the souks of marrakech. spices, olives, crazy other things.
rose bar in marrakech. L to R: Annie, me, Brittany, Sam, Kelly, Lily, and Carolina. the "sassy" group, haha.
I swear that camel almost spit on me. Can't believe it didn't. A tad bit disappointed, not gonna lie..JPG)
Thursday Sept. 10-14
I think this the beginning of a beautiful relationship.- Casablanca
Thurs. 9/10
We arrived in Casablanca at 0800, and I immediately left for my tour of the city and mosque of Hassan II. Casablanca, like any city, has its smells, but a unique switch in the winds could bring sweet from the jasmine trees that line select streets to sour fish from the markets. We stopped to see a church, ugly plain concrete from outside but beautiful stained glass windows within. Called Notre Dame something. That church is personification of people, in a way. The culture of Morocco is heavily influenced by the French—the two national languages are Arabic and French, but French is the language of business. We then went to the Hassan II mosque, which I think is the 3rd largest in the world. 20,000 worshipers inside, 80,000 on the grounds outside. Lots of Moorish architecture. It was completed in 1993 and only took 6 years to build because they worked on it 24 hours a day. It’s Ramadan in the Muslim calendar year, their time of fasting. They abstain from eating, drinking, smoking, and sex in daylight. Only when it’s dark can they eat. So it was weird to see most restaurants closed! We had a gross box lunch with our tour, and I felt bad eating it in front of our tour guide, Najat. She was so cute—kept on saying.. You want to hear a joke?
Some of Najat’s jokes: A man incessantly referred to his wife as “mother of six.” Not honey, baby, sweetie, like all the other husbands, but “mother of six, let’s go to the market.” And “mother of six, you forgot to get eggs!” So one night at a cocktail party, in front of all their friends, the husband says “mother of six, are you ready to go home?” She replies, “Only if you are, father of four.”
Another one. A man and a lady were waiting at a bus stop. The bus arrives, and the man says to the lady, “After you.” “No please,” she replies, “after you.”
“I insist, ladies first.”
“Gentlemen first.”
They carried on like that until the bus driver, not a polite man, got fed up and drove away. The man turns to the lady and says, “You are polite, I’m polite, let’s get married.” So they do. 9 months later, her due date passes. Then another month goes by. Two months. The doctors start to worry and when they get close to her stomach, they hear quiet murmurs from deep within the women. They put their ear to her swollen belly and hear, “After you!” “No after you!!” “Please I insist.” Twins.
When we entered the mosque, we took off our shoes and carried them with us in a little plastic bag. The marble floors were covered with soft rugs because of Ramadan. The Muslims are called to prayer 5 times a day, the time depending on the lunar calendar. Right now its 4 am, 8 am, 12 noon, 4 pm, and 9pm. They have to absolve themselves before praying, usually done with water. There’s a certain way of washing the face, ears, wrists, arms, feet, and hands. If water isn’t available, they can have dry absolutions with sand or rock. They have large absolution rooms in the mosque—blue and green tiled mosaic for the men, pink and yellow for the women. People gather around large communal fountains shaped like flowers and wash their face 3 times, hands to the wrist 3 times, hands to the elbow 3 times, feet 3 times, and ears 3 times. You must always pray facing the east, to Mecca, and at night the mosque has a green laser pointing east from its tower. 90 % of the people in Morocco are Muslim. We had to cover our shoulders before we entered, and most of us put a scarf over our head too. It’s more respectful and you don’t get unwanted attention. Even walking down street, a scarf on the head is a signal to men here that you are respectable and do not want to be bothered. After the mosque we went to a wonderful craftsmen shop where we saw men hammering into gold plates, producing intricate scenes of camels, men, and deserts. There were beautiful Moroccan pottery, rugs, leather purses of camel hide and goat, and Aragon oil, their cure-all. They say Aragon oil has anti-aging properties, and it’s very good for lowering cholesterol. People wash their face and hair with it, put it on their salads, and L’Oreal, Claiborne, and other cosmetic companies use it in their products. I didn’t buy anything because I heard you can bargain and get better deals at the souks (markets). We then went to a food market, where we saw gorgeous flowers, bags and barrels of spices, fresh produce, men chopping up pigs and other mysterious-looking meat (I heard a horse rumor), and lots of seafood. The Moroccans looked at us like we were crazy, coming in the market to do nothing but take pictures and ogle. I would be annoyed too. We couldn’t buy anything anyway because we can’t take it on the ship! Security’s insane.
