When I woke up this morning, there was still a backpack taking up significant space in my hallway. It’s been over a week and there was still unpacking to do, strange smells to wash out of travel clothes, and more stories to tell. But like Jen said the other night, “How can you tell someone about Morocco?”
You can’t. I didn’t keep a travel journal, for the very reason that I couldn’t find the right words. You can’t really tell anyone about it and be satisfied you’ve done the experience justice. But you can tell them about the people you met or the waterfall you saw, or the being Joey-ed in the streets of Marrakech. Which I’ll do. Before I forget.
The people we met:
We were a different foursome every evening in Marrakech. Aussies, Kiwis, Dutch. Even a Canadian or two. One night, our company was two Brits who’d driven to Morocco from England. Far more intrepid than Jen and me, Bob and Robin fearlessly sampled every fruit and nut in the marketplace and even, to no one’s intestinal destruction, drank the water. We met them on the terrace of Hotel Ali, shared their almonds and dates, ate with them in the open air dining stalls of the Djemma El Fna and then took them to dessert at one of the nicer, terraced restaurants -- spreading the gospel of Stupid and Fancy. Over gelato and an amazing view of Marrakech, they told us stories of mountain adventures, broken down cars and of babysitting future lords and ladies of England.
We learned that Bob is not allowed to carry his own passport. Rather, Bob is not allowed to lose another passport (the English government will not issue one more replacement), and so Robin, the straight man, keeps it for him. There was something absolutely jolly (for lack of a better word) about the pair of them, and I was sorry to see them move on. They were headed for the Moroccan/Algerian border. We asked them if they realized it was a disputed border. Of course they did; that’s half the fun.
My favorite pair of travelers was a Kiwi couple currently residing in Holland. They shared our adventure to the Casca D’Ouzoud, and are the kind of people you’d invite over to dinner, simply because you like the way they talk about things. I was also personally enamored of the way Nadia said my name, and sometimes ask Jen to mimic it for me. It’s absolutely charming. They bought wine enough to share, and kept Jen company while I was sick. Laying on the cold, questionably clean tile floor, I’d hear Jen’s voice float down from the terrace, followed by Nadia’s light laughter, and feel just the slightest bit sorry for myself. It was missing out on those moments -- not so much the ones involving haggling with Souq merchants -- that left me with regret about eating those ill-fated apricots. (I blame Bob and Robin, wholly.)
Being Joey-ed:
After Jen and I had successfully navigated the maze of the Souqs, filled our bellies on Tagine and taken a carriage ride through the Medina, we decided to wander some of the narrow streets surrounding the Djemma El Fna. We dodged mopeds, children, stray cats (of which there are a never-ending supply), peeked into courtyards, movie theaters and tiny shops. As we made our way back to the center on a particularly crowded cobblestone street, a moped came to a stop right in front of us. The driver, all of sixteen, leaned to one side, gave us the up-and-down and said,
“How YOU doin’ ladies?”
“Jen!” I said, grabbing her arm. “We just got Joey-ed! In Morocco!”
“No sir!”
“We did.”
“I know, but I can’t believe it.”
We were more believing later, when on our three-hour ride back from the Casca D’Ouzoud, we heard Madonna, Beyonce and Shania Twain on our driver’s chosen radio station. And Abdul knew the words.
(Photo by Jen)
Posted by This Fish at November 16, 2004 12:10 AMThe first song I heard upon arrival in Spain the summer I was sixteen was some ear-splitting piece by Mariah Carey or Whitney Houston or some such diva.
It was disappointing, yet intriguing. Our twenty-something purely-Spanish male guide, of course, knew who it was and knew all the words and sang along. I, of course, did not.
Posted by: janna at November 15, 2004 11:38 PMSome years ago I was trekking in Nepal (on the Langtang-Helambu circuit, for trek fans). We were coming down off the Langtang leg after crossing high frozen Gosaikund Lake, working our way down through the stepped villages back toward the trailhead, which was still days distant.
We stopped at a teahouse for a drink and a rest (I had hurt a knee a day or two into the proceedings and needed to rest often). As we kicked back on the bench outside a porter went past, humping some or another gigantic bundle. Pinned to the lapel of his lightly-tattered Charlie Chaplin tramp jacket was a large, bright goggle-eyed Homer Simpson.
