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07 July, 2010

Vacation in Morocco

As an entry point, Tangier doesn’t do Morocco justice- think Morocco’s “Rocky Point”- It’s mildly seed, slightly over-developed, and caters to the young European tourists with a fine beach dotted with nightclubs. Tangier may have its pleasant spots, but we didn’t stick around long enough to find them. Not long after arriving, we took a 4.5 hour bus to the town of Chefchaouen.

Chefchaouen is one of those spectacular places you’ve seen pictures of all your life and never knew its name. It’s affectionately termed “the blue city” for its breathtaking characteristic of having had all its walls painted ice blue. The effect is particularly impressive given that the city is a traditional old medina, which means that all houses are built together into what is essentially an expansive adobe Kasbah cut into organic sections by undulating open-air hallways with the occasional archway. The city is also picturesque for its location nestled high on one side of soaring, verdant mountaintops. Multiple steep hikes offer impressive views overlooking the quaint old medina. The main trailhead is positioned just outside the city wall, where a cascading waterfall has been retrofitted to double as a Laundromat and swimming hole. Gazebos on each side of the river house rock wash basins. Water is siphoned to these structures, which each day attract hoards of women who carry their dirty clothes to the site and wash them in nearly the same was the people of this town have for centuries. Their children help carry the clothes and then find a splashing spot in the lagoons to spend the rest of the morning. Beyond the beauty of this place, it provides serenity little known to the tourists of northern Morocco.

After two days hiking around “the blue city”, it was time to move on to the decidedly less peaceful city of Fez. Fez is a “must-see” for many Moroccan tourists, but as I have said before, it can be overwhelming. Karen, for legitimate reasons, had already shown signs of stress upon entering Morocco. Our relatively relaxing time in Chefchaouen had ameliorated the situation a bit, but after another long bus ride and the initial shock of the spectacle that is Fez, not to mention checking into our usual hotel- a favorite of volunteers for being cheap and convenient, but perhaps a bit shabby to the uninitiated observer –Karen’s stresses had returned. Add to that occasional adverse reactions to the food, and we were beginning to realize how difficult it can be to travel Morocco in the style we usually do, without the many months we had to get used to the place. Fighting our urges to live like the locals, we tried hard to accommodate; seeking the less trafficked areas and the higher-end fare. The fact remained though, Fez is stressful, and even if we left, we still faced 2 days of bus travel to get back home. By our second day, we had decided to abandon our more ambitious travel plans and take advantage of the decent train systems in the northern half of Morocco. One days train travel got us to Marrakech, where we spent the night, and then a 6 hour bus/taxi ride got us home before dark- even though the second bus overheated within an hour of our house and had to be doused with multiple buckets of water while its passengers waited in the afternoon heat.

Once in the seclusion of our abode, we were all finally able to relax. We stayed in site for five days. We spent the first few days mostly confined to the house enjoying the silence and escaping the heat. Then one afternoon, our tutor and her sister came over with coffee and snack, and stayed for a few hours chatting. The next morning we met them again at their house for breakfast of egg tagine. After breakfast, it was time to start making the rounds and showing Karen of to the rest of our community. First we went to the local health clinic, where we translated shop-talk between our nurses and Karen- who was most recently a school nurse. This mostly consisted of trying to convince the Moroccan staff that nursing is still a difficult job in America despite access to modern technology and better education- they seemed to imagine a hospital environment where nurses just press a button all day. It proved a useful opportunity to fulfill the second goal of Peace Corps; to engender better understanding of America on the part of host-country nationals.

As we were leaving, the cleaning lady at the clinic invited us to her house. That afternoon, after wandering through the fields, we met her at her house. She fed us tea, bread, cookies, and almonds, and then walked us to her relative’s house, where we chatted briefly with lots of her family. Finally, we made the long walk to the fields so that she could cut her daily supply of animal feed. When we arrived, I offered to help, and suggested a race. She was very excited about this idea, responding with the Berber equivalent of “Bring it white boy”! I was soon declared the looser, despite a decent showing. When I complained that my cutting tool wasn’t sharp, she snapped back smartly with, “you’re not sharp”. We each took our turn collecting some of the weeds, and then our host suggested that we wanted around the fields and look at the aquaducts while she finished up. We did this for a little while, and when it seemed to be getting late, we wandered back, where we found our host twenty feet off the ground in a tree, snapping branches off and throwing them down to another woman below. “Hey”, she said, “Ready to go”? She climbed down, grabbed some of the branches, packed them into a large wicker basket already full of cut weeds, and tossed the whole thing onto her back. When we were within sight of her house, she let Amber and Karen each take a turn carrying the basket, which they were happy to do, and which she got endless enjoyment out of- the idea of a foreigners doing hard labor is hysterical to most Moroccans. She still talks about it.

