Tierra de Tortugas

Transatlantic 2011: Besalama/Adieu Morocco

TETUOAN

Our bus leaves Chefchaouen on a drizzly day. 

Heavy, moisture-laden clouds drift in from the Atlantic over Northern Africa and get snagged on the Rif Mountains where Morocco borders the Mediterranean. The sharp peaks of the Rif tear the bottoms out and rain drizzles onto the fertile ground where olives grow, and wild peaches, and where fig trees sprout like weeds. Droplets dribble down the window, and misty rainfall glazes the highway. Tomorrow, or the next day, brilliant sunshine will return to warm the earth. It's clear why the Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Berbers, Moors, Spaniards, and French have fought over this benevolent ground for centuries, besides its obvious strategic value at the entrance to the Med. 

As we wend our way down the sinuous mountain road, we pass a small delivery van that's skidded on the wet pavement, and is resting tipped over at the edge of the highway. The driver is lucky he didn't skid on the other side, the cliff side. He's standing in the drizzle waiting for a tow truck. A few more miles and we come to a complete stop. The bus doors remain closed as we sit there, unable to see what the problem is, although it shouldn't be hard to guess. Other drivers walk forward to check on the holdup. Several are speaking on their cell phones and gesticulating to the sky. 

After about an hour, traffic starts to move again, and we pass the smashed remains of a small car on the bed of a wrecker truck. But any lessons that may have been learned from the two accidents we've just passed seem to have no relevance to any of the other drivers, as they tailgate each other mercilessly looking for any sliver of an opportunity to pass. I'm glad we're in a long queue of cars moving no faster than the heavily loaded truck that's in the lead. 

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"Why are you going to Tetuoan?" asked the lady who owned the Dar el Baraka in Chefchaouen, "There's nothing to see there."

And that's why we're going to spend a couple of nights in Tetuoan on our way to catch the ferry that departs from the odd Spanish possession of Ceuta back to Algeciras, Spain. We like to see things for ourselves, and make our own judgements. As it turns out, the seldom visited city of Tetuoan will be one of our more difficult encounters with Morocco.

The sun is shining in Tetouan. From the bus station we make our way uphill to the Dar El Reducto, again in the medina. It's not easy to find, but it's a pleasure once we get there. The Dar is run by a lady from the Canary Islands. She's also a classical cello player, and wishes there were a few more like-minded souls in the city. That afternoon, we're very pleasantly surprised when a young woman arrives to practice a few beautiful classical pieces on the piano. Carolyn ponders how the cellist happened to be here running a small hotel in Tetuoan. "You mean, what was his name?" I quip. Carolyn groans and nods. 

Tetouan was the capital of the Spanish "Protectorate" in north Africa before Moroccan independence, and the language is still spoken by many. Due to the ferry connection between nearby Ceuta and Algeciras in southern Spain, the city is also a gateway for a few European tourists. 

The medina is large and confusing, but we head out to explore it. We really don't want another guide. After we've gone quite a ways, a tall man points and says "The workshops are just down that way. Just over there. Take a left." We walk to the corner, see numerous choices, and stop for a moment to get our bearings. He walks over to show us. He takes us down a street or two. It quickly becomes several twists and turns so that we're completely disoriented. There's no way out without his help. We've been bagged again!

Off we go deeper and deeper into the medina with our 'guide.' We refuse to even look at another carpet shop, but hope we get to someplace where we can end the 'tour.' Eventually he leads us into an ancient and very smelly area where animal hides are cleaned and dyed on their way to becoming those truly beautiful leather products we've just seen filling numerous shops along the way. 

The stench is gag-inducing and the scene is positively medieval, as we step carefully along slimy walkways around festering brick-lined holes full of dye and hides. Two young men are peeing against a wall, adding to the stench. I have this horrible apprehension about slipping into one of those rank and fetid chemical pools. I watch my footsteps carefully. Our guide points out a six-sided Star of David on a wall near the floor. It's a remnant of a once considerable Jewish population, although there are few left in Morocco today.

 

An adjacent stairway and railings are draped with hides drying in the sun, the ragged remains of dead animals casting an eerie quiet over the place. A few hungry cats linger in case someone drops a small fragment of flesh scraped from a hide. It's a ghastly place, but oddly compelling. One expects to see Bruegel painting this scene from a perch in the corner. I'm glad our guide led us to this spot, which probably sees very few tourists; and I'm very glad when we leave. It may take a week for the overpowering smell to leave our nostrils. I hand him 50 dirhams for his time. 

 On our way out of the medina, we pass whole streets where the windows are filled with exquisite jewelry. There are racks of scarves spilling into the passageways, shops are filled with intricate lacquered woodwork, and blankets piled with babouches of all colors that sparkle in the sun. 

We pass a film crew shooting a market scene that includes an old car and period costumes. Carolyn finds an herb shop with packets of fresh-smelling saffron and buys six for 120 dirhams (about US$15).

The leather dying area was not conducive to a strong appetite, but after a long walk to clear our nostrils and more colorful sights to cleanse the memory, we arrive back at El Reducto for dinner. Like many riads, it also functions as a palace-style restaurant. Most Moroccan cafes open about 8:00 p.m., and we're early, so we ask at the desk. She tells us the time doesn't really matter. The French tend to eat around 7:00 p.m., the Brits at 8:00 p.m., and the Spanish from 10:00 p.m. on into the evening. They'll fix dinner whenever we're ready. 

We clean up a bit, return downstairs and, lo and behold! We can order a scotch! That will be two Ballantines on ice, please. Our waiter keeps pouring until we tell him to stop, and we are happy, indeed. We really never got desperate for hard liquor during our Moroccan trip, but a bit of scotch sure makes the evening pleasant. The drinks are followed by a vegetable salad, couscous covered with chicken and veggies, and delicious natillas, Moroccan-style, with extra spices. Later, on the rooftop, we look out over the city. Just next door, there's a crumbling palace with a gaping hole on the roof.

The riad was a welcome oasis in the medina, but Tetuoan was difficult, overall, and it underscored a kind of discomfort with the culture that we never fully resolved. We recognize that we may have created part of our own problem by always staying in the medina and having to deal with the 'medina mentality.' Medinas are filled with colorful little shops. 

Each shop owner is hoping we look in his direction and he makes a sale – maybe his only sale of the day. The merchants are rarely women. The image, mostly, is of under-employed men sitting in shops all day with nothing else to do. 

Yet there are plenty of people working. Workshops are concentrated in certain areas, and most of the tradespeople are men. They work in traditionally male areas like butcher shops, woodworking, and upholstery; but they're also the ones who sew the most intricate and expensive long women's jellabas, and weave the finest threads into lacework. I'm walking down a narrow lane and I get snagged into filaments of thread. I look up, to see two men making lace in a small shop. In the street is a young man holding a device to keep the threads separated, and at the right tension. It's up to us to duck under it or go around, and not get tangled in the threads. We stop and stare for a moment.   

We're clearly foreigners and we don't speak their language. They study us as we wander by, our clothing and our mannerisms. Carolyn, especially, bears the brunt of this, as there are few women in the medina. The stares seem to bore in on her. There's no way we can ever 'blend in.'

We try to tune it out and watch where we step to avoid suspicious pools of liquid – especially in the meat and fish sections – and to avoid raising anyone's expectations that we might buy something. We quickly scan the stalls, avoid eye contact, and don't listen to the 'entreaties.' And that's a bad way to connect with a culture. 

In the end, neither of us recalls having such a strong reaction in any of our travels throughout Latin America, Europe, or Russia. It's hard to pinpoint the problem; maybe it's us. We're relieved to return to that quiet space behind the heavy locked door of the riad. 

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But then something changes. On the morning we leave Tetouan, we don our packs and walk downhill to the beautifully landscaped Lovers Park that nestles into the rocky cliffs near the bus station. We wander about looking for the taxis that go to Ceuta, when we're spotted by an enthusiastic group of young students. They want to know where we're from, how long we've been in their country, and they hope we've enjoyed our stay. They want a chance to practice a bit of English. They want us to take their picture, to remember them and the friendly people of Morocco.

Just when we're feeling down and discouraged, this happens. 

We also remember that a kind man gave us a ride to the bus station in Tangier, and many people helped us navigate through a confusion of French and Arabic in Méknes and back at that dusty bus station in Souk al Arba. So don't ask us. We probably need to return some day and try it all again.

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CEUTA

The students help us to catch a grand taxi to Ceuta (called Sebta, in Morocco) to take a ferry back across the Strait of Gibraltar to Algeciras. We're lucky this time, as there are only four of us in the cab. Carolyn and I share the back seat with a young man who's carrying an old backpack. On leaving Tetouan, we see work crews building a broad pedestrian walk beside the highway. 

As we travel along, we realize they're pedestrianizing and landscaping miles and miles of the roadway. It's more than an hour's ride to the border (it could be 40-50 miles), and a fourth of the work has already been done. But they're now finishing the whole thing. The shear extent of the project surprises us. The King of Morocco clearly has big plans for the Tetouan area and is putting some big money into this 'gateway road.' 

The roadway is a bit inland from the beach, and we pass the many upscale beachfront developments of M'diq. Billboards, in Arabic, English and Spanish, advertise ocean-view condos for sale. It looks like we've morphed through a space-warp into a part of southern California, or the Mexican Riviera.

I'm sitting in the middle of the taxi, straddling the hump. I stick my camera to the window, just in front of the young man sitting there, and snap a few shots. He glances at me and I smile. "We're tourists." I say in Spanish, "We're not from here." He laughs, and returns to watching the road ahead.

I ask the young man, in Spanish, if he's going to Ceuta on business. He says he's going to buy electrical parts for some installations he needs to complete. He tells me he works in a solar photovoltaics company with his brother. At that point, the conversation takes off as I tell him of the solar homes I've designed in the US, and he talks of the project he's doing for a British guy at a remote site outside Assillah, a beach town near Tangier. His name is Adnan Al-Morabet. He's been working toward an Architecture degree at the university in Granada. We exchange cards and we'll end up spending much of the afternoon with him.

At the chaos of the border, Adnan waves off the vendors selling forms you get for free at the customs window, and points us in the right direction. We follow him across the strange 'no man's land' at the border, dodging cars and random barriers. I notice the 'Welcome' sign in Ceuta is in Spanish and French – and not Arabic. We make our way to the bus stop. 