Posted by: Linus at November 16, 2004 09:32 AMLast summer, while in C. Europe for a semester, I had to listen to my cab driver sing 50 Cent's "In da club." It was a well-deserved tip.
Posted by: Peter M. at November 16, 2004 11:41 AMDid anyone offer Jen camels for you to be their wife? I had that happen with a friend who spoke Arabic. He offered her 100 camels and told me he'd make me couscous.
The bartering is fun, and if you play your cards right you get to free mint tea while you barter.
The feral cats are the only real bad thing about Marrakesh..especially when their under your table at dinner and in heat.
Posted by: C at November 16, 2004 11:58 AMNo camels were offered for my virtue! It was ever so disappointing!
Posted by: Fish at November 16, 2004 12:01 PMMine either!!! it was a travesty of justice. I could use those camels now.
Posted by: jen at November 16, 2004 12:38 PMYour post has instantly transported me to one of my travels. Oh, the heat that hung in the Bombay air as the cabdriver felt up my leg.
Tricky, Greta, Dan and Jules were squeezed in the backseat. I, being the only one sober enough to converse with hand gestures at this jucture, had selflessly sacrificed myself to hellish harrassment of Bombay's notorious cabbies.
Oh but my surprise when I slid inside, ready for my doom, only to spy the most enticing man I had seen in a year. He had the brashness of a young William Safire with the soldering simmer of Vincent Gallo. I was on fire for him.
I went down on him immediately and, even still today, smell the sweet scent of cardamon when I see a taxi go by.
Needless to say, we got a 30% discount on cab fare.
Posted by: rustytraveils at November 16, 2004 12:46 PMCheers for being Joey-ed! How YOU doin'?
Posted by: Ivy at November 16, 2004 01:02 PMI could offer you a PACK of Camels. But then again, who smokes nowadays?
Posted by: Chris at November 16, 2004 02:25 PMI went to see U2 in Madrid and had to listen to the crowd sing along. With accents.
Linus, do you realize you sound a little like Mr. Peterman from Seinfeld with that story? :)
Posted by: Michael R at November 16, 2004 02:33 PMMichael - Truth to tell, I've seen maybe three episodes of Seinfeld. I'll Google Mr. Peterman to see if I know who he is ... I saw the last one (with the greatest hits bit before it ran, so I could actually see the jokes everyone knew, like Soup Nazi and Yadda Yadda), and one where Elaine wore a red dress to a downtown art opening ("I knew I shouldn't have worn color!"), and some other one that obviously didn't make much of an impression on me. I kind of don't do TV.
But I'll assume that's a nice thing to say...?
Posted by: Linus at November 16, 2004 03:59 PMQuestion: We know what the cabdrivers of non English speaking countries listen to, but what about the hip, educated 20 somethings?
Linus, J. Peterman is actually a real person. I have received his catalog. It is wonderful.
Posted by: PG at November 16, 2004 11:16 PMI don't know about camels, but a few weeks ago, a guy who bore more than just a passing resemblance to Conrad Bain offered me a tattered print of Picasso's "Guernica" outside of my office for $5. Now THAT was a weird day...
Posted by: Dave at November 17, 2004 12:58 AMI found your blog a few weeks ago, and I've been enjoying it ever since.
Thought I'd leave my "Allison Was Here" mark.
I can't believe that I've never thought of the phrase "being Joeyed," (and I wouldn't have ever equated it with being in Morocco). But I love it!
Posted by: Allison at November 17, 2004 11:31 AMThe funniest thing I ever heard was a band playing in Rome. The Band leader spoke very little english with a thick accent. But when he sang an american song, he sounded like he was from Chicago.
Posted by: B at November 17, 2004 11:43 AMPG, thanks for the pointer - that's a great web site. Anyone who can sell a Non-Ironic Velvet Vest in Optimistic Green and Optimistic Brown is OK in my book, so I guess I'm pleased with the Peterman comparison.
Posted by: Linus at November 17, 2004 01:57 PM