The next day we did some English speaking, which must have been a relief to Karen. In the morning, we visited the director of the post office for tea. He speaks impressive English, is always welcoming and generous, and has been one of our most helpful unofficial work counterparts. Then, in the afternoon we visited the pharmacist, who studied some English many years ago, and who I have been tutoring in English over the last few weeks. Soft-spoken and blithe, he offered us a light supper, while we gave him the opportunity to practice his newly acquired language skills.

Having visited most of our favorite community members- except for our host-family who were regrettably out of town – it was time to leave site again, and make our way to the world-famous “Gnawa Music Fest” in Essaouira! Essaouira is a gorgeous, well-designed city, with beautiful beaches and a laid-back attitude. Known for its fresh fish, the old medina is built right up against the ocean, waves lapping against its rampart walls. The Music Festival the city hosts each year invites a wide range of world music, but is named for the Moroccan style of music called “Gnawa”. Developed by Moroccan slaves from southern Africa, Gnawa is bluesy, but upbeat. It is usually played with a 3-string rebab and handheld metal cymbals, which are woven with soulful stories mixing TashlHite, Arabic, and the languages of sub-Saharan Africa, so that even native Moroccans struggle to understand the lyrics.

We had arranged to stay with some of our favorite volunteer friends in a rented house for the duration of the festival, so we met up with them and got settled in to our temporary digs. Then we went out in search renowned grilled fish stalls. We found our target a short time later; a number of stalls lined up facing the ocean, each one with a table full of fresh fish displayed at its entrance. The fish is sold by weight and is grilled up promptly after you hand pick it from the selection. Unable to decide, I asked for a mixed plate which came with divine shrimp, sole, sardines, calamari, and a steak of something else I didn’t recognize; maybe shark. As we enjoyed our meal, the sun set on the water in front of us and the music began.

Most of the festival music begins in late afternoon and lasts until 3 or 4am the following morning. At least five stages are set up in various locations around Essaouira. Two are directly on the beach, and the main stage is positioned in front of a huge open plaza overlooking the ocean. We were eating next to this stage, and were drawn into the crowd when we finished out meals. A Gnawa style band was performing with a collection of other musicians who seemed to represent a healthy cross-section of world music. Together they thrilled the crowd with jazzy improvisation over a seductive beat. Colorful beams of light shot out into the night. People stepped, twisted, and gyrated. Children moshed, couples swayed, teenagers break-danced, and friends did the conga line; everybody smiled.

I could probably go into more detail about the rest of our time in Essaouira, but I wouldn’t do it justice. In the mornings, we would sleep in and then head to the beaches; swimming and laying in the sand. Tens of PCVs had come to the festival so we were constantly running into and spending time with all of our friends. As the sun started to fall, we would seek out delicious dinners and then make our way to the stages. It went like that for 2 ½ wonderful days. When it was all over, we spent one last night with Karen in Marrakech. We met up with two great volunteer friends of ours and had a delicious meal of Moroccan specialties- Pigeon Pastilla, classic goat tagine, and “Tangia” a cured meat unique to Marrakech. The restaurant was on the second floor with a balcony hanging over the “Jmaa Al-Fna”, perhaps the most famous spot in all of Morocco. It teemed with humanity, a cacophony of sounds and smells wafting our direction. The smiles that we all found in Essaouira, were still being worn. And though Karen’s trip was not all relaxing and attractive, it was a full representation of Morocco. That is what I love about Morocco; the excitement, the surprise, the excess, the variety. It’s what I hope to remember, and it’s what I’m glad Karen could experience.