Returned to the ship, watched Aladdin with a new appreciation, and set off with Ashley (NYC), Eric (Arizona/Jackson Hole), Becky (Jersey), Allie (CA), Rebecca (kind of looks French), Katie (Ohio, kinda speaks French). Really great group. We just spontaneously formed—we all wanted to go see the city at night. I love that about SAS. You can always find someone willing to have an adventure. We found a cool Moroccan/French place—Les Fleurs—and had bierre de Casablanca (a very light and American-tasting beer—like it a lot) and couscous de poulet (couscous with chicken, carrots, sweet potatoes, zucchini, and other vegetables). The couscous came first, plain, and we got our meat and veggies in a pewter pan of stew--very French provincial/Arabic blend. Also the famous hot mint tea is excellent. Very sweet, very good. Before women had right (recently acquired divorce and others), they would never dare to tell a man yes or no outright for a marriage proposal. The would retreat to the kitchen, make a pot of tea, and return to serve it to him. If the tea was much too sweet—yes was their answer. If the tea was only so-so, that meant maybe, give me time. And if no sugar—they turned down the proposal. We decided all our waiters wanted to marry us. Saawweeeettt.
After dinner we walked to Ricks Café, the famous bar from the movie Casablanca. It’s reservation only for the bar and restaurant, so we couldn’t get in. Made reservations for Sunday night.
Found a hookah bar—and so did everyone else. 6 tables, each one filled with SASers. Didn’t see anybody all night, convinced we were the only brave ones, and they’ve just been smoking hookah the whole time. Of course. Seriously, about 60 of us in this tiny little colorful (literally and figuratively) joint. The waiter was running around like a chicken with his head cut off, but we finally got set up with a big hookah pipe and flavor of the house (apple). Straight out of the caterpillar scene from Alice and Wonderland—long, slinky cord connected to a translucent, brightly colored lamp. Hot coals heat the foil-covered herb at the top, and when you suck the pipe the water at the base bubbles and you exhale a fragrant delicious smoke. That’s when you have an ah-ha moment. I’m smokin’ hookah in Morocco. What the hell?
9/11 Friday
Headed now on a pre-sale trip—3 day camel riding in the Palm Groves. 4 hour bus ride to Marrakech. The farther south we drove from Casablanca, the drier the land becomes. Sheppards wave at us as they herd goats and sheep over the overpass above us. Where ARE we??
Went to this wonderful Moroccan lunch at this fortress thing right outside the city—mosaic tiles, intricate carving, low seating, angular brass lantern, red-dominate china pattern. Beautiful place. Served us typical Moroccan fare—cooked eggplant (wonderful), carrots, stewed zucchini, cucumber, and other side dishes. For the main course had what I had the first night—couscous with cooked veggies and chicken. Then shortbread-like cookies and hot mint tea.
We then went to the Berber village (the natives here are mostly Berber) which looked African. Red clay houses with doors with varying quality, from tin to wood. The place they took us had only cushions on the floor and fed into a small courtyard. We were serenaded by three local men on the bongo and two other weird instruments as we had more mint tea and cookies.
After chilling out with the Berbers we hoped on a camel and took off for town. Well, inched off I guess is more like it... my train got passed by all the others. How slow are you when you’re passed by 30 camels? But it was fine with me because I got the crazy loud camel that kept on acting up, and my “saddle” was sideways on him. I was basically riding his right side the whole time. I say saddle; it was a big pad that had a wire loop in the front and back that you held on to. Very comfortable had mine not had a crooked hump. The camels were tied by the bridle to the one in front of them in a train, so they would get up and down in a ripple, trot in a ripple, and freak out in a ripple. About a 30 minute ride. Sam Smith (short for Samantha), my cute blonde friend from SMU, was behind me and being hilarious. Camel ride, check.
Checked into our hotel (L’Opera) and had a nice nap before dinner. We found an awesome night club—the Rose bar—so nice. Open air, white drapes covering the ceiling and framing the columns, white couches lining the outside of the pavilion, bar in the middle, oriental rugs strewn over the wood floor, lots of candles. I guess I thought it was a little too nice. What I thought was the prince of Morocco turned out to be the band. Bummer. We basically had the place to ourselves minus these guys decked out in fancy Moroccan robes and little square hats that seated themselves with such authority at the front of the room I just knew they were Somebody. Then they pulled microphones out of nowhere. Shoot.