Soon we're in downtown Ceuta enjoying a beer and tapas at an outside cafe. Then Adnan is off to buy his parts before the stores close for the afternoon; afterward he'll head back to work on the Moroccan side of this odd little border spot. I'm sure we'll stay in touch.

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Ceuta is a little peninsula that juts off the coast of north Africa into the Mediterranean. There's a small mountain at the end. It reminds me a little of San Juan, Puerto Rico. The Spanish have claimed this tiny spot on the map, along with another one farther east named Melilla, and a few scattered uninhabited islands, since the 1500s. There's a heavy military presence in the area and there appears to be a tendency among the citizens to revere the 'good times' of the Franco dictatorship. 

We passed up any chance to visit the Franco monument, but wandered by several busts of Homer, Plato, and Aristotle that line the corniche overlooking the harbor. There's also a large statue of Hercules toppling two columns. 

We could have gone to Tangier to catch the ferry back to mainland Spain, but we wanted to visit this political curiosity. We had little interest in staying there for the night and looked forward to a brief stop before catching the ferry. 

As our ferry nears the Spanish coast, the bulk of Gibraltar looms just to the east of us. It's another regional political oddity, another mountain jutting into the Med and connected to the mainland by a sandy peninsula that nicely encloses and protects the busy harbor of Algeciras. The Rock of Gibraltar is the northern half of the pillars of Hercules; Jebel Musa, clearly visible just across the Strait, is the southern half. This is where Hercules, according to legend, pulled the two continents apart. This is where ancient history reads like yesterday's paper, and where nobody ever seems to forget.   

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Back at the Hostal Africa, in Tarifa, we talk to a young woman who lives part of the year in Marrakesh. She tells us the southern area, more Berber than Arab, is much easier to deal with; the Berbers are more relaxed and not as conflicted about women as the Arab northern part of the country. We're glad we experienced the northern area, but feel that maybe we avoided the wrong part of Morocco. 

From the rooftop terrace of the hostel, I glance back at Morocco and reflect on all the things I've learned in a short time. Our two-week stay was a very intense course of study at one of the world's major cultural intersections. There is so much to consider, it will take time to digest it all. In the end, I learned to say "Da bes (Hello)," and "Besalama (Goodbye)," and not much else in Arabic. As for reading the language, forget it. 

Again I look back across the Strait toward the shores of mysterious and compelling Morocco, and I wonder when, or if, we'll ever return. 

That evening we wander the narrow streets of Tarifa, where we blend in with Spaniards and various Euro-tourists. We'll stop and relax with some 'comfort food' – a plate of delicious raviolis, a bottle of good Spanish red wine, and some excellent apple pie. 

Next stop: Sevilla.

 

Transatlantic 2011: The Rocky Road to Chefchaouen

From Meknés, we will head to the mountain village of Chefchaouen as we return to the north and another ferry crossing, back to Spain – if we can figure out how to get there! We probably should have thought of that first, before Carolyn went online and booked us into a nice-looking little place for three nights. As we go through our travel options, it looks like getting there will be complicated. 

We wanted to visit a much smaller city than Meknés or Tangier to see if that changes our perspective on the challenges of Arab culture we've experienced so far. These include the hard 'medina stares' from men sitting in their shops as we go by – avoiding their hungry eyes, without buying anything. We ignore them to avoid their constant entreaties to buy something. Still, the stares take their toll and have often sent us back to our riad, where we're 'prisoners in the palace.' 

We've wandered many foreign streets and alleyways without discomfort, but something's different here. Those hard stares convey, what? 'You have money and we don't?' Probably. 'You're the other, the Christian infidel, our enemy for the past several centuries?' Possibly. And who knows what else. I feel it, but Carolyn feels it much more. I grew up visiting Mexican border towns when I was young and got used to the come-ons, but there's something different, something tougher, here. 

It's such a different culture. There are even two dates on every coin; one represents the 'western calendar year,' and the other dates from the Hejira, when Mohammed fled the city of Medina for Mecca. (i.e., a coin from 2002 also carries the Islamic date 1423.) 

People toss used paper table napkins on the ground to be swept up by the waiters. Is this thoughtless behavior, or do they consider it 'dirty' to have filthy napkins lying next to their food? Do they consider us 'unclean' for leaving them on the table? I don't know.

Morocco poses challenges we've never faced before. At this point, we could retreat to a more 'sanitized' and Europeanized version of Arab culture by avoiding medinas and simply checking into hotels in the ville nouvelle. But for our own odd reasons, we decide to deal with the challenge by going deeper into the unknown. We'll continue to stay in medinas.

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The train does not go to Chefchaouen, or even close, although we could take the train back to Tangier and hop a bus from there. That sounds like way too much backtracking. We try to find a way to take the train to a town along the way, and then catch a local bus onward through the countryside.

But we're in the part of Morocco where the only viable languages are Arabic and French, and we effectively speak neither. Away from the Mediterranean coast the Spanish language recedes, leaving us without any good options. At the ticket counter for the train, we realize how pitiful the remnants of our college French have become after years of disuse. And I wasn't even good at it back in college. But we understand enough to figure out the train idea isn't likely to work.

The high-quality CTM buses also have no route to Chefchaouen without going back to Tangier. Our only choice will be one of the cheap local bus lines, with all that may entail. We catch a 'petit taxi' to the cavernous bus station. It's a cacophonous place, with touts yelling out destinations for various bus lines. Much of Moroccan commercial life seems to be conducted at high volume. 

To our great relief, there is a bus going all the way to Chefchaouen. It looks like the whole thing might be less complicated than we thought. We buy two tickets, wait until our noon departure time, and hope the bus isn't too awful. 

Soon we hear the yelling of "Chefchaouen!" and a man waves us to the gate, along with a crowd of others. We follow him past numerous busses awaiting passengers, and then out across the bus lot to a shady spot against the far wall. He speaks some English and he tells us the bus will pull up over here soon. We wait. 

We pass our time studying the people around us, and we watch two men loading furniture onto the roof of a bus. The guy on top leans perilously over to pull a chest of drawers onto the roof. One of the drawers falls out onto the ground. Clothing scatters on the pavement. We cringe. 

Standing with us are women dressed in flowing robes, and a few old men in small round caps. The younger men wear 'western' clothing. Most of the women wear the colorful head scarves we've seen throughout the medinas. A few steps away, a soldier cuddles his infant baby.

After a while it is well past noon: we figure that's just the way things go. It's only costing us about US$5 each for the trip. It's really a bargain, so we expect a few delays. Finally the guy returns and says something in Arabic to the others waiting with us. They start yelling and looking very concerned. We interpret this as a bad sign. The other passengers begin gathering their things as he explains to us, "Monsieur, your bus, eet ees broken. But your money, eet weel be returned at thee weendow." 

We have reservations that evening in Chefchaouen, which is about four or five hours away, and now there are no other buses going directly to Chefchaouen. It looks like getting there at all is going to take some serious flexibility on our part. 

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It's important to be flexible. In Meknés, Carolyn finally admitted that the aloe toothpaste she bought way back at that aloe vera farm on the island of Lanzarote really wasn't much good as toothpaste. But she found that small amounts worked great as a hair mousse (!); it gave her fine hair lots of body. Flexibility is a good thing.

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We study the very basic Morocco map in the Lonely Planet guidebook and try to figure out our next move. After much discussion in 'Franglish' with the ticket attendant, we buy two tickets to a dusty crossroads called Souk al Arba, and hope we don't get stuck there for the night. We board the bus and sit for a while in the gathering heat – waiting for more passengers, we think. After nearly an hour we feel the bus move, but realize they're just lowering it off a jack! We're glad they're repairing it before departure. 

Soon we're on our way. The bus stops at small towns to let off passengers and pick up others. At each stop an assortment of hawkers jumps aboard to sell candy and drinks. A few offer 'miracle cures' in small bottles. Most of the passengers grimace and ignore them. I sure wish I knew some Arabic.

There's lots of yelling as they vie for attention. I raise my camera to capture the melee; I'm spotted by one of the touts who yells, "Photo!" just in time for all of them to duck behind seats. They emerge, smile, and say, "No photo." I laugh and put the camera away. They're probably not supposed to be on the bus at all, but the driver gets a kickback. Who knows? It's all a mystery to us.

We arrive at Souk al Arba (we think), and the driver motions us off the bus. We start to leave, but several people seem to be telling us not to get off here. This is not our destination. We sit back down and try to sort it all out. In French. Or Arabic. There's an ongoing discussion among the passengers as to whether the foreigners should debark here. The entire bus seems to be involved in the debate. We have absolutely no idea where we are, or what's being said. After this goes on for awhile, the driver returns and waves us to follow him. Yes, apparently, this is our stop. 

In the station we look at the Arrival/Departure schedule hanging above the doorway, and it's all in Arabic –they don't even bother with French here. Oddly, I'm thinking of Blanche Dubois in "A Streetcar Named Desire," who always relied "on the kindness of strangers." We'll rely on the ticket agent and various touts who work the Souk al Arba bus depot – who only speak Arabic or (maybe) French. It's all wonderfully colorful and adventurous, and it's completely unintelligible to us. There's much discussion while they figure out  that if we buy tickets to Ouezzane (Where is Ouezzane?!? We look at our tiny map.), we'll be able to get a 'grand taxi' (one of the ubiquitous Mercedes 240D cabs) to take us to Chefchaouen. That much we understand. This sounds like a plan. We buy two tickets.

The bus to Ouezzane climbs into the hills, with more stops at small villages. The peaks of the Rif Mountains rise in the distance. The villages and farms are timeless and pastoral. 

Our bus arrives in Ouezzane, and a gentleman in a seat behind us speaks to us in English. He's going home to Chefchaouen for a family gathering and will be taking a grand taxi. It will cost us each 30 dirhams (~US$4); he'll show us the way. Now that we're out of the medina, our perspective is changing. Many people help us, and few are trying to sell us something.

We toss our backpacks into the trunk and climb in the back seat. A Moroccan couple is in the front seat, having a quiet conversation. Soon, we hear a door slam and some other guy is sitting in the back seat with us. We wonder what happened to the guy who's visiting his family in Chefchaouen. Then he opens the door and argues with the guy sitting there. The new guy gets out, our friend gets in, then the new guy gets back in! There will be four of us in the back and three (including the driver) in the front. It will be a very cosy hour's ride to Chefchaouen. 