05 July, 2010

Catching Up

Things have been busy for us the last few months. Since last I blogged, we’ve had three visits from friends abroad, attended and/or participated in three impressive Moroccan festivals, completed our annual medical checkups, crossed the Straight of Gibraltar; spending three wonderful days in Spain, traversed most of Morocco’s roads and rails north of Ouarzazate, visited Fez twice and Marrakech more times that I’d like to recall, lounged on beaches all along the Atlantic, and discovered my dreams while dipping in and out of minor emotional breakdowns and bouts of exultation.
Not long after our one week High School Spring Camp in Ouarzazate, we zipped up to Marrakech for a quick weekend to meet our friends Chris and Courtney- another married couple currently serving in Peace Corps Albania. Together we wandered the loud streets of Kech in true Peace Corps style; speaking the local languages, savagely bargaining for prices, and seeking out the dingy local hangouts for cheap, delicious, traditional Moroccan cuisine. Though we hadn’t seen Chris and Courtney for years, the special bond that comes from sharing the Peace Corps experience soon had us acting like age-old friends. We shared our successes and our trials, complained about the difficulties of accomplishing work, and related stories contrasting cultural nuances in our two Islamic homes. We also expressed our hopes and concerns for the future. The result of which, was evidence that Peace Corps changes the way people think about their lives. It is difficult to find a PCV who does not think about their future in terms of how they will impact the community and the people around them. The four of us were certainly no exception (more on my dreams to come).
Sad to see them go so soon, we said goodbye to our friends after only a couple days, and headed back to our site refreshed and invigorated. When we arrived, we were greeted with seemly utter apathy. Probably just bad timing, but it seemed that the only person excited to see us was our landlord, who was much more concerned with our house plants getting watered than the fact that we were home. Meanwhile we were coming to the end of many months of preparation for a huge project at the Rose Festival in the city of Kelaat M’Gouna, scheduled for the first weekend in May. As a result, our work focus was not on our site. In fact, we would be spending many days out of our site over the next month working with other volunteers and local leaders to finalize our program. In the weeks leading up to the Festival, we arranged multiple training sessions for local professionals and youth leaders based on a unified message on AIDS and STIs created by us and endorsed by the Ministry of Health. We also jumped through numerous bureaucratic hoops and even managed to acquire signed and stamped “certificates of training completion” and “certificates of appreciation” for our local Moroccan volunteers, who numbered in the forties.
During all the planning leading up to the Festival, we took another long weekend to meet up with our friend Ben. He was in Rabat on work, and had the weekend free to sightsee. We met him in Rabat where we enjoyed the low hassle atmosphere of medina souqs, visited the beautiful Roman ruins, and enjoyed nice weather and breezes coming of the ocean waves on the beach. We then accompanied him to Fez- the ancient medina known for its incredible array of handicrafts and mazelike alleys. Of course, the atmosphere here was quite different. An endless barrage of sales tactics in thick accents left us overwhelmed and exhausted by the first night. The next day, we opted for a walk up the hill overlooking the medina to enjoy its splendor without the constant hassle of vendors. When our eyes were full of the picturesque views, we wandered back down into the city’s winding walls and made our way to the English-owned, expat getaway known as the Café Clock. We sat on the roof patio of the beautifully renovated three story riad, and reflected on the good and bad of Fez. It was mutually decided, that we need not see another Tourist Souq as long as we all shall live. Of course, Ben still had some shopping to do, so within the hour we were back in the maze scouting products and prices. Luckily the midday crowd had not materialized and we found our task slightly more achievable. As we left Fez in a much delayed train that was standing room only, a thought to myself, “Never again; leave Fez to its inhabitants”. We finally arrived back in Rabat and got a hotel about 8hrs before Ben would have to catch a cab to the Airport. We dropped off our luggage, went out for a late shwarma dinner, and finally hit the hay with a few hours to spare before our 4am alarms began to sound. After seeing Ben off in a taxi, I wandered over to the bus station, and sat in the peaceful predawn darkness of Rabat waiting for the 6 o’clock train. I would be home roughly 12 hours later with some unfortunate surprises.
Amber had left from Fez the day before to attend a work meeting in Kelaat M’Gouna. So when I got home, I was expecting a lonely house. Sadly the house was even emptier than I had anticipated, because our adored cat Igli had run away. The sadness this event caused me would build up over the next week as I continued to expect him to be in all his favorite hangouts- waiting for me at the bedroom door when woke up in the morning, running laps on the roof while we lay in bed, jumping on my lap as soon as I sat down, or taking my seat as soon as I stood up. His absence affected me much more that I could have expected. After a few days I was really pretty miserable. It was then that I received a text from Amber informing me that her bag, including our little laptop, had been stolen from inside another volunteer’s house when the door was left open one evening. The combination of my cat and computer leaving me in the same week was too much to handle (I have learned that I don’t take loss well). I fell into a deep emotional breakdown accompanied by all the obligatory, fluctuating feelings of antipathy for the people of Morocco; who I came to help, and who repay me by constantly saying “bon jour”, hassling me anytime I walk by a store, and now by outright theft! In addition, to these fervid, albeit irrational emotions, I was also beginning to question my effectiveness as a volunteer. I did come here to help, and I did expect to compromise my comfort in the meantime, but am I even being helpful? Is it worth it? Should I leave? or maybe spend the rest of my time here reading novels and ignoring my work?