Our group was fun. SASSY. Two black girls, Brittany and Carolina from NYC Queens and Boston, Lily (small but little ball of dynamite, best friends with those two), Sam (my SMU friend... mouth like a sailor), and three people that traveled independently and met up with us—Kelly (in my group project for Op. Mgmt, very on-top-of-it intense and put together, but cool, I like her), her boyfriend Bert (most chill, laid back dude, they balance each other well), and Annie (adorable, very sweet). Kelly and Bert have the coolest relationship. You’d never know they were dating. Hardly ever sit by each other, give each other high fives instead of gushy hugs and smooches, and not even flirty. Bert was sitting by me and Kelly across the table. I felt like I could have a conversation with him and Kelly wouldn’t freak out. Other SASers there—a few being really loud and drunk—grated on Sam’s nerves. Hates it when people give American a bad name, especially if they’re with our bunch. A guy and girl form CA were dancing around the bar, tripping over Moroccan people, and she (Sam) asked them politely to be careful. The guy cussed her out. He’s on her lack list the rest of the semester. Bad move. Love her, but ya don’t want to be on her bad list.
9/12 Sat.
Next morning early tour. 9-5 cultural run around of Marrakech, which we’ve concluded is so much cooler than Casablanca. Saw the diplomatic palace, where the king receives honored guests—never seen so many tiles in your life. Long-winded tour though. Then saw the catacombs and had another typical Moroccan meal—same side dish appetizers but the main course was stewed beef and fantastic olives. I’ve also had a ton of olives over here. Every meal. Very good flavor. Took us to this extremely touristy shop of tacky trolls and silver horses—I bought a leather belt because my pants had been falling down all day. Made a huge difference. Awesome purchase. I knew I wanted to wait until the souks—huge, hot, crowded, crazy Arabic markets—to buy something authentic and barter. I love to barter. Although I’m pretty sure my belt is camel hide... has a very distinct smell. So I came away from the touristy place with authenticity, in some respect. But in the souks you see the real Moroccan people at their best. Morocco is a country of contrasts; you have modern women who embrace the Western way of dressing and don’t feel they have to cover up, and then women in full garb—all you can see are their eyes. They say directions on how Muslim women dress are not in the Koran explicitly, but women who wear the coverings do so because they don’t like the way men look at them when they don’t wear it. I think there’s something to the head scarf. I found men didn’t look at me as much too when I had mine on. Yet I don’t like the full garb either. Creepy looking. There’s toning down your sexuality and being modest, and then there’s asexuality. A little demeaning, I think. Then adding to the contrast, you have a deepening chasm between wealthy and poor here. You will either get run over by a donkey or a Mercedes in Morocco.
We followed our guide deep into the souks, clutching our purses and weaving in and out of the tight booths laden with scarves, jewelry, pointy shoes, leather satchels, tunics, knick knacks, and food. No sense of direction or clue where we were destined. He made a sharp turn down an alley into a Moroccan “pharmacy”—place they made all kinds of creams, oils, spices for cooking and healing, and perfumes. We smelled and sampled everything in a room filled with jars of dried spices while a charismatic pharmacist expertly told us the healing properties of each spice, oil, or cream. He then, of course, wanted to sell everything. I bought a wonderful lemony oil that you rub on your temples when you’re stressed or have a headache and a jasmine-citronella perfume that smells wonderful and keeps mosquitoes away. 110 Durham ($14 for both). I’ll let you know if they work.
Then they released us in the souks. I bought a beautiful colorful pashmina for 100 Durham (wanted me to pay 300—I talked him down.) He said it was a present to me—he couldn’t believe he was doing it and he paid more for it…yeah. Wore it out with jeans that night.
Went to a show with everyone—served us more mint tea and red wine as we watched men do tricks on horses, belly dancers, fire-breathers, and bedazzled camels. The men on horseback carried these long sticks which I though kinda pointless until they fired them suddenly and without warning, and of course, I spooked. Alas, I still had my red wine in my hand. And curses of curses, a lady in white pants was sitting next to me. All. Over. Her. White. Pants. Ruined. I was so embarrassed and ran to get her club soda and a rag, but all they had was sprite so she spent the rest of the show sopping and scrubbing sprite in and wine out. By the end it was better, but I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
9/13 Sun.
Came back to Casablanca at 1230. So tired. Went out with another small group for a couple of beers, and then went back to the colorful hookah bar. As we looked up at the green light streaking toward the east, the eerie sound of a chatting Muslim wafted on the breeze, guiding the people in their prayers via mosque loud speaker. The sound carries strangely well all over the city.
9/14 Mon.
