Hi everyone! sooo this post took longer than I thought it would, but I’m just full of fun and exciting things to share, so grab a snack or something and here we go!
Last weekend, I had the amazing opportunity to visit a continent that most North Americans never set foot on. I went to Africa! More specifically, I went to the towns of Chefhaouen, Tangier, and Tetouan in the country of Morocco. Now, I just want to throw out the fact that I had absolutely no idea what to expect before I went on the trip, and the few expectations I did have were completely 100% incorrect. For one, I was expecting black people, because, well it’s Africa. Instead, the people I encountered were more Middle Eastern looking, and the buildings I saw also resembled those that I have seen in pictures of the Middle East. I was expecting everything to be brown, because, well it’s Africa. Imagine my surprise when our bus wound its way through mountains, with rolling fields of green, grazing animals, and rushing rivers. It was not what I expected at all, but I guess that just goes to show how little I know about the world around me.
So our journey began in Seville. We spent nearly an hour waiting in the rain because of people who didn’t show up in time, then we finally got on the bus, which was soooo much fun. After three hours of driving, the driver brought us to the wrong port (the second leg of our journey included a ride on a boat). The bus driver made up for his mistake by driving like a madman through the remaining mountains and hairpin turns to get us to the correct port just in the nick of time to get on the boat. During this harrowing journey, we were all a little queasy and antsy about whether we would make it to the boat in time.
When we finally made it to the correct port, we ran right on the boat and it took off. Did you know that waves are capable of making even big boats rock all over the place? It’s the truth. You have to be careful walking! When we got to the other side (Africa!) and met our guide, we got on the next bus. It was here that I experienced some of the worst fear I have even had in my entire life. (Obviously I need to get out more). Picture yourself in my shoes. You are a 19 year old travelling to a continent that you have only heard talk of when associated with war, violence, trafficking of women, sickness, thirst, and hunger. Your guide is a man slightly older than your parents, who briskly tells you that he lives in Morocco. He tells you that he speaks about seven languages, and starts nonchalantly talking about the border between the Spanish territory we currently are in and the actual country of Morocco. He forcefully says that taking photos at the border are strictly prohibited and that while we were in this country, it is strictly prohibited to take photos of any police officer or person in uniform. I felt like we were about to go into a war zone! We were stuck in traffic because Friday was a festival in Morocco, so he was telling us names of different places and cities that we were going to visit. Then he told three random students (my school wasn´t the only school on the trip) that they were going to be staying in a hotel in a different city because there wasn’t room in the first one. I was sitting on a bus full of confused people, trying to understand the imperfect Spanish of a man who was describing Arabic cities. Then, my panic escalated. The guide began to walk up the aisle of the bus with a plastic shopping bag, asking everyone for their passports.
Call me dramatic, but I nearly lost it right there.
I kept hearing my parents’ voices telling me to be careful with my passport, but this man who I didn’t even know was asking for it, and everyone else was handing theirs over. What if he wasn’t even a real guide for the company we were with? It hurt quite a bit as I dropped my ticket back to Spain, my ticket back to the United States, into the worn plastic bag.
At this point, I had myself convinced that our guide was a spy for the Moroccan army. He was middle aged and balding, and spoke seven languages. It made all the sense in the world. I had figured out his master plan, too: he stole our passports and was going to sell them for profit once we got to Morocco, trapping us in the country forever. Then we were going to be forcibly enlisted into the Moroccan army and the situation would explode into a huge international conflict. It didn´t help that as he was collecting the passports, he made a joke about “selling our passports for the big money”. But seriously, how much does an American passport go for? In these moments, I was convincing myself that I was safe because it was a bus full of Americans, and The United States wouldn’t be too thrilled about our enlistment in the Moroccan army. Also, I have come to realize on this trip that a lot (a lot a lot a lot) of my classmates are from very (very very very) wealthy families. This fact was a small comfort, because I counted on their parents paying the ransom money to rescue us. As my conjectures got more and more extreme, I was incredibly thankful that at least I had found a copy of my passport in a folder that moring and had had the sense to put it in my wallet.