It's also a very fast ride, as our driver does his best Stirling Moss imitation on the curvy highway. The wide and fully-loaded Mercedes negotiates the mountain roads quite well, but I wonder how good the tires are. At this speed, one blowout and we're all history. I really don't mind dying in some exotic location. But not yet. 

At one point in the trip, as we're racing along through the mountains of Morocco and sliding through the turns, I flash a wry grin at Carolyn and say, "You're crazy, you know that?" She grins back and says, "So are you!"

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As a distraction from the driving, I engage our English-speaking friend in conversation. He's a manager for Moroccan Social Security and does a regular route through the country. He's on his way back from Oujda, at the Algerian border. I ask him why the border with Algeria is closed and he tells me it's very complicated. I get the impression we don't have enough time to get into it. It's probably also a sensitive subject best talked about in private. So I mention all the public works and investment we've seen during our trip so far. In every town we've seen infrastructure work underway, and cranes fill the sky over Tangier as private investors move in to build the new Center City. He says the entire country is embarked on major redevelopments and improvements, and that Morocco will be greatly different in five years. 

The country is clearly improving things on a broad scale, under the enlightened guidance of King Mohammed VI. If I were a rich developer, I'd be inclined to take a serious look at Morocco.   

At last we arrive in Chefchaouen, still alive, greatly relieved, and in reasonably good shape. We don our backpacks and thank our friend for his help. Getting to Chefchaouen cost us a lot more than the original five bucks we paid for tickets on the broken bus, but it still wasn't all that much. We think. We kinda lost track of the cost in all the changes along the way.

Then it's off to the medina (again!) in search of the Dar el Baraka, a B&B owned by a family of refugees from the cold of Leicester, in England. Maybe they're some of the early foreign investors here. Baraka means 'blessing' in Arabic, and we were glad to see that it was a very nice place, tastefully done, and reasonably priced at 35 Euros per night. The halls ring with a charmingly heavy Leicester accent – quite a change from the French and Arabic we've heard so far. 

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Chefchaouen is nestled into a valley surrounded by several peaks, with a view to several more lying to the west. It's the gateway to numerous climbable summits and a very large nature preserve. 

It's also the gateway to Morocco's booming kif industry. The UN's World Drug Report 2006 states that Morocco is a major supplier of high-quality marijuana and hashish to the European market, and that 56% of Moroccan production is centered in Chefchaouen province. 

(No, that's not why we decided to come here, and we did not inhale – we have no interest in visiting a Moroccan prison. But it made the trip more interesting.)

The cultivation of kif in the Rif Mountains (origin of the term 'reefer') goes back centuries; it's an important industry, as well as a backyard crop. The UN Report says that about 90,000 Moroccan households are involved in marijuana production. Morocco may be lucky not to have a land connection to Europe, with expensive and ugly security fences on a very long border. But smuggling is nothing new to the old "Barbary Coast" of North Africa, and the speedboats of modern Morocco seem able to meet European demand while the industry provides much-needed jobs in the agriculture sector.

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There seem to be many more young Europeans in 'Chef' (also called 'Chaouen') than we've seen in other parts of the country. One night, we're sitting next to a large table full of young Brits who are having a jolly time of it. Three other young people sit at the table beside us – a young couple from the New York/New Jersey area, and a young woman from China, studying finance in Paris. The young couple have been in Morocco for several weeks and enjoy the friendly, outgoing nature of the people. They may stay longer because Morocco costs about a third of what it costs to travel in Europe. They seem unbothered by the 'medina stare,' and actually, there seems to be less of it in Chefchaouen.

The young Chinese woman concurs about prices in Morocco. She tells us the delicious full meal we just enjoyed, for 50 dirhams each (about US$7.50), would cost around 20 Euros apiece (about US$30) at an average place in Paris. And prices are much higher in the fancy restaurants. We'll be heading back to Europe in less than a week, and we're expecting to suffer severe 'sticker shock' as the US dollar continues its slide. 

We might have picked a better time to visit Europe, but the thieves on Wall Street continue looting the country while the public is distracted by pointless 'Drug Wars' and other follies. Lily Tomlin has said, "The only problem with cynicism is, you can't keep up!" While we're all asleep, the robber-barons stay up late figuring out new ways to rob you. So we figure it's hopeless and we might as well go now, while we still have some money left.

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Walls in the crowded Chef medina are painted a luminous light blue, giving the place a freshness that's very easy on the eyes. It's a small city in a semi-arid mountainous setting that reminds us of the Santa Fe/Taos area. The hills above town are covered with small pines between large granite boulders – a familiar scene to someone who grew up in the Southwestern US. 

From our riad, it's a short walk through "the blue city" to just about anyplace in town. We're staying near the end of an "impasse," a dead-end alley, and each day the voices of local kids playing just below drift in through our window. Sometimes it's a group of boys playing street soccer, yelling about scores and rules. Sometimes it's girls playing an Arabic version of "patty cake, patty cake," complete with hand clapping.  I don't understand the Arabic, but the games are the same as anywhere else in the world. Every day, a man drives his donkey into the alley singing out in melodic Arabic. Our host tells us he collects plastics and other things for resale. 

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We had laundry done at the Dar el Baraka; we'd reached the point where we needed a few clean shirts and undies. In Spain we decided to leave most of our gear at the hostal in Tarifa and travel light, with only two small backpacks. We'd each have three shirts, three pairs of underwear, and two pairs of socks. I carried my old iBook computer and Carolyn took her new lightweight iPad. We'd make do with one pair of shoes each, and I took one pair of pants, while Carolyn took pants and a skirt. We'd wear each shirt and undies for two days at a stretch, but my pants were in it for the long haul. 

This would be a test of minimalist travel – where 'the rubber hits the road.' Could we really do it? We did laundry along the way, but by the time we got to Chefchaouen I think we'd both describe my pants as 'veree fonkee.' We'll get larger backpacks before we do this again.

That suggests the consideration of body odor. We really detected none among the Moroccans we encountered daily in very crowded streets. That may be due to a healthy diet with lots of grain, fruit, and vegetables, or to the cleansing that is required before entering a mosque several times each day. We were probably the most fragrant people in Morocco at the time! Does that mean we're 'in fragrante dilecto?' I'll leave that to the legal scholars.  

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The Chef medina is smaller than others we've explored, and we set off into the heart of it without much concern about getting lost. Small stores are open, people are selling vegetables, construction projects are underway; many appear to be new high-quality hotels. Boys are playing soccer in a small elevated square. As we pass by, the ball drops off the edge and down about five feet to where we're walking. My foot catches it in midair after the first bounce, and I kick it back high onto the square. They give the grey-haired stranger a brief glance and go on playing. I'm not sure what they thought, but I sure impressed myself. Somewhere along the way we pass the Ferreteria Barça. This is truly a soccer-obsessed nation, and the Barcelona team is a perennial favorite.

We find our way to the main square in front of the old Alcazaba. The square is filled with vendors and colorful merchandise, and we have no way to carry any of it with us. But the picturesque old Alcazaba is well worth the 20 dirhams (US$1.60) admission for its displays of historically traditional regional costumes, and a display case filled with elegant old muskets. And there's a surprising exhibition of political cartoons critiquing the frustrations of internal Arab politics, as well as the never-ending conflict with Israel. We can't read the Arabic writing, but the artists are clearly as tough on their own culture as they are on the Israelis. One cartoon showing a terribly overstuffed grand taxi resonates with us.

 
After strolling the verdant gardens of the Alcazaba and imagining the sweet life of a pasha, there's nothing more quintessentially Moroccan than a rooftop teahouse with a sweeping view over the square below and the countryside beyond. We forget to ask that sugar be brought separately, and end up with the usual ultra-sweet mint tea. But it's still delicious, and a great way to savor the afternoon. A couple of young women at a nearby table say "Hello," and smile as they practice a bit of their broken English. The frustration of minimal communication lingers.

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The breakfast area at the Dar el Baraka has a large flat-screen TV. Most mornings it's tuned to the English version of Al Jazeera news, and we watch reports of the convulsions still sweeping the Middle East. I've never watched Al Jazeera before and I'm impressed with the depth of reporting on issues from an Arab perspective. Instead of the usual American-style quickie on-site report, they spend the time they need to tell the story. And there's lots to tell during this extraordinary 'Arab Spring.' 

These reports are being followed closely by Arab viewers from one end of the Mediterranean to the other. It's also being followed by the ruling classes, as TV makes the average person more aware of the world, and they demand a better life. Throughout history new technologies have brought wrenching change to fixed ideas – castle walls were doomed by gunpowder; aircraft brought the end of battleships; TV killed off Frozen Radio Dinners (a notoriously bad investment). The new open world wide information network will likely change the last lingering feudalistic systems of much of the developing world. 

Every few days I buy a Moroccan newspaper like Le Matin or L'Opinion, and sort through the French as best I can. There's a front page report on the impact of the recent European E coli outbreak on Moroccan food crop exports. The other half of the front page shows "Sa Majeste le Roi (His Majesty the King) Mohammed VI" opening a new center for human and social research in Oujda, and visiting scientific research facilities at the University there. On another day, the King announces significant funding for a rural water project or road, sidewalk, and related landscaping projects in central Morocco. And inside, there's coverage of Joe Cocker wowing the crowds at a recent concert at the Mawazine festival in Rabat. Joe's not looking all that bad in the photos, considering it's been 40 years since he wowed the crowds at Woodstock.

I scan an article on "Son Altesse Royale la Princesse (Her Royal Highness the Princess) Lalla Hasnaa" presiding over a benefit dinner in Rabat for women's health and education. A Wikipedia article reports the literacy rate for Morocco as only 52% (65% for men and just under 40% for women). The greatest concentration is in rural areas, where schools and teachers are few and education is less highly valued. 

 

One morning at breakfast, I ask one of our British hosts about all the investment we've seen. He says that in Morocco the King has real power. "He's not just a figurehead like our Royal Family," he continues." Here, when the King says 'do something,' it gets done." 

The Moroccan Royal Family is known for being politically astute and is listening to the drumbeats of the 'Arab Spring.' Although Morocco is considered less oppressive than other Arab countries, there were pro-democracy protests in Fez and other places in February. The Royal Family remains under pressure to better people's lives.

