpers close on each other, but don’t touch. Pedestrians crane for an opening, move out into traffic with nonchalance, and the cars, and bikes, and buses, and mopeds adjust their trajectory, but not speed and the gaps are cleared and they make it safely to the sidewalk.

Traveling Music

After a while he changes the CD to cheesy American cover music. It isn’t the original, but it is meant to sound like it is. We hear, Green Green Grass, Parsley sage rosemary and thyme, Song Sung Blue, Country Roads, Endless Love. We hear Bryan Adams, though I’d swear that it was actually him.

to be continued…

-M

Address: 3 Sidi Bouloukate (it’s pointless to post that since there are no streetsigns…)
Price: 100 DH
Bath: on each floor, sink in room
Amenities: Nice roof terrace with cafe, sleeping on roof terrace, pretty courtyard, colorful rooms, friendly staff, great location.
Just off the north extent of Djemaa el-fna you’ll find the Grand Cafe Glacier Panorama. Keep heading into the corner to the narrow and bustling street Rue Riad Zitoun el-jedid. Continue down and at a fairly large intersection with a nice Riad, turn right and you’ll find Hotel Essouira.

It’s decent. Not bat, but we definitely didn’t sleep in the sheets. The room was tiny as you can see in the photo, but it wasn’t as small as the room we had in Fes. It was fine though, and we didn’t have any real problems. I had a cold shower, and the showers weren’t all that great when they were warm. But whatchagonnado? As I was going into the shower one night a German couple was checking in and the German dude pointed at me and said, “le douche?” Freaking Germans.

Street outside Hotel Essaouira

Speaking of the Moroccan Handoff. We had originally picked out Hotel Chella from the Lonely Planet guidebook. It was easy to find, but we were hassled by touts and faux guides anyway. Chella was full, but the desk man said to try his cousin @ Hotel Essaouira. They always have a backup plan like that. We tried a couple others, but found Essaouira and decided to stop running around getting hassled.

The touts sit in the streets near the alleys where their hotels are located. As you walk down the street looking tired, touristic as all freaking hell with your travel pack, and daypack on your chest, they jump up. “Hotel? is Riad, very nice. Very clean. Hot shower. Just here.” They act as if you were specifically waiting for them to come and save you. Usually they’ll only hassle you as far as a few steps since they’re tied to the hotel for their commission.

The hotel is well signed

The Faux guides are super freaking annoying. They expect you to pay them for helping you find a hotel. And you don’t need it. Usually you wander around and they hang off you confusing you and then when you eventually find the place, they ask for money. Some have the moxy to ask for 50 DH. I have to respect that, but there’s no freaking way. What’s worse is when you go to give them 10 DH and they tell you that’s nothing and then start asking and bargaining for more. It’s part of the game I guess, but just because you didn’t ask for their help doesn’t mean they don’t expect something. But that’s part of the experience.

Hotel Essaouira is a decent place to stay. They have a ton of rooms, but we didn’t see many of them. If you’re a dirty hippy, french, clove-smoking, hipster backpacker, it’s a good place to sit on the roof terrace and smoke and read Nietzsche while re-winding your dread locks and drinking the a la menthe.

Hotel Essaouira wouldn’t be my first choice of a place to stay in Marrakesh, but if you have to have your first choice, then budget travel isn’t for you.

-M