When we finally got to the border (nearly an hour later) I was slightly distracted by my panic and surprised to see that the doors of every car–including the trunk–were opened by the guards. Now I know the only border crossing I’ve ever dealt with is Michigan to Canada, and things don’t get that crazy over there, but it seemed pretty intense to me.
At 10:32 pm (well actually it was 9:32 Moroccan time), after an hour and a half, I FINALLY GOT MY PASSPORT BACK, and suddenly the world seemed like a better place. All I wanted then was dinner.
We went to our hotel then, which was rather fancy. There was a hookah bar and a restaurant, and several balconies overlooking the lobby. Within four and a half minutes of our arrival, there were approximately 8 men leaning over the balconies from the floors above, grinning and waving at us, calling out to us in Spanish. I was really surprised by the amount of Spanish (and French) that was spoken there; our waiters spoke Spanish as well. Our long awaited dinner at the hotel was really really good. It was some kind of vegetable soup, thick bread (not just white bread like in Spain!), really yummy chicken, and flan (does anybody even like flan?). The students in my program have for two months lamented the lack of flavor in Spanish food (salt and mayonaise are the favorite condiments), but Morocco used herbs and spices and all that good stuff in their cooking and it was great. We had to only eat cooked vegetables (as opposed to raw), and avoid the water, drinking bottled water and using it to brush our teeth, but nobody got sick from the food or water, so that was also great.
The next morning, we left our hotel bright and early to get on the bus again and drive to the famous blue city in the mountains: Chefchaouen. I was surprised to see wild chickens on the side of the road, and terrified at the warnings we received from our guide. Some of the highlights were: “Stay with the group at all times”-this one was repeated about four times, “Don’t accept free services from anyone”, “If someone offers you drugs, say no-it’s illegal!”, and “There will be a guide at the front of the group and at the back of the group. Stay in between the guides.” All in all, I wasn´t feeling too confident about my safety nor my stomach–we had just driven through the Rif mountains in a bus–when we arrived in the city. Right off the bat, I realized that I was a minority, if not an oddity in this country. The bus dropped us off next to a garage where three men were leaning over a car with the hood up, working on something. I was looking at the car to try to see a company name so I could tell my father and brother what kinds of cars they have in Morocco (interesting, right?), when the men looked up at me, grinning broadly, winking, and beckoning me toward them. I made a mental note not to let my gaze linger for so long again.
We spent the next several hours on a guided walk of the city, and boy oh boy was it beautiful. The city is built right into the mountains, and life there revolves around Sunday market and Tuesday market. When I googled the city to make sure that I was spelling it right for this blog post, I found out that Chefchaouen is almost as famous for selling cannabis as it is for its distinctive white washed and blue painted walls. Wow! I guess I understand now why the guide told us not to accept drugs! Anyways, if you haven’t noticed from the pictures, basically the whole city is blue. Now, because I have a short attention span, I really don’t know why it’s blue. On the tour, I think I remember one of the guides saying something about the glare off of the white walls being too much for people’s eyes, or that mosquitos don’t like blue. Something like that. When I did my trusty google search, I found out that the people who started this blue tradition were Jewish refugees who settled in the city after they were kicked out of Spain (Spain has gone through multiple phases of only liking Christians and Catholics, remember). Anyways, I have never ever seen anything like this city before. As we walked by homes and small shops, I was surprised to see Coca-Cola, Pringles, Oreos, and Nutella among hand made bread, caged chickens, and fresh (still wiggling) fish.
Here’s a picture of me with one of our tour guides. Don’t let his outfit fool you: this man is the proud owner of an iPhone and an iPad.