The World Bank report on "Doing Business in the Arab World 2011" lists Morocco as #12 among 20 Arab nations for "Ease of Doing Business." But on a worldwide scale, the country stands at only #114 out of 183 countries. (Singapore is #1; the US is #5; Chad is dead last.) Morocco is one of six Arab nations to institute a one-stop-shop for business registrations to encourage new businesses. But for ease of buying, registering, and selling property Morocco ranks at only #120 in the world. 

Morocco had 9.6% unemployment in 2008. Europe's current economic problems have likely had an negative effect on Morocco. New infrastructure programs should help reduce unemployment and make the country more attractive for the important tourism market, their third-largest industry after agriculture and phosphates. 

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It's been a pleasure to spend time in the small city (pop: 75,000) of Chefchaouen, and we enjoyed being largely ignored by local people, and even capturing an occasional smile. One day I glance into a courtyard, and a man at the gate tries to explain it is a "college" for girls, but that doesn't seem like the right word. He searches for the word he actually wants, and another man says, "school." He nods and repeats the word, "school." 

I ask, "A medersa?" That's the Moroccan word for a madrassa, or traditional school. 

They both crack up laughing that I would know the right term while they're fishing around in broken English. 

"Yes, it is medersa." they say.

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But time is running short as we head back toward the Med.  We'll make one more stop along the way – in the old Spanish Protectorate capital of Tetouan. Then we'll exit through the odd outpost of Ceuta, one of Spain's last colonial leftovers.

 

 

Transatlantic 2011: From a woman's perspective – in Morocco

(Perry does most of the writing on this blog; he's very good at it. There is one thing he cannot be expected to do, however, and that is to completely communicate a woman's experience. I thought, then, that maybe I should interject just a little of that, for the benefit of our female readers. -- Carolyn, contemplating Morocco)

This is my first venture into an Arab country.

 
 

I have known a life-long thirst for travel; therefore, I've been almost ashamed to admit some reluctance to exploring the Arab world. This largely has had to do with what I've read about the role and treatment of women. So, when we decided to visit Morocco, I was actually very excited to get past that. 
 
Well, guess what? It is hard. For me, that is. I've been feeling it quite powerfully today, after being in the country nearly two weeks and visiting Tangier, Meknes, Chefchaouen, and now Tetouan. 
 

That said, I should say that I'm very, very glad we made the trip. Morocco is rich and thrilling — culturally, historically, artistically. Everything about it, experientially, is saturated and intense. I feast on the colors, smells, tastes, and textures. I wish I could wander invisibly through the narrow, twisting streets of the medinas for hours, peering into the tiny shops and tea houses, listening for the muezzin's call to prayer. I'd like to mingle with the women in their colorful, long jellabas and various kinds of head coverings (puzzling also about those who do not cover their heads, or who mix traditional and western garments in myriad ways) as they go about their marketing — and try to imagine what their personal lives might be like.
 
Therein lies the tension, however. There is no way for me to be invisible here. I am a foreign woman, and I am relentlessly observed. Few greet me directly, but they stare. I cannot feel comfortable walking in the streets alone; the looks and comments from men (in a language I cannot understand) are jarring. Once, in a market area, when Perry hung back to take pictures and I walked on ahead, a young man walked into me hard from behind, brushing me aside. The women observe me — my clothing, my light skin, my uncovered head. Wrapping my hair in a scarf does not change things; then I seem to become an even greater curiosity. They whisper to one another. They rarely smile. I feel at once on display and totally isolated. I am always 'the other' and they don't know how to approach me.
 
Every evening we pass countless teahouses and sidewalk cafes where only men fill the tables and line the streets. Women are walking in the streets, sometimes with men, but more often with other women, going about their business. I do not see them in restaurants or cafes and I wonder if they take tea only in the privacy of their own homes. 
 
It feels to me that there is no way for me to be independent here, in my way of being independent — coming and going on my own, interacting with strangers, asking questions and discussing issues. And most who know me understand how I treasure my independence. There's a language barrier, but it feels like more than that.

 
This is good for me, I'm sure — to have my cultural buttons pushed. And it's going to provide much material for reflection. Would I want to spend an extended period of time in this environment so that I could perhaps get beyond some of the discomfort? Maybe not right now; I think I'm ready to steal away back to Spain and a little greater anonymity.

and I'll answer the question at some time in the future.
 
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The morning after I wrote this, we don our packs and head out to find a 'grands taxi' to Ceuta — one of the small pieces of Spain that remains on the northern coast of Africa — for the ferry back to Tarifa. As we walk through the beautiful area called Lovers Park, well outside the medina, we are happily accosted by a group of university students, smiling and chatty and very delighted to see tourists from afar. They have to be photographed with us, thank us for visiting Morocco, and wish us well for the rest of our travels. 
 

That was fun! 
 
We find a grands taxi — a large Mercedes 240D that takes four to six passengers at a time. We're in the back seat with a pleasant looking young man. Perry is in the middle. He keeps reaching across to take photos out the window and finally says by way of explanation, "we're tourists," which draws a wry smile! That starts a conversation, and it turns out he is an architecture student (studying in Granada, Spain) who lives and works in Tetouan where he and his brother have a business supplying and installing solar systems. He's a true solar advocate, and he and Perry find lots to talk about. He also steers us through the border procedures — avoiding all the touts who want to "help" do your paperwork for a few Dirham — as we cross from Morocco into Spanish Ceuta. We invite him to have a little lunch and a beer with us before he takes care of his business in Ceuta and heads back to Tetouan.
 
Second very positive experience of the day.
 

We take the ferry to Algicifas and the bus back to Tarifa, where we had made reservations and left our rolling bags stored at the Hostel Africa before going into Morocco. It's like being home! And we luxuriate on the upper terrace, writing and reading before an anticipated dinner at an Italian restaurant we had tried and liked when we were here before.
 
As I read on the terrace, a young woman sitting nearby asks: "Do you speak English?" (in English, I might add). "Can you tell me what means 'epiphany?'"
 
I explain it for her and ask what language she speaks. 
 
"Oh, I am so confused!" she says. Turns out she speaks many languages — French, Spanish, English, Arabic...  Her name is Jolie, and she is a clothing designer living part time in Marrakesh and part time in India. She is traveling with her mother, who lives in Florida but has lived in England, France, Peru... They are an intriguing pair, and we end up chatting with them for more than an hour.
 
I finally ask Jolie how it is to live as a woman in Marrakesh, because I want to understand a bit better my experience in Tetouan. 

"Oh, it's much better in southern Morocco," she says. The northern, Arabic, part of the country, in her opinion, is much more restrictive and a more difficult place for women. The southern, Berber, cities — Marrakesh, Rabat — are much more relaxed and cosmopolitan.
 
So, where had we chosen to travel? In northern Morocco. Moreover, in each city, we chose riads (hostels) inside the old medina walls — with the mosques, the traditions, the mystery, and centuries old attitudes. We shunned the shiny and modern 'ville nouvelles' with their high-rise buildings, glitzy shopping areas, and cosmopolitan attitudes. We wanted history and authenticity.
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So, how do I now feel about my Moroccan experience? I think I got exactly what I asked for...and wanted. And I am reminded that when feeling a bit tender and testy, it's wise to wait and nurture perspective. Thanks for the lesson, Morocco!

 

Transatlantic 2011: Into Morocco

TANGIER

And so how does one describe Tangier? The colors the sounds the smells the tumult of people tumbling down the tiny streets that cascade like rivulets from the Kasbah and onward through the Medina. It all runs together like a minimalist poem on maximum overdrive.

 
Tangier can be overwhelming, and intimidating. I've traveled in other countries, mostly through Latin America. But this is different, very different. It's our first time in an Arabic country. The signs are in three languages. None of them is English. Due to Tangier's history and location, the signs are in Arabic, French and Spanish (fortunately for us). But most of the language that fills the air is unintelligible to us, although in this port city there are people fluent in numerous tongues, and conversations can flow seamlessly through them all. The picture, in its entirety, reminds me of scenes from movies, vaguely-remembered and enticing, yet with a whisper of danger.

We're all captives of our own millieu. Our culture shapes us regardless of our intentions, and we are burdened with its preconceptions. The idea of traveling in an Arab country was freighted with years of 'Evening News mentality' – a catastrophizing mindset we have learned to mistrust in our other travels. We decided to take a look for ourselves. What we found is different, and yet not. I have a feeling it's a good thing we chose Morocco, a stable and relatively progressive Arab country with a strong European influence, for our first step into the Arab world.   

On the street we pass people wearing long jellabas, tagias (the traditional round caps), and babouches (traditional slippers), easily removed to enter the mosque for frequent prayer. But here in this Europeanized city the 'native attire' actually tends more toward Adidas shirts and Nike sneakers, and even Western business attire. We pass a kid wearing a surfer shirt that reads, "I'm so Board." Another t-shirt reads "I'm Muslim. Don't panic!" There are still plenty of men wearing long jellabas and women in headscarves, but it's not the dominant dress.

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Using her handy iPad, Carolyn booked us into a nice-looking place called the Hostal Dar Jameel. We follow the directions on a circuitous pathway (with only a few serious deviations) until we are deep into the medina and finally at the door. So far, the general tumble-down, dirty walls, disrepair, and disarray of Tangier don't appear to bode well for us. But then the door opens and we're transported to a different experience altogether. We seem to have stumbled upon the Pasha's forgotten palace.

We're staying in a 'dar,' or  'riad,' a traditional home of several stories around a central court that's covered with a skylight. It's the standard and traditional lodging style available in any medina. The walls of the Dar Jameel are a gorgeous riot and clash of tile that would be difficult to pull off in the hands of someone less talented than the person who accomplished this work. The ceilings are also filigreed with design, and the furniture is simple but elegant. Our room is large and overlooks the central court. There's a large shared bath in the corner for the two rooms on this floor. 

Each morning we retire to an upper veranda where we're served a delicious and filling breakfast of yoghurt with honey and raisins, breads with goat cheese and marmalades, fruit, fresh orange juice, and coffee or tea. We enjoy each breakfast with a view out across the entire city, past the minarets of numerous nearby mosques, and over the bay. 

Carolyn picks a thick volume of The Collected Works of Allen Ginsburg from the shelf and reads "Rotting Ginsburg." The aging images resonate more now than they did in our youth. I thumb through a book of Garcia Lorca. 