Luckily, these feelings arose on the eve of the Rose Festival. A large group of volunteers expected me and needed me to work. I quelled my emotions and continued to do my job, telling myself I would address these thoughts as soon as the Festival was over. As the 3-day festival went on however, my concerns began to fade. When it was over, we had educated over 2500 people on the dangers and prevention tactics of AIDS and STIs, and had worked with a local association to test over 500 people for HIV. That is not to mention the 40+ Moroccan volunteers who we thoroughly trained prior to the festival, many of whom have already expressed an interest in doing other projects in their towns. In other words, it was one of the most successful projects to date. How could I question my effectiveness when I participated in such a successful project? And how could I question the goodness of Moroccans, when it was Moroccan volunteers and associations who made it all possible? I resolved to miss my cat and my computer without letting it affect my work and my goals here in Morocco.
As it turned out, I wouldn’t have had time to address my emotions anyway, because the morning following the festival, we all woke up early and caught a bus headed north. I was headed back to Rabat yet again; this time for our one-year anniversary medical exams. Between shots, dental cleanings, and pooping in cups, we enjoyed our time in Rabat by eating food that doesn’t exist in the less cosmopolitan areas of Morocco, and restocking our dressers with new clothes to replace the worn and faded ones we brought here a year ago.
A week later we were on our way back home again, refreshed, happy, and healthy (except for the amoeba which was discovered to be living in my gut… but seems to cause no symptoms). Finally home again, we made efforts to continue our four weekly English classes- two for students at the middle school, one open to anyone in our neighborhood, and one advanced class for men. These classes proved successful both because students continued to show up and seemed to genuinely enjoy the classes, and also because of how much our student’s English skills improved over a relatively short period of time. As an unexpected bonus, I was beginning to discover a love of language I did not know I had. The period of time during and shortly after each of these classes, I would glow with pride for my lessons and my student’s improvements; feeling absolutely satisfied. In fact, I realized that it’s not just teaching language that I love, but also learning it. I often find myself boring volunteers with a lesser penchant for language, as I explain “interesting” discoveries about TashlHite or Darija. It should be noted that this fondness for language education and acquisition has not resulted in my being good at language. In fact, I believe I am probably below average at language learning. My fondness of learning it and my persistence to continue studying are the only reasons that I am able to speak TashlHite at an average level.
My lack of ability to learn language, however, does have its advantages. Combined with my fondness for language, it seems to make me an excellent language teacher. Faced with my own language acquisition snags, I have developed lots of strategies for learning, which can be applied in the classroom. In addition, I understand the mistakes, difficulties, and potential barriers my students face, which makes me more patient and more likely to adjust the curriculum to fit their needs. Finally, I find that when I bring my passion for language into the classroom, it is contagious and students begin to have fun learning just like I do.
As I slowly began to realize these facts over the course of a few weeks in my site, my life goals seemed to be forming in front of me. I had been planning to go back to grad school when I finished in Morocco, but until recently, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I have always flirted with the idea of teaching, but never knew who or what I would want to teach. Of course I have much research still to do, but now I am seriously considering getting a teaching degree with a focus on language and culture. I am really excited about the possibilities this could afford me and the people whose live I may someday impact! It’s also a great way for me to incorporate the design, problem solving, and leadership experience of my past, with the unique language, cultural, community development, and education experiences of Peace Corps. I just have to remember not to lose sight of my more immediate goals in Morocco; which brings me back to my current language classes.
The classes were so successful that even though we were only scheduled through the end of the school year, students opted to continue taking them over the summer months. The classes, however, were put on hold for one month, so that we could help out with a 3-day World Environment Day Festival in the town of Taghssa and to take a vacation.