Coca-cola plant tour today, all day for an FDP. Pretty dry, but cool to see a bottling factory and hear about Moroccan business. Departed from Casablanca at 2000, destination, Accra, Ghana. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.
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Casablanca, Morocco
Thursday Sept. 10-14
I think this the beginning of a beautiful relationship.- Casablanca
Thurs. 9/10
We arrived in Casablanca at 0800, and I immediately left for my tour of the city and mosque of Hassan II. Casablanca, like any city, has its smells, but a unique switch in the winds could bring sweet from the jasmine trees that line select streets to sour fish from the markets. We stopped to see a church, ugly plain concrete from outside but beautiful stained glass windows within. Called Notre Dame something. That church is personification of people, in a way. The culture of Morocco is heavily influenced by the French—the two national languages are Arabic and French, but French is the language of business. We then went to the Hassan II mosque, which I think is the 3rd largest in the world. 20,000 worshipers inside, 80,000 on the grounds outside. Lots of Moorish architecture. It was completed in 1993 and only took 6 years to build because they worked on it 24 hours a day. It’s Ramadan in the Muslim calendar year, their time of fasting. They abstain from eating, drinking, smoking, and sex in daylight. Only when it’s dark can they eat. So it was weird to see most restaurants closed! We had a gross box lunch with our tour, and I felt bad eating it in front of our tour guide, Najat. She was so cute—kept on saying.. You want to hear a joke?
Some of Najat’s jokes: A man incessantly referred to his wife as “mother of six.” Not honey, baby, sweetie, like all the other husbands, but “mother of six, let’s go to the market.” And “mother of six, you forgot to get eggs!” So one night at a cocktail party, in front of all their friends, the husband says “mother of six, are you ready to go home?” She replies, “Only if you are, father of four.”
Another one. A man and a lady were waiting at a bus stop. The bus arrives, and the man says to the lady, “After you.” “No please,” she replies, “after you.”
“I insist, ladies first.”
“Gentlemen first.”
They carried on like that until the bus driver, not a polite man, got fed up and drove away. The man turns to the lady and says, “You are polite, I’m polite, let’s get married.” So they do. 9 months later, her due date passes. Then another month goes by. Two months. The doctors start to worry and when they get close to her stomach, they hear quiet murmurs from deep within the women. They put their ear to her swollen belly and hear, “After you!” “No after you!!” “Please I insist.” Twins.
When we entered the mosque, we took off our shoes and carried them with us in a little plastic bag. The marble floors were covered with soft rugs because of Ramadan. The Muslims are called to prayer 5 times a day, the time depending on the lunar calendar. Right now its 4 am, 8 am, 12 noon, 4 pm, and 9pm. They have to absolve themselves before praying, usually done with water. There’s a certain way of washing the face, ears, wrists, arms, feet, and hands. If water isn’t available, they can have dry absolutions with sand or rock. They have large absolution rooms in the mosque—blue and green tiled mosaic for the men, pink and yellow for the women. People gather around large communal fountains shaped like flowers and wash their face 3 times, hands to the wrist 3 times, hands to the elbow 3 times, feet 3 times, and ears 3 times. You must always pray facing the east, to Mecca, and at night the mosque has a green laser pointing east from its tower. 90 % of the people in Morocco are Muslim. We had to cover our shoulders before we entered, and most of us put a scarf over our head too. It’s more respectful and you don’t get unwanted attention. Even walking down street, a scarf on the head is a signal to men here that you are respectable and do not want to be bothered. After the mosque we went to a wonderful craftsmen shop where we saw men hammering into gold plates, producing intricate scenes of camels, men, and deserts. There were beautiful Moroccan pottery, rugs, leather purses of camel hide and goat, and Aragon oil, their cure-all. They say Aragon oil has anti-aging properties, and it’s very good for lowering cholesterol. People wash their face and hair with it, put it on their salads, and L’Oreal, Claiborne, and other cosmetic companies use it in their products. I didn’t buy anything because I heard you can bargain and get better deals at the souks (markets). We then went to a food market, where we saw gorgeous flowers, bags and barrels of spices, fresh produce, men chopping up pigs and other mysterious-looking meat (I heard a horse rumor), and lots of seafood. The Moroccans looked at us like we were crazy, coming in the market to do nothing but take pictures and ogle. I would be annoyed too. We couldn’t buy anything anyway because we can’t take it on the ship! Security’s insane.