It's easy to feel like a sultan in this covered terrace far above the city, and we retire to this sanctuary whenever the experience of Tangier becomes more than the senses can assimilate. 

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For us, the learning curve is quite steep as we cope with a blizzard of new terms we'll need to deal with in order to navigate through Morocco. Medieval Arab cities were built on high points for defense. At the top was the Kasbah, or fort. Sprawling around the Kasbah, within the high city walls, was the Medina with its residence houses, souks and bazaars filled with carpets, clothing, brass work, jewelry, everything you might expect. Every day we pass through these colorful souks laden with merchandise on our way to visit various historic buildings. Mosques are everywhere. There's a seamless quality to life throughout the medina, where there's little separation between commerce, religion, and everyday life. There's very little greenery in the medina. Contrast that with the well organized plan of wide streets, parks, and set-backs in the Ville Nouvelle, built later by the French.

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On our very first day wandering through the Kasbah, we are fortunate(?!) to secure the services of a guide named Abdullah. He's dressed in full jellaba, babouches, and small cap; and he happily shows us the sights. Those include the homes of Paul Bowles (author of dark stories, and perhaps the city's most famous expat), and his friend Matisse, along with the haunts of Ginsberg, Corso, and the other Beat Poets who hung out here in the 1950s. 

Abdullah points us down various alleys to numerous hidden doorways of recent historical significance and I dutifully snap pictures of all of them. But soon we're trying to remember just whose door was whose. The confusion mirrors the confusion of alleyways that comprise the medina itself. Later, I'll realize that all of my photos in the medina are vertical, because there's no way you can get back for a wide angle shot. In this jumble of narrow streets the only evidence of some 'important residence' is a half-hidden doorway.  

After much winding through another confusion of slender corridors, Abdullah announces, "This is the home of Matisse." 

In a little nook we see an entry door, surrounded by tile. I say, "But I thought we saw Matisse's house several alleys back there."

"Ah yes, Monsieur," he says, "but this is Matisse's other house."

"Oh. I see."

"And here, Monsieur, ees thee home of Kirk Douglass's sister." 

Kirk Douglass's sister?

It turns out that today is indeed our lucky day because, due to his long history in Tangier and his deep connections in the Medina, Abdullah is able to offer us the rare opportunity(!?) to visit a Berber carpet salesman. 

The Berber gentleman (named Ali Baba, I think) graciously invites us into his four-story emporium stacked with piles of carpets made by fellow Berbers from his home in Merzouga, which lies far to the south, at the edge of the Sahara. His young assistant quickly brings us freshly-brewed cups of steaming mint tea, as we relax to a CD of Moroccan music.

Ali suggests we look at the extraordinarily high quality of a few very large carpets, but we tell him we're backpackers and unable to carry much more weight. He looks skeptically at our grey hair, probably not imagining we could backpack anything very far. But then he shows us several small carpets made from Genuine Camel Hair, that you can scrape or tug, with no damage to the fabric. The colors are subtle and resonant, looking like no others we had seen. We're intrigued.

"OK, how much is that one?" The first fatal step has been taken.

We recoil at the price, as he tells us how it had been made by his grandmother who is one of the most renowned weavers in the village. Soon, it seems that most of the carpets in his place were made by his famous grandmother, and they all took a long time to make. Just how old is she, anyway?

Soon the price is lowered, for his "new friends," but still too much for us.

"Do you have children?" he asks. Family is a very important topic in Morocco. How your family is, and what you are doing for them determines your importance in life – in effect, your social net worth. Family, to a Moroccan, is worth more than money.

We mention two children, but quickly explain that we'll have to send them off to work in the salt mines to pay for the rug. 

"But Monsieur," he explains, "my cheeldren, already they work een thee salt mines!"  

Ali recovers quickly.

"With thee carpet, I'll also geeve you these." He pulls out two very fine place mats printed with intricate designs. "Each of your cheeldren must have a remembrance of thees moment."

"I respectfully hand back one of the place mats and explain, sadly, we'd only need one because we'll have to sell one of the children to buy the rug.

Finally, we come to a deal when the price is lowered again and Ali convinces us we've just scored the bargain of the century, entirely due to our canny bargaining skills. Now we just have to find another niche in the already-crowded backpack so we can carry the thing.

As we are leaving, he insists that Carolyn choose a pair of earrings from the hundreds hanging from the wall. He says she has good taste, this is a gift that he wants her to have. 

Abdullah meets us back outside and explains, "He is Berber. I am Arab. Look at our skin. He is dark; I am light."

The Berber is a golden reddish nut-brown that looks like the iron-rich sands of the Sahara. Abdullah is darker than me, but lighter than the Berber.

    "We all live together here," he continues, "Arab, Berber, Christian and Jew. We all live in peace." One wonders how much history Abdullah has read. 

 Yet, one hopes Morocco and the rest of us are beginning to become more tolerant after learning from the tragedies of the past. All considered, Abdullah was knowledgable and entertaining, and his introduction to the Kasbah and medina was a good investment of a few dirhams.

---------------

For dinner on our first night, we head to Restaurant Hammadi. The Lonely Planet description sounds interesting, even as the comments popping up on Carolyn's iPad indicate it's kind of a tourist place. (Tourists? Who, us?) But maybe that's what we need on our first night. Plus, it's likely to have a bar!

The streets of the medina are absolutely packed with people doing their usual evening thing of crowding through narrow streets and seeing what, if anything, is new. The tea houses (teterias) are packed with men only, sitting in chairs facing the street. But the crowding takes a bit of getting used to. I can't really imagine most of the people we know feeling comfortable wandering the area at night. We question just how comfortable we are, but maybe comfortable isn't really the word. 

Soon, we find the Hammadi. It's just outside the medina, past several teterias, and up a flight of stairs. It's decorated like the Arabian Nights with blue-striped divans and red carpets on the walls. We're seated by an open window and we lounge around on overstuffed cushions feeling like pashas as our waiter brings olives (of course) and various other curious things to enjoy. 

We settle in to watch what's happening in the street below and to order a bottle of decent Moroccan Cabernet Rouge. We ask the waiter where it's from and he answers "Morocco," with a puzzled look. We try to find out more about exactly where in the country they have a wine industry. He ends up reading the bottle to little avail – pointing to where it says "Product of Morocco" on the side. It's clear he's never heard such an odd question before. After the waiter leaves, we figure out that this Cuvée de President is from an area 40 km north of Casablanca. And it tastes good enough for us.

Down in the street, commerce continues late into the evening. At one point, a round of singing erupts as the men in the teterias find common voice. We don't know what it's about, but none of the waiters seem surprised.

Dinner arrives, and so does a traditional band that will be playing various Moroccan tunes for the evening. We don't care if it is 'touristy,' they're very good, and so's the food which, thankfully, has lots of veggies. After Tangier, we plan to travel the less-beaten path. We'll have plenty of time to get 'authentic' later in the trip.

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Early one afternoon I'm reading a book on the upper terrace and watching kids playing street soccer in the small dilapidated square below. It's a quiet overcast day in May and a cloud cover makes the temperature very pleasant. I look out toward the harbor and watch fishing boats depart for the day, or return with the catch. There is laundry hanging on most of the roofs below, and a sudden downpour gives everyone's laundry a second rinse. Nobody scrambles to bring in the clothing. The tapping of various craftsmen echos through the canyons below, as they make products to sell in the souks of the medina. The relative quiet is interrupted by the call to prayer.  

It's 1:30 in the afternoon as loudspeakers crackle to life in minarets all over the medina, and the ancient call of the muezzins drifts over the city. Six times each day, they sing the summons to prayer and the faithful stream to the mosques, leaving their babouches at the doorway. To me, an outsider, it's a charming sound that reminds me of passages in the Rubaiyat: 

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,   And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,   A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,"   Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"

But the muezzins may be only an annoyance to someone who grew up here and might consider it less 'exotic.' Sometimes, calls from the several nearby mosques mingle into a grand cacophony, and it takes on a kind of battle-of-the-mullahs quality. But it reminds me several times each day that this is the most exotic place I've been so far.

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An interesting mix of people pass through hostels. We meet a mother and daughter from the US and now returning to Tangier, the city where the mother was born. She hasn't seen it in 30 years, and yes, it's very different, but it's still much the same. They tell us of an excellent fish restaurant called Saveur de Poissin. It's up a long alley filled with stairs, and we make a point to visit it that evening.

But later, as we pass through the Petite Socco, (a small square in the medina) the restaurants are filled with men fixated on a TV broadcast. I speculate that maybe it's some kind of Koranic thing they're watching, since it's all men and they are staring so intently at it. But when we glimpse one of the TVs we realize it's an entirely different form of religious experience. It's an important soccer game between Barcelona and Manchester United for All The Marbles. This one is for the European Championship. We grab a table at the Café Centrale where we only get a glimpse of the TV at the next restaurant over, and decide to enjoy dinner right there, snatching a glance at the tube between bites of a delicious tajine (platter) de pollo with veggies.

This is definitely a 'Barca crowd.' Barcelona is ahead 2 to 1, and the entire square erupts in cheers every time the Barca goalie blocks another Manchester shot. Then Barcelona scores again and the passion is barely containable. There are lots of Barcelona t-shirts in the crowd, most of them with Lionel Messi's name on the back. The place goes crazy as the game ends and the entire medina echoes with the roar of cheers. Nobody leaves his seat during the Post Game, as the Championship trophy is presented and the stars are interviewed. Nobody wants to miss any of the passion. Then it's over, and crowds stream out the doorways to disappear into the warrens of the medina, still discussing that one great save or score. A small dog trots past us wearing a custom-fitted Barcelona shirt. There are just some things that are important in life.  

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We seldom see dogs in Tangier, or the rest of Morocco. Instead there are cats, quite a few of them, staring hungrily ahead, not bothering to ask for a handout. But drop half a sandwich on the ground and they'll eat it. Bread and all. Because of all the cats, there are probably no disease-carrying rats or mice in the hidden corners of the medina.

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The following evening, we go in search of Saveur de Poissin and finally locate a dilapidated sign. It points down an alley that's lined with vendors, like many of the streets in and around the medina. Inside the restaurant, there's no menu; there's just the 'meal of the day.' It's whatever delicious thing the cook conjures up for the evening. They bring us course after course of too much good food to consume until we're both full. Then they bring the main course, a sizable fish for each of us. This is followed with dessert. The cost? We remember that it was a bit costly by Moroccan standards, but it wasn't a lot.