The Taghssa World Education Day Festival was impressively executed and run by the teachers of the town. These teachers asked some Peace Corps volunteers to come and do a few hours of education activities scheduled on the second day of the Festival. As a group, we decided to prepare lessons and activities for proper teeth care and trash prevention/disposal to a group of about 100 children, and Moroccan Women’s Rights and trash prevention/disposal to a group of about 50 women. In preparation for the activities, I made a massive set of teeth from plastic bottles painted white, and a huge toothbrush to match. I also prepared some posters illustrating proper disposal of garbage and examples of handicrafts created by reusing garbage like crocheted and knit items and friendship bracelets out of yarn made from used plastic bags. On the day of our lessons, the roughly 100 students piled in a mid-sized classroom and sat on a woven plastic carpet stretched out on the floor. Meanwhile, teachers from the school tried to set up a projector and speakers for some movies we brought. After almost an hour of the students sitting patiently on the floor waiting, it was decided that the projector wouldn’t work, so we begin without it, and did a fun teeth-cleaning and safety presentation without the video. We used lots of props and got the kids to participate by picking out foods that are good and bad for teeth and by showing how to brush teeth with the giant teeth and brush. When we were done, the students were excused to run around outside while we took a small break and drank tea. While we drank, we discussed not being able to use the video we brought about trash prevention and decided to supplement the presentation with a few small plays. We threw them together over the next few minutes, while the children piled back into the classroom. We took our positions and acted out the rough parts we had created- with much improvisation (all in TashlHite of course). Each act was a sensation followed by great applause from the children. When we were done, we explained the points we were trying to make with the plays and asked questions to gauge the students understanding. We also showed them the posters of how to properly dispose of trash and then brought in a bag of garbage and asked them to properly dispose of each item. Finally, we had them guess how long various items take to decompose, which they found amazing. Again the children were excused so that we could prepare for the women. As the women began filing in, it was suggested that the male volunteers leave, so as not to make the women uncomfortable. The remaining women volunteers eventually presented the chosen topics to the women while my volunteer friend Cory and I wandered around making small talk, sipping tea, and in my case, taking a short hike up the canyon to watch a beautiful sunset go down over the valley. I was told later that the women were thrilled and inspired by the reused garbage handicraft ideas that I made. One woman asked if she could keep one, and another woman got really excited and brought in another reused garbage handicraft idea she had created. While I take no credit for the success of the Festival, which was beautifully executed by the teachers of Taghssa, I was pleased to participate, and take advantage of such a well prepared event in which to educate.
Sadly we could not stay to see the final day of the festival. Instead Amber and I took the only transportation out of town at 6am to get back to our site. We had only one day to pack and prepare our house before we left for our vacation. The following morning, we made a quick trip into town for some last-minute paperwork and stopped at the pharmacy for some Dramamine. Then we hopped a taxi out of town and headed north. It took 2 ½ days of travel to get to Tangier where we paid a ridiculous amount for ferry tickets to Spain. We dealt with some paperwork problems as a result of Amber’s passport being stolen, and then waited in a long line of excited tourists. When we finally got on the ferry, I experienced the most intense culture shock to date. The ferry was actually more like a cruise ship. It had a bar, club-like atmosphere, spiral stairs leading to a second story, etc. All the prices were in Euros of which I had none, and everyone around me was non-Moroccan- mostly speaking English but with various accents- except for one woman who claimed to speak Tashlite, but clearly couldn’t (at least with any discernable dialect I am aware of). In my fragile state, I was shocked into taking a step backwards when the bathroom sink ran with hot water. I tried to stay calm; watching the lapping waves and the Moroccan mountains fading away behind us.
When we arrived in Spain, in the town of Tarifa, I saw people getting on a bus labeled with the same name as our ferry. I asked where it was going in Spanish and didn’t understand the response, but gathered that it was a free trip. From this we inferred that it was probably a free shuttle into town, maybe even the bus station. We got on and were enjoying the beautiful views of Spain’s countryside, when it suddenly became apparent that we were leaving Tarifa altogether. “Great”, I thought. “Now we are in a country where we don’t speak or understand the language and the first thing we do is get on a bus to god knows where!?” Eventually we pulled into the port of Ageciras where we struggled to change Dirhams in to Euros and find a bus to our desired destination of Jerez. Once that was done, we apprehensively wandered into the city for some food. We stopped at a couple unfriendly cafes and found the prices unbearable (we were still thinking about how many dirhams is in each precious euro). Finally at the corner of a quaint back alley, we saw a Moroccan restraint advertising cheap Moroccan soup. We walked in with new found courage and said, “Salaam Walaikum. Wesh 3andik pisara?(Hello. Got any fava bean soup?”) The restraint staff didn’t skip a beat. They set us down with bread and olives, a bottle of chilled tap water, and some bowls of soup shortly after. We felt so at home; so comfortable. A little bit of home right here in Spain!