Returned to the ship, watched Aladdin with a new appreciation, and set off with Ashley (NYC), Eric (Arizona/Jackson Hole), Becky (Jersey), Allie (CA), Rebecca (kind of looks French), Katie (Ohio, kinda speaks French). Really great group. We just spontaneously formed—we all wanted to go see the city at night. I love that about SAS. You can always find someone willing to have an adventure. We found a cool Moroccan/French place—Les Fleurs—and had bierre de Casablanca (a very light and American-tasting beer—like it a lot) and couscous de poulet (couscous with chicken, carrots, sweet potatoes, zucchini, and other vegetables). The couscous came first, plain, and we got our meat and veggies in a pewter pan of stew--very French provincial/Arabic blend. Also the famous hot mint tea is excellent. Very sweet, very good. Before women had right (recently acquired divorce and others), they would never dare to tell a man yes or no outright for a marriage proposal. The would retreat to the kitchen, make a pot of tea, and return to serve it to him. If the tea was much too sweet—yes was their answer. If the tea was only so-so, that meant maybe, give me time. And if no sugar—they turned down the proposal. We decided all our waiters wanted to marry us. Saawweeeettt.
After dinner we walked to Ricks Café, the famous bar from the movie Casablanca. It’s reservation only for the bar and restaurant, so we couldn’t get in. Made reservations for Sunday night.
Found a hookah bar—and so did everyone else. 6 tables, each one filled with SASers. Didn’t see anybody all night, convinced we were the only brave ones, and they’ve just been smoking hookah the whole time. Of course. Seriously, about 60 of us in this tiny little colorful (literally and figuratively) joint. The waiter was running around like a chicken with his head cut off, but we finally got set up with a big hookah pipe and flavor of the house (apple). Straight out of the caterpillar scene from Alice and Wonderland—long, slinky cord connected to a translucent, brightly colored lamp. Hot coals heat the foil-covered herb at the top, and when you suck the pipe the water at the base bubbles and you exhale a fragrant delicious smoke. That’s when you have an ah-ha moment. I’m smokin’ hookah in Morocco. What the hell?
9/11 Friday
Headed now on a pre-sale trip—3 day camel riding in the Palm Groves. 4 hour bus ride to Marrakech. The farther south we drove from Casablanca, the drier the land becomes. Sheppards wave at us as they herd goats and sheep over the overpass above us. Where ARE we??
Went to this wonderful Moroccan lunch at this fortress thing right outside the city—mosaic tiles, intricate carving, low seating, angular brass lantern, red-dominate china pattern. Beautiful place. Served us typical Moroccan fare—cooked eggplant (wonderful), carrots, stewed zucchini, cucumber, and other side dishes. For the main course had what I had the first night—couscous with cooked veggies and chicken. Then shortbread-like cookies and hot mint tea.
We then went to the Berber village (the natives here are mostly Berber) which looked African. Red clay houses with doors with varying quality, from tin to wood. The place they took us had only cushions on the floor and fed into a small courtyard. We were serenaded by three local men on the bongo and two other weird instruments as we had more mint tea and cookies.
After chilling out with the Berbers we hoped on a camel and took off for town. Well, inched off I guess is more like it... my train got passed by all the others. How slow are you when you’re passed by 30 camels? But it was fine with me because I got the crazy loud camel that kept on acting up, and my “saddle” was sideways on him. I was basically riding his right side the whole time. I say saddle; it was a big pad that had a wire loop in the front and back that you held on to. Very comfortable had mine not had a crooked hump. The camels were tied by the bridle to the one in front of them in a train, so they would get up and down in a ripple, trot in a ripple, and freak out in a ripple. About a 30 minute ride. Sam Smith (short for Samantha), my cute blonde friend from SMU, was behind me and being hilarious. Camel ride, check.
Checked into our hotel (L’Opera) and had a nice nap before dinner. We found an awesome night club—the Rose bar—so nice. Open air, white drapes covering the ceiling and framing the columns, white couches lining the outside of the pavilion, bar in the middle, oriental rugs strewn over the wood floor, lots of candles. I guess I thought it was a little too nice. What I thought was the prince of Morocco turned out to be the band. Bummer. We basically had the place to ourselves minus these guys decked out in fancy Moroccan robes and little square hats that seated themselves with such authority at the front of the room I just knew they were Somebody. Then they pulled microphones out of nowhere. Shoot.