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There's always a certain amount of time spent planning our next 'escape route,' how we'll get to the next place on our loose schedule; it's just another part of the adventure. We decide to skip Marrakesh and Fez because we read about all the hustlers trying to get you into their cousin's carpet shop, and we've already had that essential Moroccan experience. 

We decide to go to Meknés because it sounds less 'touristy,' and because there's an old Roman ruin nearby that sounds interesting. We head to the train station to find out when the trains leave for Meknés, how much the tickets are, all that stuff. We plan to catch the #13 city bus from the port entrance to the station, and find the CTM cross-country bus station, but no sign of local buses. I asked a gentleman outside the office about it and he stepped inside to ask at the counter. There were no more buses from the port entrance, he said, but why didn't we just take a taxi? We explained that we like to take local buses whenever possible so we get a better view of everyday life in the city. He said "Well, why don't you just come with me then? I'm driving right by there." We said that wasn't necessary, that we'd be fine. He had come to pick up his young daughters from the bus, and he offered again. We looked at each other and accepted. 

It was a short ride down Avenue Mohammad VI, as Carolyn and the two young girls sat in the back. They studied us in silence, with their wide and beautiful brown eyes, since they only spoke Arabic. We thanked him again at the entry to the train station. It was a very kind offer.

After getting our tickets, we enjoyed a leisurely walk along the broad malecón back to the medina. It was a Sunday afternoon and the beach was filled with people. The wide parkway that parallels the beach was also filled with families out enjoying the day. Dads were kicking soccer balls with their sons, or nuzzling their babies. Moms were at the playground equipment watching out for their children. It could have been a beach town in the US, or anywhere else in the world.

 

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MEKNES

The following morning, after another delicious breakfast, we don our backpacks and hike about 2 or 3 miles back to the Tangier train station. It's a fine morning – slightly overcast and cool – and the walk back along the malecón feels like a good thing for us. Soon we're on a very clean, modern, and quiet train heading for Meknés. It will be about a four-hour trip. We pass through fertile rural countryside where mules and donkeys are plentiful. Small towns pass by the window. We pass a town with a viable salt industry; hills of salt stand beside numerous salt pans. It's an almost-biblical panorama.

 

 
The station at Meknés is far from the medina, where Carolyn has found us another nice riad to spend four days exploring one of the important "Imperial Cities" of Morocco. And there's much to explore in and around Meknés, the city built by Moulay Ismail, the ruthless leader who unified Morocco in the 17th century. We hop into a turquoise Peugeot "Petite Taxi" and head for the medina. 

Like our lodging in Tangier, the Riad Zahraa is another welcome surprise. We step through the front door and into another colorful space of tile-covered walls and quiet rooms, although the mix of tile design is less riotous than in Tangier. The colors tend toward a tasteful terra-cotta-based palate, and our hosts are very gracious. Although we find few people in Meknés who speak English or Spanish well, we start to adjust to our surroundings.

As we had hoped, there are fewer people trying to get us into their carpet shops, and they seem more content to just let us look without being forceful. I did hear one salesman mention "flying carpets" as I walked by, and I laughed over my shoulder. But he got my attention. Just think how much we could save on airfare…. 

The medina in Meknés is undergoing major renovation. They're doing a very good job of replastering the old walls, and they're building a roof system of intricate traditional design to shade the souks during the summer. It's going to be worth returning someday to see how beautiful it will be.  

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VOLUBILIS

About half an hour from Meknés are the ruins of the Roman city of Volubilis (Try saying that a few times when you've had an extra drink or two!). Our hosts arrange for a driver named Mohammed to take us there in a "grand taxi." These Mercedes 240-D taxis are ubiquitous in Morocco and are used mostly for travel outside the cities. Each city seems to have it's own taxi color scheme. In Meknés, they're grey with a black roof. We step into the cab and notice there are no window cranks on the doors. That will be the case in every cab we take throughout Morocco. But it's a warm day, and Mohammed hands me the one window crank he keeps on the front seat so I can lower the window just a bit. After a half hour ride through rolling and fertile countryside, we're at Volubilis.

After the Romans left, around 300AD, Volubilis still remained occupied for hundreds of years until it was looted by Moulay Ismail for the marble to build his palace in Meknés. Most of the rest was destroyed by the powerful Lisbon earthquake of 1755. What's left today stands on an outcropping overlooking the fertile fields below. There are a couple of very large residences measuring 1700 to 1800 sq. meters (around 17,000 sq. feet) where the beautiful mosaic floors are still intact. Today they are known by their most outstanding features (the Hercules mosaic, the Diana mosaic, etc.), but the original builders and important owners have been long forgotten. The silent ruins recall a fragment of the poem, "Ozymandias" by Shelley:

 

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

 

Volubilis is now a haunted place where ancient ghosts lie restless beneath their impressive works. And nobody remembers who they were. A few columns remain standing, and storks build their nests on them each year. The network of Roman baths and plumbing, an enduring legacy, also remain visible.

Our guide, Mustafa, wants me to move through the ruins a bit faster, but I linger long to take pictures and experience the place. He says I take pictures like the Japanese. I think, "Good for them." Mustafa points out a phallus, a fertility symbol, carved onto a grain-grinding stone.

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MOULAY IDRISS

On another nearby hill stands the holy city of Moulay Idriss, named for the man who brought Islam to Morocco in the 8th century. It's the 5th holiest city in Islam and until recently, non-Muslims were not allowed to spend the night in the city. We climb the winding streets, but as non-Muslims, we're denied entry into the mosque. We stashed the guide book, but something about our appearance seems to give us away. 

 

A very talkative guide named Shaquille latches on and directs us through the maze of winding alleyways. After a long climb to an adjacent hill, we look down onto the mosque and the city, with Volubilis in the distance. Shiny green tiles delineate the area of the mosque. Shaquille says the green is a holy color that signifies our essential connection to the natural world. We had seen many green tiles in other places without understanding their meaning. He tells us the call to prayer is essential to all devout muslims, but the late-night call is only for the most devout. It's kind of an 'extra credit' thing, we guess.

On our way back to Meknés, we mention to Mohammed how talkative Shaquille was, and he laughs and agrees, as he shakes his head. We then ask him about the fact that some women wear the headscarf and others don't. "Some people go to the bars," he laughs again, "and some don't. Morocco is a free country."

As we return to Meknés we recall that so far we haven't seen many bars, except for the nightclubs along the beach in Tangier. Moroccan dinners are served with tea, water, juice, or a soft drink. We really haven't missed not having wine or hard liquor much. The local diet, heavy on roasted meats and vegetables, and light on booze, seems very healthy. 

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Back in our riad in Meknés, we hear the call to prayer as it is broadcast over the city from multiple minarets. After a while we tend not to hear these calls over the bustle of the day. But as for the one at 4:00 a.m. that echoes over the quiet city, you may doze through it if you're staying at a riad that's semi-well insulated by heavy masonry walls. But if you happen to awake while it's underway, you might have to wait about 15 minutes to get back to sleep. Fortunately, the guy near us had a decent voice, so the early morning serenade wasn't too painful. But some of the other guys sounded like the wailing of tortured souls lost in Dante's Inferno.

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There are numerous large and impressive masonry 'Babs' (gates) leading into the medina. One of the distinctive features in every Bab is the large number of fist-sized holes carved into the stucco in a random pattern. These are occupied by the thousands of swallows who fill the skies all day with their song, and clean the skies of flies, mosquitos and other airborne vermin. 

One day, we find ourselves at the Bab Berrima. According to our tiny map, we're not all that far from where we're staying, across from the historic Bab Mansour and through the Bab Aissa, at the Riad Zahraa. So we decide we'll wander back in that direction, through the medina, and explore some new places along the way. 

We walk through the Bab, past the homes and shops of the Old Mellah (the former Jewish section), into the vegetable-seller area. The piles of ripe veggies make Carolyn wish she'd rented a place with a small kitchen. Then it's onward into the meat-vendor area, with rows of dead goats and chickens hanging from the rafters. Next, we're into the woodworkers' section, where intricately painted headboards are leaned against the walls and filigreed tables tempt us to buy, although there's no way we could backpack it out of here. Then we're in the upholstery area where mounds of loose felt and stacks of foam cushioning stand beside rolls of heavy brocade fabric. We figure this must be where aspiring Sultanas have their overstuffed couches made. I take pictures, many of them, but something – I don't know what – tells me not to. I still regret not recording those workshop scenes. 

Finally we come to another Bab. We ask around in our halting French and find it's the Bab Berdaine The Bab Berdaine? Where the hell are we? 

According the map, we're now at the far end of the medina – about twice as far from the Riad than when we started. There are so many Babs here that I've got the song "Bab, bab, bab, Bab-Barbara Anne" echoing through my head. (A 1961 hit by The Regents, it was #1 in Norway!) 

But it's a hot afternoon, and we're getting tired. It's time to throw in the towel and catch a petite taxi back to the Bab Mansour, where we can easily find our way to the Riad. As we stand just outside the huge old masonry gate, a three-wheeled moto/taxi pulls up and the driver motions us to the back. It looks pretty rickety, but we don't have far to go, so we climb in over the tailgate. There's another guy sprawled in there already, and he and the driver have a heated discussion. Then the driver wheels us around and speeds away from the medina, down to the dry river crossing and on toward the Ville Nouvelle, which sits on the opposite hill. We figure out that the other guy had already paid him for a ride way over to the Ville Nouvelle, but he didn't want to miss out on our fare, too. So now we're on a crazy ride in an unsafe vehicle being passed by large trucks and cars. If any of them hits this contraption, they'll have a smudge on the bumper, but we're history.

The other guy jumps out at his stop in the Ville Nouvelle, and we're off again to the medina, in the same heavy traffic. When we get to our stop, the driver wants 30 dirhams for the ride, plus that unwanted tour of the city. That's twice what a petite taxi would have cost us, so I refuse. I offer him 20 dirhams instead, which he readily accepts with a smile. Due to my canny bargaining skills, I probably got him down to only 10 dirhams more than he was actually expecting, anyway. I remind myself once again that these guys perfected the bargaining game centuries ago. The best I can ever do is not get nicked too badly. 