At one point of the tour, we stopped for a small presentation at a weaving shop, where they make beautiful woven rugs, blankets, scarves and other fabrics by hand. The colors of the fabrics are absolutely vibrant. They literally do everything themselves, right in the little shop! While we were in there, there was a painter applying a fresh coat of blue paint to an upstairs stairwell- they really like blue paint over there.
As we continued our walk through the city, I started feeling somewhat embarrassed. We were a very large group, and as we walked through the town, it was an event. People going through their everyday routines had to step aside to make room for us. And we were loud. People came out to the doors of their homes and stores to see the commotion as we went by on the street. Embarrassingly late in the walk, a revelation struck me. We were walking up and down narrow winding streets where people’s houses were. We were running around on a Saturday morning inches away from uncovered windows, taking pictures of doors, sitting on benches for pictures, and remarking on how different it all was, while with our phones, we snapped photo after photo. I felt like we were exploiting this city somehow, and I don’t think we left the best impression of the United States that we could have. The guide had to remind students that it’s not okay to just take pictures of people without asking. It was like everyone went into full blown tourist mode and forgot that we were in people’s neighborhoods, standing just outside of their homes.
Before lunch, we had some free time to shop around at touristy little stores in the plaza outside the hotel we were going to meet in. I quickly realized that if you go into someone’s store, they want you to buy something, and they will talk to you until you either buy something or push your way out of the store. You are also expected to barter for your purchases, which is really nerve-racking for me. While I want a good deal, l think I’m too nice! I don’t want to offer too low of a price, because I don’t want to disrespect the men working! So usually, I avoid bartering.
Other things I noticed in the city were a multitude of stray cats and an incredibly large amount of people who spoke very good (British) English. As our group gained stares wherever we went, I also felt, for the first time in my life, what it was like to be a minority. My skin, hair, and eye color, and also my religion are oddities in this country, and stares are not something that I am used to.
On Saturday after lunch, we got back on the bus (yet again) and went to the larger city of Tangier. This bus ride came with more warnings and reminders from our guide, that this is a big city, that there are discotecas and bars here and it’s not the safest for us to go out alone. We were told not to buy anything on the streets, and make sure that our bags were zipped up all the way. Again, there was the reminder to stay with the group, as one Gide would be in front of us and one guide would be being us. Somehow, the repetition of this warning throughout the trip really irked me. Were they being overly cautious? What would happen if we were alone? By sheer luck (not), we arrived in this large bustling city just in time for it to get dark and start to rain. But that didn’t stop us from going on a walking tour throughout the city, through a marketplace and tiny alleyway type streets. The marketplace was pretty neat to see, with fresh vegetables and meat–including rabbits in the process of being skinned.
The people trying to sell things were unavoidable. We were a big group of Americans, and when they saw us coming, they basically came running. This was really hard for me. I don’t know, maybe I am too dumb to be allowed to go to other countries, but when someone talks to me, grabs my attention, and asks me to buy the goods they are offering (even if it is junk), I can not ignore them. I can not send them away with an irritated jerk of the head like I’ve seen so many Spaniards do. I can’t pretend they don’t exist and just blow on by. So when I speak to them, with a smile and a “no, gracias”, they don’t leave me alone. I made the mistake of one time saying (to an armful of meticulously beaded bracelets), “very pretty, but no thank you”, and that man wouldn’t let it go. Little do these merchants know though, I’m a Weaver. And while I don’t suffer as much pain as my father or brother do from it, it really does hurt me to have to hand over money. So, I didn’t buy anything from anyone on the street, but I did talk to several young men with very good English who were trying to sell me things. There was a recurring theme with all of them as they talked to myself and other girls I was traveling with: they always called us pretty. At first, I was feeling pretty good about myself, but then I realized it was a clever sales tactic. They are very sneaky!