Having finished our soup, we wandered back towards the bus station and waited for the bus, which arrived a just a few minutes later. The culture shock and fear of this strange land had faded. In fact, I was quickly beginning to like Spain. By the time we arrived in Jerez, I was excited. Everywhere I looked, Spain seemed to be a celebration of life and beauty; lush fields and gardens, beautifully crafted sculptures, impressively detailed architecture, that was both colorful and playful, clean well planned streets traversed by shiny new public buses and spotted with huge recycling bins, even highly-skilled graffiti lined the walls. And the food….just from what I saw on the other side of the large bus windows, it seemed promising to say the least!
From the bus station we made our way to a hotel, where we met up with Amber’s sister Karen. We spent some excited moments catching up, until finally our stomachs insisted that we wander out and get some dinner. After a brief walk, we settled on a small tapas bar with a diminutive but highly energetic waiter. He begrudgingly gave us menus, which I pored over with great excitement and salivation; nearly everything listed was a delicacy that did not exist in Morocco. Furthermore, the entire concept of ordering numerous samplings of carefully crafted amalgamations of gourmet ingredients spat in the face of the major tenets of Moroccan cuisine- you’ve got four options made from exactly the same seasonal vegetables you just bought yourself at last week’s neighborhood souq (it should be noted that Morocco is known for its amazing food, which is outstanding in moderation, but “lacks intrigue”; if I may euphemize). The delicious little plates of food (“tapas” means “tops” and stems from a practice of serving a morsel of food on top of drinks at the bar) came one after the other; each one devilishly rich and flavorful. I thought I was in heaven; a misconception that persisted during my stay in Spain.
The next day we made our way to the city of Seville, where we would spend two joyous days. We wandered the friendly streets of Seville, spellbound by the beautiful displays of architecture, public plazas, and thin, colorfully painted alleyways adorned with flowers and vines growing from the balconies above. Sights of the beautiful city were augmented by sculpture, paintings, and frequent street performers and musicians.
To further appreciate the musicians of Seville, we attended two Flamenco shows; both passionately performed but atmospherically disparate. The first was held in large old adobe tavern, full of people clamoring with the excitement of a Friday night in Spain. So loud was the din of the crowd, the performers eventually gave up shushing them and stopped early. The second, was a private show held in the intimate, candlelit courtyard of a traditional Moorish riad. The seasoned performers theatrically sputtered across the percussive wooden stage for an audience of no more than forty people, all thoroughly engaged by the ardor of angry floating dancers, and a dirge-belting singer with a voice of velvet gravel.
After long days of experiencing Spain’s capacity for passion and playfulness, I would lay in bed reading “A Chef’s Tour” written by a man who has a similar passion for foods, and thus toured the world in search of the ultimate meal. Along the way, he makes a stop in Southern Spain, where he samples and falls in love with “churros”; a tradition Spanish favorite. My curiosity was piqued by his description of churros, which was very different from the fast food churros of my childhood. The morning after reading this passage, I eagerly questioned the hostel staff about where to get churros for breakfast, and proceeded to drag Amber and Karen along the directions I was given. When finally the dish was before me, I could not have been more satisfied; a plate of four golden, deep-fried, rigged circles of fluffy dough and a mug of thick, rich, slightly sweetened hot chocolate. It was just as it had been described in the pages of the book; nothing like the summer day’s snack of my childhood, and oh so delicious! I wished I could stay forever (though it might have meant frequent and premature heart problems).
Our last day in Spain was spent in the windsurfing town of Tarifa. There we enjoyed walks on the beach, a quick dip in the ocean, and an extended evening of dining at pleasant restaurant serving up a few versions of the day’s freshest catches. Though Tarifa lacked the spirit and depth of Seville, it proved an excellent place to relax. That night, Amber, Karen and I sat on the dimly lit patio of the restaurant, finally giving ourselves the chance to have a great conversation. The next morning we woke recharged and ready to begin the next phase of our journey; Morocco.
A curious law declares that if you take a ferry to Morocco, you must have your passport stamped by Moroccan police before leaving the boat. As a result, a line forms at the police kiosk as passengers enter the ferry. By the time the boat departs, everyone is in line. Since the ride from Tarifa to Tagier is only 35 minutes long, we (and most of the boat’s passengers) spent the entire trip in the passport line. This huge boat with hundreds of plush seats was left to waste, while all its passengers used what amounted to a long hallway’s worth of acreage. I think they would do better to just have a long skinny corridor of a boat, but then again, if you’ve done that, you’re already halfway to making a bridge. Why not just do that? Eventually, we did get our stamps, and we even managed few minutes to sit in our seats before landing. Still, it was maybe not the best first impression Morocco could make. Stay tuned to see how we fared on the rest of our time in Morocco...