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Despite the fact that we've seen a few tour groups in the medina, Meknés, overall, has fulfilled our hopes to experience a bit of Morocco that's not swarmed by tourist crowds. But the time has come for us to move on, to return northward, to experience a much smaller city named Chefchaouen.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Onward to España

We pull away from Madeira in the afternoon. The sun sets well after the island has faded into the sea haze, and we settle back into life At Sea. 

Morning dawns on our last day upon the broad Atlantic and we pack our gear. It's an easy task because we each have one rolling bag, and one backpack to deal with. Soon there's "Nothing to be done," to borrow a line from Waiting for Godot. I try to wrap up some of the blogs we can't afford to send from the ship – at $.58 per minute! Sending them out will wait until we're in Málaga.

On our last day at sea, we have time to read, to write, to reflect again on our passage across the broad Atlantic. The concept of a 'cruise ship' had never been appealing. It sounded like a dismal package-deal weekend at a Las Vegas hotel with nothing to do but hang around the casino. The party boat concept of cruising from Fort Lauderdale all the way back to Fort Lauderdale had no interest for either of us.

But a cruise ship that's actually going someplace interesting and exotic – as a means to begin the real adventure – that was appealing. It rang of 'passages to India,' or the classic New York to Southampton Cunard route – the Masterpiece Theater route – on the great ships of yore. You find a clutter of 'casino cruises' online, but the great passages are still there. If you have the time and the spirit for it. And, except for a few notable exceptions (Anchorage to Vladivostok, over the Kamchatka Peninsula; Buenos Aires to Santiago, over the Andes), it sure beats flying. 

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That night, the Captain announces that we'll pass through the Strait of Gibraltar between about 11:00 p.m. and midnight. He says we'll be able to make out the Rock of Gibraltar because, "it will be the large dark mass off the port side, surrounded by lights." Everybody plans to party till the wee hours. 

Anna Bass, our effusive Cruise Director, introduces the night's entertainment in the Lyric Theater, a tribute to The Temptations! And she shares her favorite questions asked by previous guests. A few samples: Does the ship make all it's own electricity!?! and, Does the Crew sleep onboard every night!?!  

After a late dinner, Carolyn and I go to the top deck to get the best possible view of Spain to the north and Morocco to the south at this choke point where only 15 kilometers of water separates the two continents. But the wind is blowing a full gale and we have trouble even standing. In fact, we're a little worried about getting blown overboard. Add the ship's forward speed of around twenty knots to the Levanter that's howling out of the Mediterranean at this choke point, and we're bucking some serious wind. Someone mentioned that the Med is usually 4 inches lower than the Atlantic due to evaporation, so we have the current going our way. But wind over opposing current throws some extra roll into the ship.

We hold onto each other but soon admit it's ridiculous, and maybe dangerous, being outside in this wind. We'll have to pass this important moment hanging out at the Blue Moon Bar just inside, sipping Johnny Walker Black, listening to a good jazz combo, and watching the moment through large glass windows. Sometimes, life dictates the choices for you.

With drinks in hand, we watch a sizable and well-lighted Moroccan city, that we assume is Tangier, pass by to starboard. We see smaller lights on the Spanish coast, and that should be Tarifa – the southern-most point on the Iberian Peninsula. It's where we plan to catch the ferry to Morocco after a few days.

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MáLAGA

We retire to catch a few winks, and in the morning we hurry through a quick pre-departure breakfast. Soon we're down the gangway and onto the dock looking for the Customs Area. But there's nothing of the sort. We ask a uniformed policeman about it, but he shrugs us off. 

We get into a taxi and expect to stop at a Customs station for some sort of cursory baggage search (smuggling stuff by cruise ship!?), or at least get our passports stamped, but soon find ourselves at our hostel, instead.

The Hostal Larios is a modest place, clean, and right near the heart of everything. And it's only 45 euros per night. So here we are – quite recently living in the lap of luxury, with solicitous waiters and a cabin attendant, and now we're…, well it depends on how you look at it. Really, we're still living in the lap of luxury, just being able to do this. But now we have much more freedom of choice. 

Wordsworth said, "the past is prologue." The cruise was an excellent and interesting way to cross the Atlantic. But now it's time to have our feet on some solid ground. And in a less-limited environment. The hostel isn't fancy but it's good enough, and each euro we save on lodging (as long as we have a decent place to sleep) means we more money to spend wandering the Continent for awhile longer.

It's Saturday, and any more dealing with paperwork will have to wait until Monday. We could spend considerable time worrying about the implications of being in Spain with no stamps noting that fact in our passports, but soon convince ourselves the time would be better invested enjoying some good Spanish wine over a platter of paella. 

On Monday we walked quite a distance to find the police station -- stopping for a brief visit to he Mercado Central -- and get the entry stamps in our passports. We wait in line, but the officials look puzzled, then make a few phone calls. Finally, they tell us not to worry about it and to enjoy our visit. I guess there's some value to looking fairly harmless. But it still left us wondering if there might be some problem down the line...

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The historic center of Málaga has been 'pedestrianized' – and not just a street or two, but probably a dozen or more. Almost the entire narrow, winding, warren of streets that make up the old port area near the Gibalfaro fort has been closed to traffic and paved with marble. It's a wonderful, well-lighted, urban jumble to explore, by day or night. 

The area is filled with excellent shops and street cafés that all seem to do a fine business on any day or night of the week. The streets are filled with people and the air is filled with Spanish, with only an occasional word of German or English to be heard. May is not the height of the tourist season, so these are the local people we hear and see each day. 

They're the ones we see (by the thousands!) in the museos, and the tiendas, and at dinner each night. They're the ones who support this well-conceived urban renewal effort. We all love our cars, but the quality of life seems to go way up whenever we leave the beast behind and go for a nice walk to a good bistro. That's easy to do in the old quarter of Málaga.

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Málaga sits on the sun-warmed southern coast of Spain, in an area that has long been an important trading route. The history of Málaga is so deep, it's uncertain who actually founded it. But it was probably the Phoenicians about 700 bce. Since then, the place has been ruled by Greeks, Romans, Visigoths and Moors. 

Each civilization has left its imprint, but the Moorish influence still resonates strongly here and throughout Andalucia. From the Alcazaba, the old Moorish fortress that once guarded the harbor, the city spreads out below. It's a bracing climb up from the city (we actually took a city bus up, and walked down), and a good place for a new visitor to get a sense of the place. The view from the massive parapets takes in the old Roman theater recently discovered at the base of the hill, and the narrow streets of the old quarter filled with Malagueños enjoying their city. This is the place whose women inspired the song, Malagueña Salerosa (The Salty Girl from Málaga). Certainly there are plenty of dark-eyed beauties here in this old port city, and in the rest of Andalucia, who might fit the bill. 

On our way down, we find ourselves at 'blossom level' with a large jacaranda tree planted in a garden below. The air is filled with its perfume and the flower-filled branches appear as a sort of lavender mist.

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 The biggest "do not miss" attraction here has to be the Museo Picasso Málaga. Pablo was born here, in the old juderia section (although his family was not Jewish), and began his art education at the hand of his father, an accomplished artist in his own right. Although the family moved away when he was nine years old, and none of his important works were painted here, the city of Málaga has built a museum that does him proud. And the basis of the museum is a collection of 204 of his works donated and lent by Picasso's daughter-in-law and grandson.
It includes "Niña con su Muñeca" (Girl with her doll) and many other important works. Picasso told Andre Malraux that, "A painting – any painting – should burst with razor blades!" The broad range of works on display clearly demonstrate his emotional, yet disciplined, approach to art. And, as with many great museums, there's a wonderful little café opening onto a private tree-filled plaza where we enjoyed a quiet lunch.

But the recent opening of the new Carmen Thyssen Museum also deserves ample time. It's filled with important Spanish classical artists covering a broad time period. It's so extensive, we were unable to see the entire exhibit before we left Málaga.

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Our overall plan for this trip was to follow a sort of loop to see Spain, Morocco, and Portugal. From Málaga, we had planned to cross the Straits of Gibraltar on the ferry from Tarifa to Tangier, visit northern Morocco for a few weeks, and then return to Spain and Portugal. But a quick look at the map convinces us we should go to see nearby Granada, and the fabulous Alhambra, next.

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GRANADA

The bus leaves Málaga and climbs through the rocky, scrub-covered canyon of the Río Guadalmedina until it reaches the fertile rolling hills that flank the distant Sierra Nevada. We're traveling on a sultry rainy day. Outside our window, as we emerge from the canyon, are olive groves with tens of thousands, probably really millions, of olive trees. Neat and tidy rows of the small trees roll over the hills in every direction drinking deeply of the drizzling rain. We will find that every meal in Granada is preceded with a small bowl containing three or four different kinds of olives. It must be an ancient custom here.

 We pull into Granada in a very heavy rainstorm. And so I wonder if we're in the plain. Isn't that where the rain stays mainly? When you're in Spain? It was just a thought.

We check into our modest hostel (clean, but not fancy), and set about exploring the place. We're in a university area at the edge of the old city where it blends into a newer section of town, and the amount of graffiti is disturbing. That seems to be a common malady in 'student ghettos.' But, for a student ghetto, the graffiti really ought to be a lot classier, more artistic. 

Within two blocks, however, we pass an open courtyard in a massive old university building where a string quartet is practicing, and we stop to listen. There's a handbill taped to a wall advertising the university's orchestra presentation that evening of "La Mujer Rusa." It's not a piece of music we know, but it's a free concert and a great introduction to the city. We get a bite to eat and then return for an excellent orchestral and choral production of this work before heading back to bed. It's been a long day.

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We hike uphill, and find ourselves in a maze of ancient cobblestone streets that climbs the Albaizin, the adjacent hill that looks over to the Alhambra. It's the old Moorish/Gypsy/Jewish area. It's where you'll find the souks and bazaars of Granada. In several days of wanderings through the warren of the Albaizin, we found a flamenco show – actually two of them, both different, both good. One was a 'dinner theater' production of high quality and emotion. 

 The other was more 'off-broadway' at a little hole-in-the-wall place along a narrow alley. It's location and ambiance gave it an air of undiscovered authenticity, as if this is the place where the locals really go to experience duende – that elusive quality where the heart and soul of the audience becomes one with the performers. The tragic beauty of flamenco lies at the darkness in the heart and soul of Andalucia. It's a defining work of Andalucian poetical performance that requires our full presence and attention.