At the end of our walk, we ended up at a large souvenir type store, and once again, prices weren’t fixed. It was a matter of bartering. I had my heart set on a precious ring to have as a keepsake (the man told me it was real silver so of course it was true!), and it was for the low-only-for-the-pretty-girl price of 50€ (after I gave him a shocked look at hearing the first price he gave me). My first attempts at bartering did not go well, and trying to end the conversation, I told him I had no cash. He then told me to use my credit card and started following me as I tried to get away: that’s when I had had enough, and I firmly told him (twice, I guess the first time wasn’t firm enough), that I was no longer interested in buying anything in his store.
That night, we ate dinner in our new hotel. The most notable thing about it was our view of the street from our table. For only being a couple hour bus ride away from Chefchaouen, Tangier was really different. There was European type clothing, cars and brightly lit stores everywhere, and people drinking.
The next morning, we woke up even earlier (daylight savings time was this weekend), and got on our bus again to see a bit more of the city. We went through the “Barrio California” and “American forest”, richer areas of the city where foreign workers often live. As we were driving around, I was momentarily surprised at the rampant examples of skinny cows in fields on each side of the bus, but then I came to a realization. Maybe I’m just used to seeing unhealthy obese cows in the United States, and they are really supposed to look like the ones in the States. Also, did you know that they have windmills on top of the mountains here? They do.
After this, we got to see camels! For the low price of 2€, I could have ridden one, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There are two reasons for this: 1. The camels looked sad and unhealthy, and 2. I’m scared of camels. Even though the camels were getting beat by the owner, we got some good pictures.
We then went to the city of Tetouan, which is a big place, but not quite as city-like as Tangier was. The first place we went to in this city was easily my favorite: it was a bakery! Morocco knows how to make good sweets, I can tell you that much. A lot of the stuff there reminded me a little of baklava. Everything was freshly made, with nuts and flaky goodness, coated with honey or sugar and who knows what else. I of course got something, but I don’t know what it was called–I think the names were in Arabic.
After we got sweets at the bakery, we walked through the city some more, bringing people to their feet as we walked by in all of our American college student glory. I swear, every eye was on us as we noisily made our way down each street, snapping pictures of everything in sight and drawing every vendor on the block to our sides. We walked through the medina, or old town. It is made up of small winding streets of homes and shops. Some of the streets are so narrow, with buildings that are so tall, light hardly makes it down to the street. This area of the city, if I understood the guide correctly, is primarily Jewish. They fled here after the fall of Granada and as Spain got less and less tolerant of other religions, they built their lives here.
We stopped at another big touristy type store, and this time I finally did it: I bartered! My prize? A super cool Moroccan ring that I probably paid too much for. I still love it though. Check it out!
Next, we went to a traditional pharmacy. There, a pharmacist with super good English talked to us about how in Tetouan, when people are sick, they don’t go to the doctor for medicine. Instead, they use traditional herbs and spices to get better. We learned about argan oil, which is used for dry skin, burns, and thinning hair. Then he showed us several different lotions; some with rose hips (against stretch marks, burns, and razor burn), another with lemon (for dry skin), magical creations against cold sores and toe fungus (it may comfort you to know that these are separate creams), and more. There was curry, cinnamon, saffron, cumin, ginseng, and mint tea. One of my favorites was perfume made of amber–I even bought some! I also bought some lipstick made from henna, so now I am a fancy lady. This was one of my favorite parts of the trip, besides the blue city. Just look at how pretty it was!
Lunch on Sunday was in a sort of banquet hall. It consisted of vegetable soup, vegetables with some sort of dressing on them, and couscous with chicken. Dessert was my favorite part (are you surprised). It consisted of a very small very rich powdered sugar covered cookie and a warm sweet tea. I don’t know what it’s called, but boy was it good. Here’s a picture.
Lunch also included henna on our arms and taking pictures on a big couch.
To top it all off, there was a man who performed a tricky dance with REAL FIRE. I’m not going to lie, it was a little scary as he was twirling that plate full of candles around his head.
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All in all, it was a really cool trip, and I’m glad that I went because it is not something that I would ever in a million years do alone!