Our group was fun. SASSY. Two black girls, Brittany and Carolina from NYC Queens and Boston, Lily (small but little ball of dynamite, best friends with those two), Sam (my SMU friend... mouth like a sailor), and three people that traveled independently and met up with us—Kelly (in my group project for Op. Mgmt, very on-top-of-it intense and put together, but cool, I like her), her boyfriend Bert (most chill, laid back dude, they balance each other well), and Annie (adorable, very sweet). Kelly and Bert have the coolest relationship. You’d never know they were dating. Hardly ever sit by each other, give each other high fives instead of gushy hugs and smooches, and not even flirty. Bert was sitting by me and Kelly across the table. I felt like I could have a conversation with him and Kelly wouldn’t freak out. Other SASers there—a few being really loud and drunk—grated on Sam’s nerves. Hates it when people give American a bad name, especially if they’re with our bunch. A guy and girl form CA were dancing around the bar, tripping over Moroccan people, and she (Sam) asked them politely to be careful. The guy cussed her out. He’s on her lack list the rest of the semester. Bad move. Love her, but ya don’t want to be on her bad list.
9/12 Sat.
Next morning early tour. 9-5 cultural run around of Marrakech, which we’ve concluded is so much cooler than Casablanca. Saw the diplomatic palace, where the king receives honored guests—never seen so many tiles in your life. Long-winded tour though. Then saw the catacombs and had another typical Moroccan meal—same side dish appetizers but the main course was stewed beef and fantastic olives. I’ve also had a ton of olives over here. Every meal. Very good flavor. Took us to this extremely touristy shop of tacky trolls and silver horses—I bought a leather belt because my pants had been falling down all day. Made a huge difference. Awesome purchase. I knew I wanted to wait until the souks—huge, hot, crowded, crazy Arabic markets—to buy something authentic and barter. I love to barter. Although I’m pretty sure my belt is camel hide... has a very distinct smell. So I came away from the touristy place with authenticity, in some respect. But in the souks you see the real Moroccan people at their best. Morocco is a country of contrasts; you have modern women who embrace the Western way of dressing and don’t feel they have to cover up, and then women in full garb—all you can see are their eyes. They say directions on how Muslim women dress are not in the Koran explicitly, but women who wear the coverings do so because they don’t like the way men look at them when they don’t wear it. I think there’s something to the head scarf. I found men didn’t look at me as much too when I had mine on. Yet I don’t like the full garb either. Creepy looking. There’s toning down your sexuality and being modest, and then there’s asexuality. A little demeaning, I think. Then adding to the contrast, you have a deepening chasm between wealthy and poor here. You will either get run over by a donkey or a Mercedes in Morocco.
We followed our guide deep into the souks, clutching our purses and weaving in and out of the tight booths laden with scarves, jewelry, pointy shoes, leather satchels, tunics, knick knacks, and food. No sense of direction or clue where we were destined. He made a sharp turn down an alley into a Moroccan “pharmacy”—place they made all kinds of creams, oils, spices for cooking and healing, and perfumes. We smelled and sampled everything in a room filled with jars of dried spices while a charismatic pharmacist expertly told us the healing properties of each spice, oil, or cream. He then, of course, wanted to sell everything. I bought a wonderful lemony oil that you rub on your temples when you’re stressed or have a headache and a jasmine-citronella perfume that smells wonderful and keeps mosquitoes away. 110 Durham ($14 for both). I’ll let you know if they work.
Then they released us in the souks. I bought a beautiful colorful pashmina for 100 Durham (wanted me to pay 300—I talked him down.) He said it was a present to me—he couldn’t believe he was doing it and he paid more for it…yeah. Wore it out with jeans that night.
Went to a show with everyone—served us more mint tea and red wine as we watched men do tricks on horses, belly dancers, fire-breathers, and bedazzled camels. The men on horseback carried these long sticks which I though kinda pointless until they fired them suddenly and without warning, and of course, I spooked. Alas, I still had my red wine in my hand. And curses of curses, a lady in white pants was sitting next to me. All. Over. Her. White. Pants. Ruined. I was so embarrassed and ran to get her club soda and a rag, but all they had was sprite so she spent the rest of the show sopping and scrubbing sprite in and wine out. By the end it was better, but I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
9/13 Sun.
Came back to Casablanca at 1230. So tired. Went out with another small group for a couple of beers, and then went back to the colorful hookah bar. As we looked up at the green light streaking toward the east, the eerie sound of a chatting Muslim wafted on the breeze, guiding the people in their prayers via mosque loud speaker. The sound carries strangely well all over the city.
9/14 Mon.
Coca-cola plant tour today, all day for an FDP. Pretty dry, but cool to see a bottling factory and hear about Moroccan business. Departed from Casablanca at 2000, destination, Accra, Ghana. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.