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We spend two days dealing with all the fabulous Alhambra has to offer. On the first day, we don't bother with a ticket as there's just so much that you can see for free. We climb the steep wide footpath leading to the top and spend the day enjoying the placid tranquility of various gardens and vistas out across the city below.

  The Alhambra was built by the Moors as a fortress. This hilltop location was chosen for its commanding views of the fertile plain (the 'vega') below, and because it had a reliable and plentiful water source. Today's tranquility masks a turbulent past. The Moors were masters at the use of water in their gardens. The cooling crystalline sounds of water still resonate through these ancient halls and colonnades. 

The Museo de Bellas Artes is on the grounds of the Alhambra. It's filled with Spanish religious artworks, and they also had an interesting exhibit on the work of M.C. Escher. After a 1922 visit to the Alhambra to see the intricately interwoven Moorish designs in tile and stucco, Escher's work was never the same again. But the Museo is located in the oddly-out-of-place palace that Carlos V built to show the power of the Spanish crown after the Moors were gone. He demolished a large area of Moorish works to make room for his statement, and it's 'brutalist' style – while it might fit well elsewhere – seems very much out of place here. It's hard not to wonder what architectural treasures the world lost in the process.   

After our first day in the Alhambra we're very hungry, and tired. We walk downhill back into the streets, and somehow manage to make our way to the top of the Albaizín. We find a tiny restaurant, named "La Mancha Chica," that serves Moroccan food. It will be a first for us, but after the meat-heavy and vegetable-light Spanish diet we've had so far, we decide to try something different. We are very pleasantly surprised. 

 

I order a 'tajine (platter)' de pollo, and I get a delicious sort of baked stew where the chicken is falling off the bone and it's surrounded by vegetables. Carolyn orders a couscous plate covered with veggies. We order glasses of the house red wine, and we're both happy. Meals at other Moroccan 'teterias (tea houses)' were equally good. We consider this a very good harbinger of our coming visit to Morocco. The affable owner of "La Mancha Chica" encourages us to visit his hometown of Chefchaouen. I'd seen that town on the map, but now it had new significance. 

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"Please give alms to a blind man, for there is no greater pain than to be blind in Granada." That's how a local plaque translates, and it expresses the majesty of a city that was once among the richest in the world. The impressively cavernous Granada Cathedral is one example of that majesty. You have to wander through and experience it to believe it (photos not permitted, unfortunately). But that was long ago, back when galleons filled with looted gold from the New World drove the economy of the Spanish Empire. That was before the Spanish monarchs wasted their new treasure on military adventurism, a familiar story on the world stage.

 After the passing of that Golden Age, Spain – once the artistic center of the world – became only a charming and sleepy backwater awaiting rediscovery in the brushstrokes of foreign artists and the pens of romantic writers. I wonder why it took me so long to get to Granada, to see these important works.

After the subsidence of the Spanish Empire, the Alhambra was abandoned and became the home of thieves and wayfarers. It's rediscovery is attributed to Washington Irving – yes, the guy who wrote The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. He spent several months here in the early 1800s and wrote Recollections of the Alhambra. No, I have not read it, but now I intend to.

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We arise with the sun for our second day at the Alhambra. We'll be in line early for the limited number of tickets they make available for those who don't buy in advance. It's mid-May – well in advance of the Summer Tourist Hordes – and we think it's worth the chance. We planned to buy some sort of breakfast at a snack bar later. 

We're in luck. We get our tickets, grab something not terribly nutritious (while two cats sit begging at our feet!), and soon we're on our way into the main artistic treasure vault of the Moors. 

Doing it on your own is really the only way to see the Alhambra and the Generalife, if you want time to really study things before a guide moves you onward. And even though it's not High Season, you still occasionally have to find yourself a corner to sink into as another tour group fills the room, listens to the guide (thankfully, through earphones), and then moves on. After they leave, you listen to the clear tinkle of water playing through the gardens, or enjoy the view a Moorish princess would have savored from a favorite window. And there are many such views from the Alhambra, some with the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada in the distance. It can take time to fully experience the Alhambra (there's an elegant small hotel, for the wealthier travelers). And the beauty of it all is well worth the price of admission. 

Evenings find us back in the endlessly fascinating streets of the old quarter. Dark haired, dark eyed beauties stroll the streets and byways of Granada. They offer an insight into why Bizet's opera "Carmen" played out in the tragic way it did. Don José, a quiet corporal in the Spanish Army hailed from Navarre in northern Spain. He's posted to the south, in Andalucia, and falls in love with a wild, dark eyed beauty named Carmen. It's all downhill from there, as she leads him to certain doom. In the 1984 film with Placido Domingo, Julia Migenes embodies the sensuous and irresistible beauty of Andalucia, and it's easy to see why poor Don José didn't stand a chance after meeting her. Although the opera was set in Seville, you can see the beautiful, captivating daughters of Carmen daily in the streets of modern day Granada.

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Spain is in turmoil these days. The young people have taken to the streets over the economic crisis and the soaring unemployment rate. The newspapers are filled with the ongoing occupation of Madrid's Puerta del Sol square leading up to the coming elections, and we've seen large demonstrations of support in Málaga and Granada. According to news reports, Spain's unemployment rate stands at 21.3% – the highest in the EU countries. Agence France Presse reports, "protesters carried placards reading "Make the guilty pay for the crisis," and chanted 'They call this democracy but it is not.'" At the protests in Málaga and Granada, there are signs and banners everywhere, and long banners on the ground inviting others to add their own comments. There are small talking groups ('bitch sessions,' we called them in the 60s) and a general feeling of community. It reminds me of some of the best times in my own youth. 

There is a police presence at the demonstrations, but things have been peaceful – even though the demonstrations themselves were banned by the Madrid government. We wander through and sympathize, but only observe – careful not to become involved, since we're foreigners here. At this point, everyone seems content just to let things follow this path and allow the needed release of some pent-up frustrations and pressure. The youth are advocating not voting in the upcoming mid-May elections in protest of systemic unfairness. But in the end, that will not happen. There will be a slight increase in voter turnout, and the conservatives will take power from the socialists in many areas throughout Andalucia that had been socialist strongholds. 

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The Spanish language is different here, in southern Spain. (I don't know about northern Spain since we haven't been there yet.)

In México, a glass of orange juice is called "un jugo de naranja." In Puerto Rico, it was "un vaso de china." Here in Spain, it's "un zumo de naranja." 

Stop signs in México read, "Alto." Throughout most of Latin America they read, "Pare." But in Granada, a stop sign says, "Stop." 

Here, a "baño" is called "aseo."

And a place to park your car? It's "parcamiento," not "estacionamiento," as it is in México.

Here, bacon is "bacon," not "tocino."

Que raro, no? Yet I have to assume they know what they're doing, since this is Spain after all, where the language began.

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TARIFA

It's about four hours on a comfortable cross-country bus from Granada to Tarifa, the southernmost point on the Iberian Peninsula. Along the way, we pass the endless condos of Torremolinos, and the jet-set enclave of Marbella. Then we see Gibraltar, the fabled Rock itself, a huge and imposing historical footnote, and I manage to snap a few hazy shots through the bus window as we hurtle onward to Algeciras. We notice there are also a few wind farms on the hilltops. We vaguely wonder why.

It's a short hop on a local bus from Algeciras to Tarifa, and we ask a couple of tattooed young people if they know where the Hostal Africa is. Not a problem. Tarifa is a small town, and everybody knows where everything is. It's through a massive gate, built to celebrate victory over the Moors 500 years ago, and then to the right down the second narrow street. From the bus station, we drag our bags uphill into a howling headwind, through the gate and into, yes, another 'warren of narrow winding streets' left over from the Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, and who knows who. 

We recall that our cruise ship also had to fight its way through the Strait of Gibraltar into a howling headwind. It becomes clear that water is not the only thing that funnels through this amazing choke-point between two continents. The famous Levanter (the easterly wind named for the far end of the Mediterranean where the sun rises) will blow for the next several days.   

 
But we score well with the Hostal Africa. It's a clean and quiet place (except for some plumbing noises) with well day-lighted rooms and a pillow-filled terrace on the rooftop to hang out in as you look across the Strait to northern Africa. And it only costs 35 euros (about US$50) a night for a double with bath. That's a good price in Europe these days.

 Just outside the front door, and down the, uh, narrow, winding streets (OK, we have a thing for narrow, winding streets. Hey, they're charming.) we find dozens of good restaurants, the central Mercado, and numerous shops catering to the international surfer/kite-sailor crowd. It's a very relaxed vibe where shorts and flip-flops are common, unlike the more reserved cities of Málaga and Granada. We tend to like places that are off the usual tourist trail. We think this will be a good place to settle for a few days, and take our time before catching the fast ferry to Tangier. 

Eva and Carlos, the inn-keepers, are friendly and helpful with tips about Tangier. There's no problem with leaving most of our luggage with them for two weeks while we'll be in Morocco. They've been to México a few times and we compare experiences. The subject of the Drug War comes up, of course. But Europe has its own version of the same failed policy. Northern Morocco has some of the biggest marijuana farms in the world to supply the unending European demand. Many countries in the Euro-bloc are working toward more rational policies of decriminalization, but it takes a while. According to Carlos, Gibraltar is a very big problem as that's where most of the heavier drugs are smuggled through.  

Tarifa has some very good places to eat. We have breakfast several times at the Café 10, where you can get scrambled eggs or an omelette (both Spanish rarities), crepes, oatmeal and other goodies. In the evening, we find an Italian place where we share an excellent lasagna and a Caesar salad, with some good vino tinto de casa. 

  On our last night before crossing the Strait to Tangier, we find a tapas place on yet another narrow winding street. We order five different platillos, along with a few more glasses of good Spanish vino tinto, and we watch the evening's street life unfold. This is a very international crowd and the mélange of language that echoes around us bears that out. Everything on our table seems to have an extra dose of garlic, and to us that makes it all excellent. We give our waiters an enthusiastic "¡Olé!" 

But it won't be a late night for us. It's time to head back to the Hostal Africa for a good night's rest, so we can catch the early ferry to Tangier.

In the morning, we stand in two lines, side by side, to get our exit stamp from Spain, and watch the officers as they thumb repeatedly through our passports looking for our non-existent entry stamps. How can we be leaving Spain, if we never came in in the first place? Soon one shrugs, mumbles "Málaga!" to the other one, and they both stamp our us out of Spain. Next stop, Tangier.